Here’s a little tidbit of information from China that you may find hard to believe. I know I’m finding it that way. There are no egg-rolls! None. At least none that I’ve found, so far.
There is plenty of food, however. Here in Guangzhou, restaurants are everywhere. Our hotel, the Yihe, is about twenty minutes outside of town. It’s a beautiful hotel, designed in a Japanese-resort sort of way. There are four restaurants here. One, which is on top of a mountain behind the hotel, is designed to resemble a Pagoda. The folks here at the Yihi have named it The Pagoda. I can understand why. There is also a barbecue hut, which, for some reason doesn’t open until nine in the evening. I’ve never seen it, but it’s called The Barbecue Hut. There are two primary restaurants attached to the hotel. One is a Western-style restaurant (not cowboys and Indians type western, just opposed to Far Eastern), and the other serves Chinese food. The creative minds here at the Yihe named the Western-style restaurant, Western Style Restaurant. Want to guess the name of the Chinese-style restaurant?
These are the only two restaurants in which I’ve eaten here in Guangzhou. I’ve passed a great many others. There’s one restaurant, not too far from the hotel that serves a variety of meat and fish dishes. Interestingly, it has pictures, of the animals it serves, painted on the window. There is a picture of a rabbit, so wild game must be on the menu. There is also a picture of a lobster. That sounds good. There are also pictures of a dog and a cat. I’m sticking to the hotel restaurants.
Even at the hotel, as you enter the restaurant, you pass the kitchen area. This is by design, evidently, perhaps in order to whet one’s appetite. There, hanging in the window, is the typical dead chicken, with her little head tucked up under her neck. My appetite is sufficiently whetted.
One of the businessmen in our group, a builder named James, from Virginia Beach, has spent considerable time in China, visiting many of its factories. He tells of a restaurant in a rather remote area in which he once dined. He said that many of the items in the refrigerator-less facility were totally unidentifiable, so he settled on half a chicken. What he received was exactly half a chicken, including half a neck, half a head, even half a tongue. And, says James, “It was bright yellow, just like those rubber chickens you see.” James also told me he was so hungry, he ate that whole half a yellow chicken.
He said in that particular restaurant, if the patrons didn’t like something they were eating, they’d simply spit in on the floor. Now, that’s a Chinese tradition, I’d like to institute at home.
As you enter the hotel restaurants, you’re greeted by at least six or seven smiling waitresses and/or hostesses. The waitresses are always in some cute, modest uniform. The hostesses wear colorful Chinese kimonos (if that’s what they call them in China). They then proceed to escort you to your table. And, I do mean THEY. While one might expect one of the ladies to escort you, here, they all lead you. And, it’s like they’re oblivious to each other. They’re all pointing to an empty table, sometimes they’re pointing to different tables. I told someone I felt like I had been gang-waitressed.
Some of the waitresses speak pretty good English. Others speak none. Ordering can be a real adventure. Fortunately, many items on the bi-lingual menu have pictures. But, even when you point to the picture and the item in Chinese characters, they seem to be confused. It’s as if they don’t realize we’re saying we’d like to order this. They point at the items. They get this puzzled little look on their faces. They often go get another waitress to come and point and get a puzzled look on her face too. I’m not sure if they’re really that unaware that we’re in the process of ordering, or if they’re playing a little game to see how frustrated Americans can get.
I don’t think it’s the latter, because they seem very sensitive to our emotions. They like it when we smile and say “Taste good" (a la Tonto). But, if we are displeased with something, they continuously bow and apologize and bow some more. We had one young hostess yesterday who almost broke down in tears. I was really worried about her. Not too worried that I can’t eat, however. I’m on my way to breakfast now. I’m looking forward to some baked beans and corn on the cob.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
A Yen to Spend
If nothing else, this trip to China has given me greater empathy towards foreigners, visiting or living in the United States. I’m sure, that to these Chinese people, I look like a doddering old man who can’t understand even the simplest words. I’ve seen that glazed-over look in the eyes of foreigners with whom I am speaking. No doubt, I have that same glazed-over look in my eyes when someone is giving me directions in Chinese.
Interestingly, the Chinese do exactly what I do when I’ve been in their shoes. They keep saying the same thing over and over, louder and louder, figuring that eventually, when it gets loud enough, I’ll become fluent in their language. “Just turn right,” I’ve screamed at little old Chinese men in the past. “I said, ‘Just turn right!’”
It just doesn’t work. And so I do what those little Chinese men have done with me. I smile and thank the person trying to help and wander away as lost as ever.
Fortunately, it’s all a big adventure…this going out and getting lost thing. We did just that on Thursday. Our waitress, the night before, a lovely young woman, who has just completed a six-year course in English, told us we should visit the City Center, for shopping. She wrote it in Chinese characters, so we could just show it to those from whom we were seeking directions.
It worked well. We were directed to the proper bus, and although we started off in the wrong direction, when shown the paper, the bus driver did a little circle motion with his fingers indicating we needed to go the other way. So, we jumped off, crossed the street, and caught the same numbered bus going the opposite direction.
Now, I mention crossing the street as if there were nothing to it. On a life-threatening-things-to-do scale, I’d rank it at about an 8.5. I have been brainwashed, through decades of life in the U.S. into believing the pedestrian has the right-of-way. It’s just the opposite on the opposite side of the world.
Although, I never actually saw a pedestrian get hit (at least not thus far), it wasn’t because the motorist, or even bicyclist, wasn’t trying. Vehicles change lanes incessantly, even, in the case of the two-wheeled ones, going onto the sidewalk when necessary. You cross the street one lane at a time, and hope that while you’re standing between lanes, a vehicle doesn’t need that space you’re occupying.
We did make it, finally, into the downtown-shopping district, with the help of a lot of people who couldn’t understand us, and whom we couldn’t understand. Guangzhou is, in many ways, a very modern city. And, yet, in the City Center, there is a mixture of the new with the very old. Next to skyscrapers, stand small stone buildings that look as if they’d been there for centuries. Turn off the main street, into dark, ancient alleys, and you could easily imagine you’d traveled back in time.
Interestingly, while an occasional old man might stare at us, very few seemed to pay attention to strange Americans wandering through the courtyards of clusters of their apartments. This is quite a contrast to the hotel complex in which we’re staying, where, it feels as if everyone is watching you. I’m not sure if that’s an indication of distrust, or if they simply want to be sure our needs are satisfied.
Back to the streets of City Center, one can find an amazing array of wares. There are many small shops, selling baubles and bangles, shirts and skirts, hosiery, produce, you name it. These are run by merchants who stand at the entrance of their stores and call out to passersby, primarily tourists, I imagine. Some stores use more aggressive tactics, sending salespeople out into the streets to accost tourists, virtually attempting to drag them down the street, around the corner, and into their stores. At first, we politely followed. But the accosters became so numerous and persistent, that eventually we just pretended they weren’t there. I hate being rude (believe that, if you will), but there is no other way to deal with these people but to ignore them. “No,” is not in their vocabulary.
Perhaps it’s because there are a billion people in the country, but, even in the smaller stores, there may be ten or more salespeople. While in the store, even if you’re speaking with one salesman, it is not unusual for two or three others to be bringing you items to try on or look at. In one such store, after I had walked out, a salesman follows me and shows me a picture of a young Chinese woman. “Pretty,” he says, pointing to the picture. “You want?” I don’t think he’s kidding.
City Center is filled with these small stores and aggressive merchants. But there are also some very modern shops as well. Grand Buy easily rivals any department store I’ve ever visited, including Macy’s in New York. It’s an eight-story building filled with all of the things one would expect to find in a department store…fashions, jewelry, cosmetics, furniture, electronics, even a very modern grocery store.
The electronics/appliance department contains the very latest in refrigerators, washing machines, and, of course, HDTVs. I’ve never seen such brilliant, sharp images on television as on the TVs displayed there. And, I’m told, they’re all made in China.
I would have spent some money in City Center, but I didn’t have any yen. I tried several ATMs, but, they offered no English option, and when it comes to my debit card, I don’t want to just start pushing buttons. I went into a couple of banks, but, for some reason, banks are very busy places.
When you enter, you take a number, and wait. It’s not unlike the DMV. There were waiting areas in both of the banks I tried, and there were large numbers of people waiting.
I didn’t have the yen to wait, so we hopped on the bus and returned to our hotel. It’s a very interesting facility in its own right, but I’ll tell you more about that another time.
Interestingly, the Chinese do exactly what I do when I’ve been in their shoes. They keep saying the same thing over and over, louder and louder, figuring that eventually, when it gets loud enough, I’ll become fluent in their language. “Just turn right,” I’ve screamed at little old Chinese men in the past. “I said, ‘Just turn right!’”
It just doesn’t work. And so I do what those little Chinese men have done with me. I smile and thank the person trying to help and wander away as lost as ever.
Fortunately, it’s all a big adventure…this going out and getting lost thing. We did just that on Thursday. Our waitress, the night before, a lovely young woman, who has just completed a six-year course in English, told us we should visit the City Center, for shopping. She wrote it in Chinese characters, so we could just show it to those from whom we were seeking directions.
It worked well. We were directed to the proper bus, and although we started off in the wrong direction, when shown the paper, the bus driver did a little circle motion with his fingers indicating we needed to go the other way. So, we jumped off, crossed the street, and caught the same numbered bus going the opposite direction.
Now, I mention crossing the street as if there were nothing to it. On a life-threatening-things-to-do scale, I’d rank it at about an 8.5. I have been brainwashed, through decades of life in the U.S. into believing the pedestrian has the right-of-way. It’s just the opposite on the opposite side of the world.
Although, I never actually saw a pedestrian get hit (at least not thus far), it wasn’t because the motorist, or even bicyclist, wasn’t trying. Vehicles change lanes incessantly, even, in the case of the two-wheeled ones, going onto the sidewalk when necessary. You cross the street one lane at a time, and hope that while you’re standing between lanes, a vehicle doesn’t need that space you’re occupying.
We did make it, finally, into the downtown-shopping district, with the help of a lot of people who couldn’t understand us, and whom we couldn’t understand. Guangzhou is, in many ways, a very modern city. And, yet, in the City Center, there is a mixture of the new with the very old. Next to skyscrapers, stand small stone buildings that look as if they’d been there for centuries. Turn off the main street, into dark, ancient alleys, and you could easily imagine you’d traveled back in time.
Interestingly, while an occasional old man might stare at us, very few seemed to pay attention to strange Americans wandering through the courtyards of clusters of their apartments. This is quite a contrast to the hotel complex in which we’re staying, where, it feels as if everyone is watching you. I’m not sure if that’s an indication of distrust, or if they simply want to be sure our needs are satisfied.
Back to the streets of City Center, one can find an amazing array of wares. There are many small shops, selling baubles and bangles, shirts and skirts, hosiery, produce, you name it. These are run by merchants who stand at the entrance of their stores and call out to passersby, primarily tourists, I imagine. Some stores use more aggressive tactics, sending salespeople out into the streets to accost tourists, virtually attempting to drag them down the street, around the corner, and into their stores. At first, we politely followed. But the accosters became so numerous and persistent, that eventually we just pretended they weren’t there. I hate being rude (believe that, if you will), but there is no other way to deal with these people but to ignore them. “No,” is not in their vocabulary.
Perhaps it’s because there are a billion people in the country, but, even in the smaller stores, there may be ten or more salespeople. While in the store, even if you’re speaking with one salesman, it is not unusual for two or three others to be bringing you items to try on or look at. In one such store, after I had walked out, a salesman follows me and shows me a picture of a young Chinese woman. “Pretty,” he says, pointing to the picture. “You want?” I don’t think he’s kidding.
City Center is filled with these small stores and aggressive merchants. But there are also some very modern shops as well. Grand Buy easily rivals any department store I’ve ever visited, including Macy’s in New York. It’s an eight-story building filled with all of the things one would expect to find in a department store…fashions, jewelry, cosmetics, furniture, electronics, even a very modern grocery store.
The electronics/appliance department contains the very latest in refrigerators, washing machines, and, of course, HDTVs. I’ve never seen such brilliant, sharp images on television as on the TVs displayed there. And, I’m told, they’re all made in China.
I would have spent some money in City Center, but I didn’t have any yen. I tried several ATMs, but, they offered no English option, and when it comes to my debit card, I don’t want to just start pushing buttons. I went into a couple of banks, but, for some reason, banks are very busy places.
When you enter, you take a number, and wait. It’s not unlike the DMV. There were waiting areas in both of the banks I tried, and there were large numbers of people waiting.
I didn’t have the yen to wait, so we hopped on the bus and returned to our hotel. It’s a very interesting facility in its own right, but I’ll tell you more about that another time.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Mr. Cook's Wild Ride
It’s difficult to type right now, as I reflect on a somewhat life-threatening ordeal we have just come through here in Communist China. Our adventure began after we passed through immigration and customs. On our way out of the train station, we were stopped by a man who asked us where we were going. The man wasn’t wearing any type of uniform, but being a little unsure of what to expect, we gave him the name of our hotel. He ran and grabbed another guy and said he’d obtained a taxi for us. He quoted a price, which seemed a little high, but, hey, we’re newcomers in town. So we said if the ride would be no more than the price he’d quoted, that was fine. He and the other guy then grab our bags and head down the steps. We’re following closely behind as the two guys and our luggage careen through an area under construction and into a restaurant adjoining the train station.
We’re right behind them, through the restaurant, around the tables, past the booths, diners staring at the sight of two Americans chasing their luggage through the restaurant. We leave the restaurant and enter a small parking lot. This doesn’t seem like it would be the place to catch a cab, and I’m starting to get a little suspicious; but again, we’re in a whole new world.
The guy starts packing our luggage into the trunk of a fairly modern Toyota. The car has no markings to indicate it is a cab, nor is there any driver’s I.D. posted in the car. I’m getting a little antsy, but figure by this point, if these guys weren’t on the up and up, it was just a matter of whether they’d kill us in the parking lot or in some out-of-the-way spot that had been predetermined.
The first guy who approached us gets in the front passenger seat, and the other guy is sitting behind the wheel. The first guy says I’ll take my money now. I go ahead and pay him, hoping that he’ll just make this quick and painless.
He takes our money and hops out of the car. The cab driver starts the engine and immediately becomes a raving maniac. He’s weaving between cars, trucks, bikes, motorcyclists, pedestrians, blaring his horn, gunning the engine and slamming on brakes…somewhat simultaneously.
My friend, Rob, who is traveling with me on this leg of our trip, observes that it doesn’t appear the driver has the foresight to realize that if he changes lanes, he’s only going to have to almost immediately change again because of traffic blocking the lane he’s just changed to. I think the guy just doesn’t care. It’s like playing a video game. The driver takes one obstacle at a time and moves on to the next.
But my mind is on more important matters. I’m sitting there thinking about how I can prevent our being murdered. I’m pretty positive that we’re about to meet with foul play. We pass a policeman in his cruiser. I think maybe I can use some sort of international symbol for, “Hey, I think this pseudo-cab driver is going to kill us.” Being unable to recall that particular hand gesture, I contemplate taking my shoelaces out of my shoes and strangling the driver. I’m sitting right behind him and, from reading a good many mysteries, I think I know how to pull it off. The only problem is that I’m wearing loafers.
So, I begin to determine if I could quickly grab him by his hair and slam his face into the steering wheel. Now keep in mind, I wouldn’t do that until he, the driver, made the first move. But, as soon as it looked like he was ready to kill us, I was ready to be the hero. I was halfway daydreaming and worrying at the same time…daydreaming about crushing the driver’s skull and worrying that I might not grab his head just right and just end up irritating him. I was also wondering just what that first move on the driver’s part would be and would I recognize it in time. After all, when it comes to killing a cab driver/kidnapper, timing is everything.
All of a sudden he starts shouting and slams on the brakes. I came that close to grabbing the driver’s head and slamming it into the steering wheel, when I realize he’s shouting at a school kid who has come running out in front of the cab. I was so unnerved, that I decided that should anything happen, the driver could just go ahead and kill me. I just wasn’t up to any head-slammings.
Within a few minutes we pull up to the hotel. The driver gets our luggage out of the trunk and drives away. I have to admit I’m relieved, but slightly disappointed.
Later in the day, when I confess to Rob that I was on the verge of killing the our driver, he admits that he was trying to figure out what he had on him that he could use to defend us. “I figured he didn’t have a gun,” Rob said, “but, he might have a knife. I was trying to decide what I had in my pocket that would be a good match for a knife.”
Fortunately, neither of us had to kill anyone…on this particular day. We lived to tell the story. But, just barely. Besides, did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the back seat?
We’re right behind them, through the restaurant, around the tables, past the booths, diners staring at the sight of two Americans chasing their luggage through the restaurant. We leave the restaurant and enter a small parking lot. This doesn’t seem like it would be the place to catch a cab, and I’m starting to get a little suspicious; but again, we’re in a whole new world.
The guy starts packing our luggage into the trunk of a fairly modern Toyota. The car has no markings to indicate it is a cab, nor is there any driver’s I.D. posted in the car. I’m getting a little antsy, but figure by this point, if these guys weren’t on the up and up, it was just a matter of whether they’d kill us in the parking lot or in some out-of-the-way spot that had been predetermined.
The first guy who approached us gets in the front passenger seat, and the other guy is sitting behind the wheel. The first guy says I’ll take my money now. I go ahead and pay him, hoping that he’ll just make this quick and painless.
He takes our money and hops out of the car. The cab driver starts the engine and immediately becomes a raving maniac. He’s weaving between cars, trucks, bikes, motorcyclists, pedestrians, blaring his horn, gunning the engine and slamming on brakes…somewhat simultaneously.
My friend, Rob, who is traveling with me on this leg of our trip, observes that it doesn’t appear the driver has the foresight to realize that if he changes lanes, he’s only going to have to almost immediately change again because of traffic blocking the lane he’s just changed to. I think the guy just doesn’t care. It’s like playing a video game. The driver takes one obstacle at a time and moves on to the next.
But my mind is on more important matters. I’m sitting there thinking about how I can prevent our being murdered. I’m pretty positive that we’re about to meet with foul play. We pass a policeman in his cruiser. I think maybe I can use some sort of international symbol for, “Hey, I think this pseudo-cab driver is going to kill us.” Being unable to recall that particular hand gesture, I contemplate taking my shoelaces out of my shoes and strangling the driver. I’m sitting right behind him and, from reading a good many mysteries, I think I know how to pull it off. The only problem is that I’m wearing loafers.
So, I begin to determine if I could quickly grab him by his hair and slam his face into the steering wheel. Now keep in mind, I wouldn’t do that until he, the driver, made the first move. But, as soon as it looked like he was ready to kill us, I was ready to be the hero. I was halfway daydreaming and worrying at the same time…daydreaming about crushing the driver’s skull and worrying that I might not grab his head just right and just end up irritating him. I was also wondering just what that first move on the driver’s part would be and would I recognize it in time. After all, when it comes to killing a cab driver/kidnapper, timing is everything.
All of a sudden he starts shouting and slams on the brakes. I came that close to grabbing the driver’s head and slamming it into the steering wheel, when I realize he’s shouting at a school kid who has come running out in front of the cab. I was so unnerved, that I decided that should anything happen, the driver could just go ahead and kill me. I just wasn’t up to any head-slammings.
Within a few minutes we pull up to the hotel. The driver gets our luggage out of the trunk and drives away. I have to admit I’m relieved, but slightly disappointed.
Later in the day, when I confess to Rob that I was on the verge of killing the our driver, he admits that he was trying to figure out what he had on him that he could use to defend us. “I figured he didn’t have a gun,” Rob said, “but, he might have a knife. I was trying to decide what I had in my pocket that would be a good match for a knife.”
Fortunately, neither of us had to kill anyone…on this particular day. We lived to tell the story. But, just barely. Besides, did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the back seat?
Thursday, October 13, 2005
A Fast Train to China
It’s been a week of firsts for me, and today’s first is a real doozie. I’m in Communist China, although, come to think of it, I haven’t heard anyone use that term around here.
We caught the morning train from Kowloon, the mainland portion of Hong Kong. About ninety minutes later we were in Gangzhou, formerly known as Canton, and I’m not talking Ohio.
On the rather pleasant ride, I sat next to a computer systems salesman named Dzhou. Dzhou, a native of Hong Kong, travels extensively throughout China. I asked him what changes he’d seen since the Communist government took back its control of Hong Kong in 1997. “It has opened things up,” he says. "I can now do business throughout China. Dzhou thinks the Communist take-over, coupled with a more business-friendly attitude, has been good for the economy.
Dzhou is a pleasant sort of guy, quick to laugh, willing to talk, so I take a chance and ask him about the down side of the takeover. He laughs. He says that in subtle ways you know you’re under a more rigid regime. But, he adds, “As long as you don’t think about it politically, things are good.”
I’d like to find out more, but Dzhou has an arsenal of cell phones which are constantly ringing. And, apparently, he enjoys talking.
The train is modern, clean, comfortable, with plenty of leg room. I wish I could fly it back to the United States, rather than that ridiculously cramped 747 that awaits me in about nine days. On the tain, there are about five women, smartly dressed in blue uniforms. Some of the women are tending to the passengers as they struggle on board with various and sundry pieces of luggage. The car adjoining ours bustles with activity. Other blue-uniform clad women are busily moving pots and pans around, pouring various items (I can't distringuish what) from one pan to another. I’m anxious to see what’s going to happen.
Shortly after the train departs the station, the women don crisp, white aprons and commence to selling anything they can find in that adjacent car.
First one comes out carrying a tray loaded with cartons that look much like Chinese take-home containers. In a lovely sing-songy voice, she offers her wares. She's speaking in Chinese, so I can’t tell what she’s offering, but she sounds pleasant.
Next, another woman comes out with a handful of various newspapers. Turns out she’s offering those for six dollars (Hong Kong) a piece, which in exchange rate is less than a dollar.
Before long another lady comes through and she’s got chicken legs for sale. At least there were no necks and heads being served up. Then some soup or noodles are proffered. After that one of the attendants comes by carrying a book, showing it to everyone. She shows it to me, but doesn’t try and sell me anything. Later when she comes back with the book, singing her little sales pitch, she translates for me. She’s offering stamps.
She’s followed by another young woman with a bowl filled with corn on the cob. It looks good, but it’s a little early in the day for my American-trained palate. Evidently, a lot of Chinese agree with me, because when she comes back through, her bowl is still filled with corn.
As the landscape flies by, I notice that the high-rise condos and apartments which fill Hong Kong, are equally as prevalent once we're outside this Special Administrative Region. I would not have realized we had entered the true Communist China, had not Dzhou called my attention to the fence at the border. I was distracted by another onboard sales pitch. An attendant wheels through a huge cart, fully loaded with bottles of liquor and cartons of cigarettes. I’m guessing she was offering duty-free products.
"Here's the border," Dzhou says, bringing my attention back to the world outside. On the Hong Kong side, it just looks like a fence. However, on the other side, huge rolls of barbwire send a stern warning that, while things may have loosened up, the gates have certainly not swung wide-open.
Still another attendant comes through offering something in little metal containers. She sings her song in Chinese, but when she gets to me, she sings, “coffee or tea?”
Outside I notice miles and miles of high rise housing roll by. As we get out "into the country," I see terraced produce gardens, and a few irrigation ponds. A field here and there dot the landscape, and, just as in all the National Geographics, there are workers tending to the crops. Soon, factories begin to compete for space with the housing. The agricultural areas are very sparse in this part of the country.
Again, I'm distracted by yet another trayful of take-out containers being melodiously offered by one of the attendants. Dzhou has told me how there’s money to be made in China. Apparently, the Chinese have become very adept at the marketing game, even here on the train. I’m not complaining. It appears that good ol’ American capitalism has come to China. This is not your father’s Red China, I’m thinking. In fact, it’s not even my daughter’s father’s Red China. Growing up in the fifties and sixties, I’d heard plenty of horror stories. I had pictured China as being a combination of George Orwell’s 1984, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, and the 1973 motion picture Soylent Green. That's definitely not the picture I'm seeing now.
Hong Kong is, in many ways, not so very much unlike many large American cities. I’m suspecting that when I get to Gangzhou, I’ll find more of the same…just a big Chinatown. Maybe? I'll fill you in tomorrow.
We caught the morning train from Kowloon, the mainland portion of Hong Kong. About ninety minutes later we were in Gangzhou, formerly known as Canton, and I’m not talking Ohio.
On the rather pleasant ride, I sat next to a computer systems salesman named Dzhou. Dzhou, a native of Hong Kong, travels extensively throughout China. I asked him what changes he’d seen since the Communist government took back its control of Hong Kong in 1997. “It has opened things up,” he says. "I can now do business throughout China. Dzhou thinks the Communist take-over, coupled with a more business-friendly attitude, has been good for the economy.
Dzhou is a pleasant sort of guy, quick to laugh, willing to talk, so I take a chance and ask him about the down side of the takeover. He laughs. He says that in subtle ways you know you’re under a more rigid regime. But, he adds, “As long as you don’t think about it politically, things are good.”
I’d like to find out more, but Dzhou has an arsenal of cell phones which are constantly ringing. And, apparently, he enjoys talking.
The train is modern, clean, comfortable, with plenty of leg room. I wish I could fly it back to the United States, rather than that ridiculously cramped 747 that awaits me in about nine days. On the tain, there are about five women, smartly dressed in blue uniforms. Some of the women are tending to the passengers as they struggle on board with various and sundry pieces of luggage. The car adjoining ours bustles with activity. Other blue-uniform clad women are busily moving pots and pans around, pouring various items (I can't distringuish what) from one pan to another. I’m anxious to see what’s going to happen.
Shortly after the train departs the station, the women don crisp, white aprons and commence to selling anything they can find in that adjacent car.
First one comes out carrying a tray loaded with cartons that look much like Chinese take-home containers. In a lovely sing-songy voice, she offers her wares. She's speaking in Chinese, so I can’t tell what she’s offering, but she sounds pleasant.
Next, another woman comes out with a handful of various newspapers. Turns out she’s offering those for six dollars (Hong Kong) a piece, which in exchange rate is less than a dollar.
Before long another lady comes through and she’s got chicken legs for sale. At least there were no necks and heads being served up. Then some soup or noodles are proffered. After that one of the attendants comes by carrying a book, showing it to everyone. She shows it to me, but doesn’t try and sell me anything. Later when she comes back with the book, singing her little sales pitch, she translates for me. She’s offering stamps.
She’s followed by another young woman with a bowl filled with corn on the cob. It looks good, but it’s a little early in the day for my American-trained palate. Evidently, a lot of Chinese agree with me, because when she comes back through, her bowl is still filled with corn.
As the landscape flies by, I notice that the high-rise condos and apartments which fill Hong Kong, are equally as prevalent once we're outside this Special Administrative Region. I would not have realized we had entered the true Communist China, had not Dzhou called my attention to the fence at the border. I was distracted by another onboard sales pitch. An attendant wheels through a huge cart, fully loaded with bottles of liquor and cartons of cigarettes. I’m guessing she was offering duty-free products.
"Here's the border," Dzhou says, bringing my attention back to the world outside. On the Hong Kong side, it just looks like a fence. However, on the other side, huge rolls of barbwire send a stern warning that, while things may have loosened up, the gates have certainly not swung wide-open.
Still another attendant comes through offering something in little metal containers. She sings her song in Chinese, but when she gets to me, she sings, “coffee or tea?”
Outside I notice miles and miles of high rise housing roll by. As we get out "into the country," I see terraced produce gardens, and a few irrigation ponds. A field here and there dot the landscape, and, just as in all the National Geographics, there are workers tending to the crops. Soon, factories begin to compete for space with the housing. The agricultural areas are very sparse in this part of the country.
Again, I'm distracted by yet another trayful of take-out containers being melodiously offered by one of the attendants. Dzhou has told me how there’s money to be made in China. Apparently, the Chinese have become very adept at the marketing game, even here on the train. I’m not complaining. It appears that good ol’ American capitalism has come to China. This is not your father’s Red China, I’m thinking. In fact, it’s not even my daughter’s father’s Red China. Growing up in the fifties and sixties, I’d heard plenty of horror stories. I had pictured China as being a combination of George Orwell’s 1984, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, and the 1973 motion picture Soylent Green. That's definitely not the picture I'm seeing now.
Hong Kong is, in many ways, not so very much unlike many large American cities. I’m suspecting that when I get to Gangzhou, I’ll find more of the same…just a big Chinatown. Maybe? I'll fill you in tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Two Different Worlds
It's 4:30 AM, Thursday morning here in Hong Kong, which means for those of you on the East Coast, you're finishing up your Wednesday work day. My body has lived in the Eastern time zone for so long that it's having a hard time adjusting. That's not a bad thing, though. It just means I'm sleeping about three to four hours a night. But who wants to sleep when you have two weeks to spend on the other side of the globe. I want to see as much as I can. Of course, that means a lot of late night/early morning Chinese TV. Thanks to satellite and cable, the hotel, here in Hong Kong, offers about twenty-five channels. And, if you think American TV is bad, just come to Hong Kong. Last night, there were about 5 late-night hours of televised bowling. It's broadcast in Chinese, but, hey, it doesn't take a lot of comprehension to catch on to a bowling tournament. It was interesting watching the way the cameras panned in on the crowd reaction. You'd have thought it was the World Series. And, as a brief aside, speaking of the World Series, I'm just glad I was out of the country and didn't have to watch the way the Braves bull-pen stunk up the joint in that last game with Houston. By the time I get back to the states, baseball, 2005, will be history.
But, back to Chinese TV - Bowling is the second most boring sport on the planet, second only to the other sporting event which dominates Chinese television. And that's soccer. Watching soccer is like watching kids play with a ball in the park. It's interesting for about 35 seconds.
In China, soccer is, apparently, of great importance. They even have an entire soccer channel. Plus, during the course of the overnight, one can watch soccer on five or six other channels simultaneously. There's also great Chinese drama. Thankfully, they use English sub-titles, so I'm able to better understand just how boring the shows are. The actors are all pretty bad. They're so amateurish, they do everything but turn to the camera and wave.
One thing I think is interesting is when one of the local channels will occasionally show an HBO movie, they'll edit out the profanity. I got to thinking how paradoxical it is, that America, which claims (at least many do) to be a Christian nation, can so freely accept filthy language, and yet a supposedly atheistic nation (at least for many) finds the same language unacceptable. Kind of makes one wonder.
I haven't spent the entire time watching television. Once the sun comes up, we're out and in the streets. I've walked so much that my thighs are raw. I know, thats TMI. But, it makes each step I take rather unpleasant. And yet, there's so much to see. On Wednesday we took the subway over to Hong Kong island. We're staying on the Peninsula, in the part of Hong Kong called Kowloon. To get to the subway, which by the way, is ultra-modern, we have to walk about five blocks through the street markets. The streets are crowded with old Chinese men and women hawking their merchandise. The people are apparently poor, but hard-working. They're not looking for handouts. They're not beggars. They're are just simple merchants, who get up early each morning and who sit all day in the hot sun, hoping to sell enough of whatever they may have to sell, to support their families. And, while population control is government mandated in most of China, that doesn't appear true in Kowloon. Children stream out of doorways, all dressed in clean school uniforms. The children laugh easily, as do their parents. The people seem to be happy...poor, but content.
There are little food shops along the way displaying a variety of roasted carcasses. Dead ducks, browned and ready to eat, hang from racks. All have their long necks and cute little Donald-Duck-like heads attached. I don't think I could eat anything with the head attached, although the ducks do look tasty.
When we get off the subway on Hong Kong Island, we're in the heart of what may be the most modern city I have ever seen. The cars are big and black and shiny. The businessmen and women (although it appears to be very male-dominated), are small, but all dressed in shiny, black suits. The men wear well-starched, immaculately-white, dress shirts with a smart, stylish tie. One of the guys in our group commented that when everyone wears the same "power suit," it ceases to be a power suit. It becomes more of a uniform, much like the ones the schoolgirls we passed earlier in the morning were wearing. The only difference is that, unlike the schoolgirls, the businessmen (and women) aren't smiling. They have tired, haggard expressions on their faces. Many, those that don't own those big, shiny cars, pack themselves into the subway with us for the evening ride home. Somehow, despite the fact that the humidity is high and there are twice as many passengers in each car than comfort would allow, their shirts and suits are still wrinkle free. Their ties are still pulled tightly around their necks.
We rode the subway one day. It was an adventure. These business people do it every day. They don't look as if it's an adventure.
I wonder if at one time, years ago, these men and women were little boys and girls, who kissed their parents good-bye each day and headed through the street markets, past the fish stands, and the duck heads, and headed off to school, determined to get a good education and, one day, maybe, one day, make it to the top. And, they made it. They work in the sleekest, tallest, most modern buildings anywhere on the planet. In the evening, they return home to one of the hundreds of high-rise condominiums and apartment buildings. They climb in the most modern elevators, which whisk them up. The more successful they are, the higher the elevator takes them.
They were determined to make it to the top. As an outsider, I look at the poor, simple, hardworking fathers and mothers who peddle their wares each day. And, I look at the successful business people who live and work (and, probably seldom play) in the city's high-rises. And, I wonder, which way really is the top.
But, back to Chinese TV - Bowling is the second most boring sport on the planet, second only to the other sporting event which dominates Chinese television. And that's soccer. Watching soccer is like watching kids play with a ball in the park. It's interesting for about 35 seconds.
In China, soccer is, apparently, of great importance. They even have an entire soccer channel. Plus, during the course of the overnight, one can watch soccer on five or six other channels simultaneously. There's also great Chinese drama. Thankfully, they use English sub-titles, so I'm able to better understand just how boring the shows are. The actors are all pretty bad. They're so amateurish, they do everything but turn to the camera and wave.
One thing I think is interesting is when one of the local channels will occasionally show an HBO movie, they'll edit out the profanity. I got to thinking how paradoxical it is, that America, which claims (at least many do) to be a Christian nation, can so freely accept filthy language, and yet a supposedly atheistic nation (at least for many) finds the same language unacceptable. Kind of makes one wonder.
I haven't spent the entire time watching television. Once the sun comes up, we're out and in the streets. I've walked so much that my thighs are raw. I know, thats TMI. But, it makes each step I take rather unpleasant. And yet, there's so much to see. On Wednesday we took the subway over to Hong Kong island. We're staying on the Peninsula, in the part of Hong Kong called Kowloon. To get to the subway, which by the way, is ultra-modern, we have to walk about five blocks through the street markets. The streets are crowded with old Chinese men and women hawking their merchandise. The people are apparently poor, but hard-working. They're not looking for handouts. They're not beggars. They're are just simple merchants, who get up early each morning and who sit all day in the hot sun, hoping to sell enough of whatever they may have to sell, to support their families. And, while population control is government mandated in most of China, that doesn't appear true in Kowloon. Children stream out of doorways, all dressed in clean school uniforms. The children laugh easily, as do their parents. The people seem to be happy...poor, but content.
There are little food shops along the way displaying a variety of roasted carcasses. Dead ducks, browned and ready to eat, hang from racks. All have their long necks and cute little Donald-Duck-like heads attached. I don't think I could eat anything with the head attached, although the ducks do look tasty.
When we get off the subway on Hong Kong Island, we're in the heart of what may be the most modern city I have ever seen. The cars are big and black and shiny. The businessmen and women (although it appears to be very male-dominated), are small, but all dressed in shiny, black suits. The men wear well-starched, immaculately-white, dress shirts with a smart, stylish tie. One of the guys in our group commented that when everyone wears the same "power suit," it ceases to be a power suit. It becomes more of a uniform, much like the ones the schoolgirls we passed earlier in the morning were wearing. The only difference is that, unlike the schoolgirls, the businessmen (and women) aren't smiling. They have tired, haggard expressions on their faces. Many, those that don't own those big, shiny cars, pack themselves into the subway with us for the evening ride home. Somehow, despite the fact that the humidity is high and there are twice as many passengers in each car than comfort would allow, their shirts and suits are still wrinkle free. Their ties are still pulled tightly around their necks.
We rode the subway one day. It was an adventure. These business people do it every day. They don't look as if it's an adventure.
I wonder if at one time, years ago, these men and women were little boys and girls, who kissed their parents good-bye each day and headed through the street markets, past the fish stands, and the duck heads, and headed off to school, determined to get a good education and, one day, maybe, one day, make it to the top. And, they made it. They work in the sleekest, tallest, most modern buildings anywhere on the planet. In the evening, they return home to one of the hundreds of high-rise condominiums and apartment buildings. They climb in the most modern elevators, which whisk them up. The more successful they are, the higher the elevator takes them.
They were determined to make it to the top. As an outsider, I look at the poor, simple, hardworking fathers and mothers who peddle their wares each day. And, I look at the successful business people who live and work (and, probably seldom play) in the city's high-rises. And, I wonder, which way really is the top.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
It's Wednesday. I Must Still Be In Hong Kong
Well, it's day 2 in Hong Kong, certainly the most unique city I've ever visited. If you've never seen Hong Kong, the best way I can describe it as what you would have if you took New York City and stuck it where Miami should be, and then let Chinatown take over. It's a relatively clean city, even in the poorer sections, someone is always out in the street sweeping up trash.
The crowds are unbelieveable, and, I'm told that this is nothing compared with what I'll find in Shanghai. That worries me because not only am I a hypochondriac, but I'm a claustrophobic hypochondriac with a tendency to hyperventilate in crowds. I narrowly escaped causing a scene on the airplane. I felt so pinned in that, at one point during the flight, I started to think that being forcibly removed from the plane would be preferable to sitting in that cramped little space. If I had been abolutely sure that no straight jackets would be used, I would have caused quite a stir. So, we'll see how I handle this Shanghai thing in a few days.
A friend, who is on this trip with me, happened to mention that the Chinese view light-complexioned people as very attractive. With my pasty-white body, the Chinese must think I'm gorgeous. That may be why last night at least fifteen women approached me and asked me if I wanted to go out on a date. I declined them all, I must say.
The street markets here are fascinating. As the sun goes down, the locals gather in the street to shop, visit, and eat very unusual-looking things. Various merchants set up their wares. Some simply pile their merchandise on a blanket lying in the street. Others are set up under tends. They have microphones to attract the crowds to their booth. It's kind of like the state fair, except with everyone speaking Chinese, they're a little more understandable than the hawkers at the fair.
I was drawn to one booth by the sound of a flute. "Ah," I thought to myself, "I'm going to find something ancient and wondrous at this booth, perhaps jade statuettes or other treasures of the Orient." Turns out the guy was selling used computers...and playing the flute at the same time. Those Chinese are talented.
As I was walking through the market place, I saw a crowd gathered. Again, I did some thinking to myself. "Oooh," I thought, "perhaps the folks are looking at a group of Chinese acrobats." Indeed the crowd seemed to be really enjoying the show, whatever it was. And, I hurried towards the throng to find out. No acrobats or jugglers or mimes. Just an old man yelling at a group of police officers who were trying to calm him down. The police, all dressed in those little uniforms and hats that you see in the movies, were very polite to the angry man...very restrained. Not a one of the police officers was clubbing him. I stood around for a while, thinking maybe I'd see a good old-fashioned clubbing. Nothing ever happened. They sure aren't making Communists like they used to.
Well, I gotta get out and see more of this strange, new world. Hopefully, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Unless that Communist crack ruffles a few feathers.
The crowds are unbelieveable, and, I'm told that this is nothing compared with what I'll find in Shanghai. That worries me because not only am I a hypochondriac, but I'm a claustrophobic hypochondriac with a tendency to hyperventilate in crowds. I narrowly escaped causing a scene on the airplane. I felt so pinned in that, at one point during the flight, I started to think that being forcibly removed from the plane would be preferable to sitting in that cramped little space. If I had been abolutely sure that no straight jackets would be used, I would have caused quite a stir. So, we'll see how I handle this Shanghai thing in a few days.
A friend, who is on this trip with me, happened to mention that the Chinese view light-complexioned people as very attractive. With my pasty-white body, the Chinese must think I'm gorgeous. That may be why last night at least fifteen women approached me and asked me if I wanted to go out on a date. I declined them all, I must say.
The street markets here are fascinating. As the sun goes down, the locals gather in the street to shop, visit, and eat very unusual-looking things. Various merchants set up their wares. Some simply pile their merchandise on a blanket lying in the street. Others are set up under tends. They have microphones to attract the crowds to their booth. It's kind of like the state fair, except with everyone speaking Chinese, they're a little more understandable than the hawkers at the fair.
I was drawn to one booth by the sound of a flute. "Ah," I thought to myself, "I'm going to find something ancient and wondrous at this booth, perhaps jade statuettes or other treasures of the Orient." Turns out the guy was selling used computers...and playing the flute at the same time. Those Chinese are talented.
As I was walking through the market place, I saw a crowd gathered. Again, I did some thinking to myself. "Oooh," I thought, "perhaps the folks are looking at a group of Chinese acrobats." Indeed the crowd seemed to be really enjoying the show, whatever it was. And, I hurried towards the throng to find out. No acrobats or jugglers or mimes. Just an old man yelling at a group of police officers who were trying to calm him down. The police, all dressed in those little uniforms and hats that you see in the movies, were very polite to the angry man...very restrained. Not a one of the police officers was clubbing him. I stood around for a while, thinking maybe I'd see a good old-fashioned clubbing. Nothing ever happened. They sure aren't making Communists like they used to.
Well, I gotta get out and see more of this strange, new world. Hopefully, I'll talk to you tomorrow. Unless that Communist crack ruffles a few feathers.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Good Morning Hong Kong
Have you ever seen one of those grade-B magic acts where the magician puts the girl in the box and then sticks swords in the box? I'm sure you have. Once, for whatever reason...maybe the magician was drunk...anyway, he (the magician) let us come up onstage and see how he did it. There was the poor girl squeezed up in this small box, with her knees up around her neck, in some horribly-contorted ball shaped human sort of thing.
I would never have thought I could have squeezed myself up that way. But, I just completed a 16-hour flight to Hong Kong, on a United Airlines 747, and, you know what, it can be done. United calls it "economy seating." I call it greedily cramming as many passengers into the plane as humanly possible.
Besides the fact that I was boxed in between the window and two (very nice) gentleman from Singapore, the flight was fine. Plenty of food, drink, and exceptionally bland movies that I never would have paid to watch. But, when you're balled up in a wad, using every sort of self-psychotherapy to keep from hyperventilating and creating a scene, you'll watch just about anything, including Martin Lawrence in Rebound.
The food wasn't good, but it was a diversion. I ate every bite of everything they offered, figuring it would help me keep my mind off the fact that I was totally devoid of any ability to move. Actually, I lie. I did move some. I'm sure to my seat-mates, I was a rather pathetic twitching old man. I kept having to scratch my back. And, every time I did, my elbow slammed into the guy next to me. Add to that, the fact that every twenty minutes I had to get both of the other passengers next to me to let me out for a restroom break, then just when they'd get settled back in, there I was standing in the aisle, begging to be allowed to climb over them again. I kept hoping they'd offer to move in and let me have the aisle seat. Nope. I guess they figured they'd rather get up than having to be boxed in themselves.
I really am a klutz. On my last trip down the aisle to the restroom, I noticed after I'd travelled about half the length of the plane that when I had put my shoes back on, I had stepped on the handle part of a plastic bag I had lying on the floor. The bag contained some snacks I had purchased just in case. Anyway, here I was dragging this bag down the aisle with me. I'm sure I looked liked the total goober I am.
On a more interesting note, I did not know the plane would be flying north over the Arctic Circle to get to Hong Kong. That has to be one of my bigger thrills in life. Just to have the bragging rights to say I've flown over the North Pole is huge. I'll see how many conversations I can work that in to. We must have spent five hours or so over the Arctic Circle. I was only keeping time by the number of horrible movies it took to fly over. It really does look just like the pictures, which I guess makes sense.
Anyway, as I write, it's Tuesday morning here in Hong Kong...Monday evening EDT. And, there's a whole world out there waiting to be discovered. I'll tell you more tomorrow about what I find.
I would never have thought I could have squeezed myself up that way. But, I just completed a 16-hour flight to Hong Kong, on a United Airlines 747, and, you know what, it can be done. United calls it "economy seating." I call it greedily cramming as many passengers into the plane as humanly possible.
Besides the fact that I was boxed in between the window and two (very nice) gentleman from Singapore, the flight was fine. Plenty of food, drink, and exceptionally bland movies that I never would have paid to watch. But, when you're balled up in a wad, using every sort of self-psychotherapy to keep from hyperventilating and creating a scene, you'll watch just about anything, including Martin Lawrence in Rebound.
The food wasn't good, but it was a diversion. I ate every bite of everything they offered, figuring it would help me keep my mind off the fact that I was totally devoid of any ability to move. Actually, I lie. I did move some. I'm sure to my seat-mates, I was a rather pathetic twitching old man. I kept having to scratch my back. And, every time I did, my elbow slammed into the guy next to me. Add to that, the fact that every twenty minutes I had to get both of the other passengers next to me to let me out for a restroom break, then just when they'd get settled back in, there I was standing in the aisle, begging to be allowed to climb over them again. I kept hoping they'd offer to move in and let me have the aisle seat. Nope. I guess they figured they'd rather get up than having to be boxed in themselves.
I really am a klutz. On my last trip down the aisle to the restroom, I noticed after I'd travelled about half the length of the plane that when I had put my shoes back on, I had stepped on the handle part of a plastic bag I had lying on the floor. The bag contained some snacks I had purchased just in case. Anyway, here I was dragging this bag down the aisle with me. I'm sure I looked liked the total goober I am.
On a more interesting note, I did not know the plane would be flying north over the Arctic Circle to get to Hong Kong. That has to be one of my bigger thrills in life. Just to have the bragging rights to say I've flown over the North Pole is huge. I'll see how many conversations I can work that in to. We must have spent five hours or so over the Arctic Circle. I was only keeping time by the number of horrible movies it took to fly over. It really does look just like the pictures, which I guess makes sense.
Anyway, as I write, it's Tuesday morning here in Hong Kong...Monday evening EDT. And, there's a whole world out there waiting to be discovered. I'll tell you more tomorrow about what I find.
Friday, October 07, 2005
More Tragedy In The News
I heard a tragic story on the news this morning. I could tell it was going to be tragic because the newscaster got this real somber sound in her voice. It's that sound that goes from happy to horrified in one fell swoop. I can't really describe it in print, but I'll write a typical newcaster sentence and you can do the imitation for yourself. The newscaster is joking around with the weather guy, they're laughing about a typhoon or something, and then the news guy says in his quickly going from silly to somber voice, "Ha, Ha. Right, Jim. On a more serious note..."
Well, anyway, that's what this newscaster did. So, I could tell a sad story was next, and, boy, was I ever right. The newscaster introduced the story, "Bill Witchett (I made the name up because I wasn't paying that much attention), raises horses. He also wears glasses. Here's Belinda Bettleton (another made up name, but a kind of neat one, don't you think?) with the story."
Well, Belinda sounds even sadder than the woman who introduced her. She proceeds to tell us that Bill wears bifocals (already, the story is more tragic than I had first expected it to be). And those glasses fog up when Bill is out in the stable. I don't think the specific reason for the glasses fogging up was given. But anyway, the poor man has to do his job with foggy glasses. A tear begins to form in the lower right corner of my left eye. But wait! It gets worse.
"And," Belinda says, "If Bill takes off his glasses, he can't see the holes in the bridle."
"Oh, the humanity!" I'm wailing by this time, not just for Bill but for those poor horses. And, evidently Belinda is telling the truth, because next thing you know, Bill is confirming it.
Bill is very sad looking. He whimpers, "I can't see the holes in the bridle without my glasses." Obviously this poor man has suffered in ways most of us can't even begin to imagine. Personally, by this point, I'm beside myself with grief. So, I look over at my other self and say,"Why don't you change the channel. This is too tough for you."
I'm about to agree with myself, when I hear a glimmer of hope in Belinda's voice. "Hold on," I say to myself. "Maybe there's a glimmer of hope."
Belinda is speaking, "Up until now lasik surgery was not available to wearers of bifocals. But..."
As soon as she says, "But," my tears begin to turn to those of joy. "Yes!" I say, again to myself. "My wildest dreams are perhaps coming true. Bill will be able to see the holes in the bridle again...maybe."
"...thanks to a new experimental procedure," Belinda continues, "lasik surgery can now be done for bifocal wearers."
Seems that Bill is not as daring as I thought. His brother had already had this experimental procedure done successfully, so he says, "what the heck," and he gets the experimental procedure himself. And, guess what. Yep, Bill can see those holes again. Bill is smiling now. Evidently, when he was crying earlier, he'd already had the operation, so either the memories were that painful, or the news people asked him to recreate his emotional pain, like they do on America's Most Wanted, when somebody that was kidnapped and then rescued does the little vignette of their being kidnapped. Only, on America's Most Wanted, I don't think they're using the real kidnapper in the re-creation, or else, they could just go ahead and arrest him, when he came in to do the filming.
Anyway, Bill is fine now. And, even though the surgery is still experimental, Belinda did offer some good news. Seems she saved fifteen percent on her car insurance.
Well, anyway, that's what this newscaster did. So, I could tell a sad story was next, and, boy, was I ever right. The newscaster introduced the story, "Bill Witchett (I made the name up because I wasn't paying that much attention), raises horses. He also wears glasses. Here's Belinda Bettleton (another made up name, but a kind of neat one, don't you think?) with the story."
Well, Belinda sounds even sadder than the woman who introduced her. She proceeds to tell us that Bill wears bifocals (already, the story is more tragic than I had first expected it to be). And those glasses fog up when Bill is out in the stable. I don't think the specific reason for the glasses fogging up was given. But anyway, the poor man has to do his job with foggy glasses. A tear begins to form in the lower right corner of my left eye. But wait! It gets worse.
"And," Belinda says, "If Bill takes off his glasses, he can't see the holes in the bridle."
"Oh, the humanity!" I'm wailing by this time, not just for Bill but for those poor horses. And, evidently Belinda is telling the truth, because next thing you know, Bill is confirming it.
Bill is very sad looking. He whimpers, "I can't see the holes in the bridle without my glasses." Obviously this poor man has suffered in ways most of us can't even begin to imagine. Personally, by this point, I'm beside myself with grief. So, I look over at my other self and say,"Why don't you change the channel. This is too tough for you."
I'm about to agree with myself, when I hear a glimmer of hope in Belinda's voice. "Hold on," I say to myself. "Maybe there's a glimmer of hope."
Belinda is speaking, "Up until now lasik surgery was not available to wearers of bifocals. But..."
As soon as she says, "But," my tears begin to turn to those of joy. "Yes!" I say, again to myself. "My wildest dreams are perhaps coming true. Bill will be able to see the holes in the bridle again...maybe."
"...thanks to a new experimental procedure," Belinda continues, "lasik surgery can now be done for bifocal wearers."
Seems that Bill is not as daring as I thought. His brother had already had this experimental procedure done successfully, so he says, "what the heck," and he gets the experimental procedure himself. And, guess what. Yep, Bill can see those holes again. Bill is smiling now. Evidently, when he was crying earlier, he'd already had the operation, so either the memories were that painful, or the news people asked him to recreate his emotional pain, like they do on America's Most Wanted, when somebody that was kidnapped and then rescued does the little vignette of their being kidnapped. Only, on America's Most Wanted, I don't think they're using the real kidnapper in the re-creation, or else, they could just go ahead and arrest him, when he came in to do the filming.
Anyway, Bill is fine now. And, even though the surgery is still experimental, Belinda did offer some good news. Seems she saved fifteen percent on her car insurance.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
An Idea of Mine (This Title Was Suggested By a Marketing Executive)
I think I have a good idea that can both deal with the illegal alien issue as well as take care of other problems. Now, keep in mind that I'm no expert on this subject, but here goes. Often when the issue of illegal aliens is being discussed someone will invariably ask, "But, who is going to do those menial jobs that Americans don't want to do?"
Here's my suggestion. I say we make everyone with a degree in Marketing do those jobs. Think about it. Have you ever known anyone with a marketing degree to really understand what makes for a good promotion or an ad campagne? I haven't.
Sure, they have plenty of graphs and charts and demographics. But, when it comes to understanding how to really, sucessfully promote a product or service, they are clueless. I'm sure there are some exceptions. And, if you're marketing-degreed and a client of our company, you are one of those exceptions.
But, as a rule, I see the "brainiacs" on a fairly regular basis, making such asanine decisions. Here, I'll give you an example. We were speaking with a realtor recently who had hired a marketing consultant to help him promote his business. The consultant had told the realtor that to really have a successful print advertising campagne, he shouldn't put his name or phone number in his ad. Huh?
Seems that, according to Mr. Big-Shot Marketing Guy, if you don't put your name or phone number in the ad, it will make the truly wealthy prospects put forth the effort to search for you. My suggestion to the realtor is that he pay us not to put his ad in our magazine. Then the exceptionally wealthy prospects would have to work even that much harder.
Something else you see done by those marketing professionals is to spend more time mentioning your competition than your client. That's been true in political advertising for years. And, think about how stupid it is. For instance, take the current governor's race in Virginia. You did know their was one, didn't you. Most of the ads I hear for Jerry Kilgore mention Tim Kaine far more frequently than they do Jerry Kilgore. I heard one this morning that was Tim Kaine this and Tim Kaine that. Now, I was driving down the highway, not really paying attention to the radio, and the only name I'm hearing is Tim Kaine's. Then at the end, this guy comes on, with an accent that suggests he's auditioning for the role of Li'l Abner, and he says, "I'm Jerry Kilgore and I paid for this ad."
Now, I'm guessing the ad must have been saying something negative about Kaine, but, I'm only guessing that because I doubt Jerry Kilgore is campaigning for his opponent. I'm sure a number of people will go to the polls and vote for Kaine because that's the name they recognize, and not because of any knowledge of who he is or what he stands for.
It's not just political advertising. I've seen soft drink commercials on TV. They're either for Coke or Pepsi. I can't remember which, but the commercial shows both. Why would you spend millions of dollars to show millions of people pictures of your competition? I'll answer that, if you don't mind. You do it because some Marketing-degreed moron tells you that makes for good advertising.
I think it's these same guys who are responsible for the extermination of creativity in advertising, as well as broadcasting these days. They're so anxious to hold on to their jobs, and they realize (or think) the only way they can do that is by trying to out-bland one another, that no one is willing to suggest anything exciting.
And so what are we left with? I'll tell you. We're left with hundreds of television channels and the most popular shows are things like Dancing With the Stars. Arthur Murray came up with that idea fifty years ago. But, it gets good ratings, so now we have all these creative geniuses proposing shows like Skating With Celebrities and Knitting With Athlethes and Scrapbooking With Former Models. Well, I have a great new reality show I'm pitching to the networks - Picking Lettuce With Marketing Executives. And, I'm pretty sure UPN is going to pick it up for a mid-season replacement.
Here's my suggestion. I say we make everyone with a degree in Marketing do those jobs. Think about it. Have you ever known anyone with a marketing degree to really understand what makes for a good promotion or an ad campagne? I haven't.
Sure, they have plenty of graphs and charts and demographics. But, when it comes to understanding how to really, sucessfully promote a product or service, they are clueless. I'm sure there are some exceptions. And, if you're marketing-degreed and a client of our company, you are one of those exceptions.
But, as a rule, I see the "brainiacs" on a fairly regular basis, making such asanine decisions. Here, I'll give you an example. We were speaking with a realtor recently who had hired a marketing consultant to help him promote his business. The consultant had told the realtor that to really have a successful print advertising campagne, he shouldn't put his name or phone number in his ad. Huh?
Seems that, according to Mr. Big-Shot Marketing Guy, if you don't put your name or phone number in the ad, it will make the truly wealthy prospects put forth the effort to search for you. My suggestion to the realtor is that he pay us not to put his ad in our magazine. Then the exceptionally wealthy prospects would have to work even that much harder.
Something else you see done by those marketing professionals is to spend more time mentioning your competition than your client. That's been true in political advertising for years. And, think about how stupid it is. For instance, take the current governor's race in Virginia. You did know their was one, didn't you. Most of the ads I hear for Jerry Kilgore mention Tim Kaine far more frequently than they do Jerry Kilgore. I heard one this morning that was Tim Kaine this and Tim Kaine that. Now, I was driving down the highway, not really paying attention to the radio, and the only name I'm hearing is Tim Kaine's. Then at the end, this guy comes on, with an accent that suggests he's auditioning for the role of Li'l Abner, and he says, "I'm Jerry Kilgore and I paid for this ad."
Now, I'm guessing the ad must have been saying something negative about Kaine, but, I'm only guessing that because I doubt Jerry Kilgore is campaigning for his opponent. I'm sure a number of people will go to the polls and vote for Kaine because that's the name they recognize, and not because of any knowledge of who he is or what he stands for.
It's not just political advertising. I've seen soft drink commercials on TV. They're either for Coke or Pepsi. I can't remember which, but the commercial shows both. Why would you spend millions of dollars to show millions of people pictures of your competition? I'll answer that, if you don't mind. You do it because some Marketing-degreed moron tells you that makes for good advertising.
I think it's these same guys who are responsible for the extermination of creativity in advertising, as well as broadcasting these days. They're so anxious to hold on to their jobs, and they realize (or think) the only way they can do that is by trying to out-bland one another, that no one is willing to suggest anything exciting.
And so what are we left with? I'll tell you. We're left with hundreds of television channels and the most popular shows are things like Dancing With the Stars. Arthur Murray came up with that idea fifty years ago. But, it gets good ratings, so now we have all these creative geniuses proposing shows like Skating With Celebrities and Knitting With Athlethes and Scrapbooking With Former Models. Well, I have a great new reality show I'm pitching to the networks - Picking Lettuce With Marketing Executives. And, I'm pretty sure UPN is going to pick it up for a mid-season replacement.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Things That Go Bump In My Brain In The Night
I think I may be going through some later-than-mid-life crisis. Or else, I'm just plain losing my mind. I'm supposed to be finishing up the fall issues of our two magazines, West End's Best and Chesterfield Living, and I can't get my mind on my writing. I think my head is just too filled up with worries about what some may feel are very minor issues. Nonetheless, in order to clear my mind, I'm going to come right out and tell you all the things I'm obsessing about these days.
For starters, the space bar on my keyboard is not working properly. I have to pound it. My thumb hurts. But, that's relatively trivial.
On to the big stuff...I stayed awake all night last night trying to come up with an Australian term for vomit. Why? Well, I had a late dinner with several friends at Outback Steak House. The food was actually quite good, but the waitress, who was also very good, kept bringing loaves of the bread, which was, itself, good. It was the way she would bring it...a brown loaf stuck on a skewer. I kept thinking she had caught a big Australian rat and was showing it off. Anyway, the subject came up as to whether there is an Australian term for vomit. I think down-underchuck might be good. But, boomerbits is a close second.
Something else that really bugs me is that I'm forced to use "he/she" when I'm talking about individuals who could be of either or both genders. I have an old boss of mine, Kim Stanley, to thank for that. She explained to me that if I'm speaking singularly, I can't use the word "they." Perhaps an illustration is in order. This would be incorrect: "If someone comes in the front door, they must remove their shoes." This would be correct: "If someone comes in the door, he or she must remove his or her shoes." Really, wouldn't "they" and "their" be much easier? I'll answer that...YES. But, thanks to Kim Stanley, I can't do that.
So, in an effort to clear my head, I'm instituting a new rule for myself. From now on I'll use the appropriate masculine word, and you can fill in the "or feminine" words in your mind. Of course, if I write, "If someone has this sympton, he might have prostate problems," you won't have to add the "or she" in your mind.
Moving on to a totally unrelated matter. Why do some people feel the need to take their fingers and make the quotation sign when they speak? Usually, they're (I'm talking about several people here) trying to make some sort of double entendre, or a pun, so I'm guessing they think we're too dumb to catch on.
And, why do persons who are chairing meetings or seminars call their opening comments and general announcements, "housekeeping"? For some reason it grates on my nerves when a seminar is about to begin (of course, I hate seminars anyway), and the chairperson gets up and says, "First, we have to take care of some housekeeping." Why not just say "Here are some announcements."? Do they think that we attendees are going to pay more attention because it's housekeeping?
And that brings up another gripe. In an effort to be gender-neutral, we now use the term "chairperson." Actually, the word "person" has come to mean "woman." Because if it's a guy, we say, "chaiman." But, if it's a girl, we say, "chairperson." Why not just say "woman." It's a nice word.
These are the sorts of things that have been going through my head lately. You may not feel they're major issues. Perhaps, you're right. But, they are affecting me.
I was driving in to work this morning worrying about these things, when I get behind a big tanker truck...you know, like they haul fuel in. On the back of the tanker, in big lettering, was written, "INEDIBLE."
Why? Did these tanker people think someone's going to get a spoon, and break into the tank, and just start eating whatever he found in there?
As I got closer, I read, in smaller lettering, "Technical Animal Fat." What's that? Well, if you want to get technical, it's animal fat. Even if it were non-technical animal fat, why would anyone want to eat it straight out of a tanker? I mean think about. There's always a McDonald's just down the road.
So, now I have this tanker thing to worry about. I don't think this column has helped me at all. In fact, now I'm thinking of even more things that don't make sense. But, I'll save those for another day, when I have nothing worthwhile to say.
For starters, the space bar on my keyboard is not working properly. I have to pound it. My thumb hurts. But, that's relatively trivial.
On to the big stuff...I stayed awake all night last night trying to come up with an Australian term for vomit. Why? Well, I had a late dinner with several friends at Outback Steak House. The food was actually quite good, but the waitress, who was also very good, kept bringing loaves of the bread, which was, itself, good. It was the way she would bring it...a brown loaf stuck on a skewer. I kept thinking she had caught a big Australian rat and was showing it off. Anyway, the subject came up as to whether there is an Australian term for vomit. I think down-underchuck might be good. But, boomerbits is a close second.
Something else that really bugs me is that I'm forced to use "he/she" when I'm talking about individuals who could be of either or both genders. I have an old boss of mine, Kim Stanley, to thank for that. She explained to me that if I'm speaking singularly, I can't use the word "they." Perhaps an illustration is in order. This would be incorrect: "If someone comes in the front door, they must remove their shoes." This would be correct: "If someone comes in the door, he or she must remove his or her shoes." Really, wouldn't "they" and "their" be much easier? I'll answer that...YES. But, thanks to Kim Stanley, I can't do that.
So, in an effort to clear my head, I'm instituting a new rule for myself. From now on I'll use the appropriate masculine word, and you can fill in the "or feminine" words in your mind. Of course, if I write, "If someone has this sympton, he might have prostate problems," you won't have to add the "or she" in your mind.
Moving on to a totally unrelated matter. Why do some people feel the need to take their fingers and make the quotation sign when they speak? Usually, they're (I'm talking about several people here) trying to make some sort of double entendre, or a pun, so I'm guessing they think we're too dumb to catch on.
And, why do persons who are chairing meetings or seminars call their opening comments and general announcements, "housekeeping"? For some reason it grates on my nerves when a seminar is about to begin (of course, I hate seminars anyway), and the chairperson gets up and says, "First, we have to take care of some housekeeping." Why not just say "Here are some announcements."? Do they think that we attendees are going to pay more attention because it's housekeeping?
And that brings up another gripe. In an effort to be gender-neutral, we now use the term "chairperson." Actually, the word "person" has come to mean "woman." Because if it's a guy, we say, "chaiman." But, if it's a girl, we say, "chairperson." Why not just say "woman." It's a nice word.
These are the sorts of things that have been going through my head lately. You may not feel they're major issues. Perhaps, you're right. But, they are affecting me.
I was driving in to work this morning worrying about these things, when I get behind a big tanker truck...you know, like they haul fuel in. On the back of the tanker, in big lettering, was written, "INEDIBLE."
Why? Did these tanker people think someone's going to get a spoon, and break into the tank, and just start eating whatever he found in there?
As I got closer, I read, in smaller lettering, "Technical Animal Fat." What's that? Well, if you want to get technical, it's animal fat. Even if it were non-technical animal fat, why would anyone want to eat it straight out of a tanker? I mean think about. There's always a McDonald's just down the road.
So, now I have this tanker thing to worry about. I don't think this column has helped me at all. In fact, now I'm thinking of even more things that don't make sense. But, I'll save those for another day, when I have nothing worthwhile to say.
Friday, September 30, 2005
And Then You Go And Blow It All By Saying Something Stupid
Just yesterday, I was saying that I cannot, for the life of me, understand why reasonably intelligent people will say really stupid things. I don't mean in a casual conversation. And, I certainly don't mean in my columns, because, as you all know, I'm not reasonably intelligent.
What I do mean is when public figures make public announcements, or make a speech, or give a quote, and they say something that only an imbecile would say, and an asanine imbecile at that. I chalk it up to two reasons that this happens so often, no wait, make that three reasons.
First, they must be so impresssed with the way words form in their mouth that they feel that virtually every utterance is so magnificent that even if it sounds stupid to them, it'll sound smart to their audience.
Second reason: They have lost all ability to control their mouths. They get to talking and hear themselves thinking something stupid, and, perhaps even try to stifle, but are unable.
Thirdly - They really are not very intelligent. They've had secretaries and speech writers and PR guys and whomever telling them what to say for so long, they begin to believe that they, themselves, have the ability to formulate intelligent ideas. So, they get out in public and are asked to expound on something, and before a manager can run in and shut them up, they just come right out and say it. These are the ones that verbalize their stupidity and then smile proudly as if to say, "Did you hear what I just said?'
Yeah, we heard you alright, Bill Bennet. To be fair, I think Mr. Bennett's comments have been taken out of context. But, the guy should be smart enough to know that what he said was going to make a great sound bite. He's not an idiot (unless he falls into category number three). He knows how the media works.
The primary job (in my humble opinion) of the media today, is to find the dumbest person or the dumbest comment and to promote him/her or it. If you can find some real moron, you have a goldmine of comments. Just look at the situation in Louisiana. Don't you imagine that somewhere down there an intelligent person lost everything he/she owned? But, have you heard or seen even one interview with an intelligent person, explaining calmly how he is coping...not complaining, not blaming, not crying...just intelligently discussing the situation. I don't think I've seen anyone on the news who fits into that category.
Of course, it's always better if you can find a public figure, who, it's perceived by many, is intelligent, and catch him saying something stupid. As, I've stated above, I really cannot understand why people don't think before they say something that can only come back to haunt them.
I think it's a shame that all people who fit into any of my three categories were not aborted. Oops.
What I do mean is when public figures make public announcements, or make a speech, or give a quote, and they say something that only an imbecile would say, and an asanine imbecile at that. I chalk it up to two reasons that this happens so often, no wait, make that three reasons.
First, they must be so impresssed with the way words form in their mouth that they feel that virtually every utterance is so magnificent that even if it sounds stupid to them, it'll sound smart to their audience.
Second reason: They have lost all ability to control their mouths. They get to talking and hear themselves thinking something stupid, and, perhaps even try to stifle, but are unable.
Thirdly - They really are not very intelligent. They've had secretaries and speech writers and PR guys and whomever telling them what to say for so long, they begin to believe that they, themselves, have the ability to formulate intelligent ideas. So, they get out in public and are asked to expound on something, and before a manager can run in and shut them up, they just come right out and say it. These are the ones that verbalize their stupidity and then smile proudly as if to say, "Did you hear what I just said?'
Yeah, we heard you alright, Bill Bennet. To be fair, I think Mr. Bennett's comments have been taken out of context. But, the guy should be smart enough to know that what he said was going to make a great sound bite. He's not an idiot (unless he falls into category number three). He knows how the media works.
The primary job (in my humble opinion) of the media today, is to find the dumbest person or the dumbest comment and to promote him/her or it. If you can find some real moron, you have a goldmine of comments. Just look at the situation in Louisiana. Don't you imagine that somewhere down there an intelligent person lost everything he/she owned? But, have you heard or seen even one interview with an intelligent person, explaining calmly how he is coping...not complaining, not blaming, not crying...just intelligently discussing the situation. I don't think I've seen anyone on the news who fits into that category.
Of course, it's always better if you can find a public figure, who, it's perceived by many, is intelligent, and catch him saying something stupid. As, I've stated above, I really cannot understand why people don't think before they say something that can only come back to haunt them.
I think it's a shame that all people who fit into any of my three categories were not aborted. Oops.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Two Dirty Words I Should Never Use
I've been wanting to do a column on the way kids spout profanities these days, but have held off because I think I'm becoming too Andy Rooney-like in my ranting and raving these days. It is a subject that really galls me because I hate profanity. I hate going to movies because I don't want to pay to hear people curse.
But, a recent news story in the Richmond Times Dispatch motivated me to go ahead and write about it. The story is totally baffling to me. It seems the principal at Ecoff Elementary School, JoAnn Crowell-Redd, got so fed up with the kids cursing that she called all the students into the auditorium and gave them a lecture. The only problem is, she used the words she didn't want to hear in her lecture. I'm wondering if George Carlin wrote the speech for her.
Now, is it just me, or is this the epitome of ignorance? What's wrong with so-called intelligent people. Would anyone in his or her right mind think it would be appropriate, for whatever reason, to recite a litany of curse words to a bunch of six-year-olders?
Even if you think it's appropriate, you might want to consider the fact that a number of parents are just looking for something to complain about. I mean, did this woman think the kids didn't know which words that they had been using were the dirty ones?
I guess that could possibly be true. I had a personal experience when I was eight years old that I think is germain to the subject. I was in the fifth grade in Mrs. Gruver's class at Boones Mill Elementary School. This country school covered grades one through nine, which means there were students attending the school who ranged, in age, from six years on up to about twenty-one years (and I'm not kidding).
Now, Mrs. Gruver's husband was the school princial. They were a very religious couple. In fact, he was also a Methodist minister. Mrs. Gruver talked to our class about the dirty words that were written on the bathroom walls. I don't know what she was doing in the boy's restroom, but I don't want to worry my pretty head with that concern right now.
Anyway, Mrs. Gruver said that since we were fifth graders, we were right in the middle. She said the older boys were the ones writing dirty words on a wall (remind me that I want to do a column on the stupidty of grafiti, sometime). She asked us to keep our eyes open for bathroom-wall profanity and to let her husband know, so that the words could be cleaned off before any first- or second-graders saw them.
I loved being the protector, the enforcer, the Terminator, if you will. So, the next time I was in the restroom, I scoured the walls (visually, not physically), hoping to find some words I could report to the principal.
And, boy did I hit paydirt. I saw two words that, while I didn't know what they meant, sure sounded dirty. I have since learned that one of those words was the million dollar four-letter word. You know the worst one...the one they won't even use on NYPD Blue.
So, I headed off to the principal's office and asked the secretary if I could see Mr. Gruver. "What do you want to see him for," I was asked.
"I want to tell him about some dirty words," I said politely and innocently. Evidently, this was a regular part of Mr. Gruver's day, so I was ushered right in.
"Mr. Gruver," I said, "I saw two words on the bathroom wall that I think might be dirty."
Mr. Gruver, who was perhaps the meekest little mousy man I ever knew, didn't say anything. I took his silence to mean "tell me the words."
So, I did. "They are '*#%%&' and '^/$*," I said.
I'll never forget the look on Mr. Groover's face, which had immediately turned beet red. Just like in the cartoons, the redness started at his weak little chin and spread up to and covered his shiny bald head.
Mr. Gruver trembled, nodded, and gulped. I could tell I'd really said something horrible. "They're dirty, alright," he squeaked out. I turned and headed out the door as quickly as I could. I don't think I ever understood the power of words as clearly before that day. In fact, the whole event is so traumatic, I've never been able to say those two words since then.
Maybe that's why I hate profanity so much. I was scared and scarred by that emotional event.
So, maybe Mrs. Crowell-Redd (and, remind me, I want to do a column on hypenated names, sometime) did need to tell the kids what words are dirty. I just hope she didn't use those two words. And, if she did, I'm just glad Mr. Gruver was not around to hear her.
But, a recent news story in the Richmond Times Dispatch motivated me to go ahead and write about it. The story is totally baffling to me. It seems the principal at Ecoff Elementary School, JoAnn Crowell-Redd, got so fed up with the kids cursing that she called all the students into the auditorium and gave them a lecture. The only problem is, she used the words she didn't want to hear in her lecture. I'm wondering if George Carlin wrote the speech for her.
Now, is it just me, or is this the epitome of ignorance? What's wrong with so-called intelligent people. Would anyone in his or her right mind think it would be appropriate, for whatever reason, to recite a litany of curse words to a bunch of six-year-olders?
Even if you think it's appropriate, you might want to consider the fact that a number of parents are just looking for something to complain about. I mean, did this woman think the kids didn't know which words that they had been using were the dirty ones?
I guess that could possibly be true. I had a personal experience when I was eight years old that I think is germain to the subject. I was in the fifth grade in Mrs. Gruver's class at Boones Mill Elementary School. This country school covered grades one through nine, which means there were students attending the school who ranged, in age, from six years on up to about twenty-one years (and I'm not kidding).
Now, Mrs. Gruver's husband was the school princial. They were a very religious couple. In fact, he was also a Methodist minister. Mrs. Gruver talked to our class about the dirty words that were written on the bathroom walls. I don't know what she was doing in the boy's restroom, but I don't want to worry my pretty head with that concern right now.
Anyway, Mrs. Gruver said that since we were fifth graders, we were right in the middle. She said the older boys were the ones writing dirty words on a wall (remind me that I want to do a column on the stupidty of grafiti, sometime). She asked us to keep our eyes open for bathroom-wall profanity and to let her husband know, so that the words could be cleaned off before any first- or second-graders saw them.
I loved being the protector, the enforcer, the Terminator, if you will. So, the next time I was in the restroom, I scoured the walls (visually, not physically), hoping to find some words I could report to the principal.
And, boy did I hit paydirt. I saw two words that, while I didn't know what they meant, sure sounded dirty. I have since learned that one of those words was the million dollar four-letter word. You know the worst one...the one they won't even use on NYPD Blue.
So, I headed off to the principal's office and asked the secretary if I could see Mr. Gruver. "What do you want to see him for," I was asked.
"I want to tell him about some dirty words," I said politely and innocently. Evidently, this was a regular part of Mr. Gruver's day, so I was ushered right in.
"Mr. Gruver," I said, "I saw two words on the bathroom wall that I think might be dirty."
Mr. Gruver, who was perhaps the meekest little mousy man I ever knew, didn't say anything. I took his silence to mean "tell me the words."
So, I did. "They are '*#%%&' and '^/$*," I said.
I'll never forget the look on Mr. Groover's face, which had immediately turned beet red. Just like in the cartoons, the redness started at his weak little chin and spread up to and covered his shiny bald head.
Mr. Gruver trembled, nodded, and gulped. I could tell I'd really said something horrible. "They're dirty, alright," he squeaked out. I turned and headed out the door as quickly as I could. I don't think I ever understood the power of words as clearly before that day. In fact, the whole event is so traumatic, I've never been able to say those two words since then.
Maybe that's why I hate profanity so much. I was scared and scarred by that emotional event.
So, maybe Mrs. Crowell-Redd (and, remind me, I want to do a column on hypenated names, sometime) did need to tell the kids what words are dirty. I just hope she didn't use those two words. And, if she did, I'm just glad Mr. Gruver was not around to hear her.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Adventures in Telemarketing
So, there I was sitting at the dinner table, eating my fried oysters the other evening when out of the blue this guy with a foreign accent phones me and asks to speak to my brother. He asked for my brother by name. I knew immediately that this was some sort of sales call. My brother, who used to live with me, for some reason, is on every telemarketing list in this country and, evidently, in several other countries, as well.
When I told the gentleman that my brother didn't live here, he apologized (the caller, not my brother) and said he was looking for the homeowner. "What!" I cried. "Are you telling me my brother has stolen my home from me now? Is there no end to his cruelty?"
"No, sir," the polite telemarketer said. "I got my information from a data base It must be in error."
"Then it must be true," I corrected him, wailing pathetically into the phone. "My brother has somehow gotten his name on the title to my house."
"I was just trying to reach the homeowner," the salesman explained.
"Well, if my brother is the homeowner, then I'm going to have to get a lawyer and go to court."
"I don't know anything about that," the man who called and interrupted my dininer was explaining.
"You're going to have to come and be a witness for me when I take my brother to court?" I told the nice man.
"I am calling from India," he said, as if somehow that was enough for me not to demand he appear in court in my behalf.
"What!" I shreiked again. I shreik a lot. "How can someone in India know about my brother stealing my home and here I am in Richmond and I hadn't heard about it."
"But sir," he tried to explain, "I'm just calling from a data base.
"Well, I guess I'm going to have to subpoena that data base," I said. I went on to explain to the guy that I watched a lot of Law and Order on TV and that from what I'd learned from that show, I could subpoena his preciosus data base. I'm not sure if I could or not, but since I was making the whole thing up, it seemed like the right thing to say.
I asked the man if he watched Law and Order. I was going to ask him which version of the show he liked best, but he pretended not to know what I was talking about.
He did stammer and apologize quite a bit. Finally, as if to make me think he was sorry he had disturbed me, he said he would hang up and never call my number again.
You'd think that would make me happy. But, I think I'm really going to miss the little fellow.
When I told the gentleman that my brother didn't live here, he apologized (the caller, not my brother) and said he was looking for the homeowner. "What!" I cried. "Are you telling me my brother has stolen my home from me now? Is there no end to his cruelty?"
"No, sir," the polite telemarketer said. "I got my information from a data base It must be in error."
"Then it must be true," I corrected him, wailing pathetically into the phone. "My brother has somehow gotten his name on the title to my house."
"I was just trying to reach the homeowner," the salesman explained.
"Well, if my brother is the homeowner, then I'm going to have to get a lawyer and go to court."
"I don't know anything about that," the man who called and interrupted my dininer was explaining.
"You're going to have to come and be a witness for me when I take my brother to court?" I told the nice man.
"I am calling from India," he said, as if somehow that was enough for me not to demand he appear in court in my behalf.
"What!" I shreiked again. I shreik a lot. "How can someone in India know about my brother stealing my home and here I am in Richmond and I hadn't heard about it."
"But sir," he tried to explain, "I'm just calling from a data base.
"Well, I guess I'm going to have to subpoena that data base," I said. I went on to explain to the guy that I watched a lot of Law and Order on TV and that from what I'd learned from that show, I could subpoena his preciosus data base. I'm not sure if I could or not, but since I was making the whole thing up, it seemed like the right thing to say.
I asked the man if he watched Law and Order. I was going to ask him which version of the show he liked best, but he pretended not to know what I was talking about.
He did stammer and apologize quite a bit. Finally, as if to make me think he was sorry he had disturbed me, he said he would hang up and never call my number again.
You'd think that would make me happy. But, I think I'm really going to miss the little fellow.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Really Bad Radio
I was driving in to work this morning, listening to Jimmy Barrett on the radio. And, before I go any further, I want to inject that Barrett must be quite happy with the brainiac programming decision made at WTOX radio 1480 AM. They had been carrying Imus in the Morning, which can be both entertaining and informative, at times. But somebody at WTOX decided Richmond needed a local morning talk show in the worst possible way. So, they brought us the worst talk show possible. I guess there could be a talk show host worse than Tony Booth, but he'd have to be totally mute. No, come to think of it, a mute would be a step up.
I really didn't start this blog off today with the idea of talking about Tony Booth, but now that you have got me started... Tony Booth has been in radio around town for decades, and he is a prime example of succeeding through mediocrity. Although, I wouldn't say doing a morning talk show on WTOX would be anyone's idea of success. He has the style of the breathless radio announcers of the thirties and forties...you know, the sort of guy who gives the time and temperature as if he were officially announcing the end of the world.
I hadn't heard him on the air in recent months. Evidently he was stinking up the airwaves in Charlottesville, because he keeps saying things like, "The temperature in downtown Charlottesville, er, uh, I mean Richmond is..." Listening to the guy is somewhat like watching a train wreck. You're so intrigued by the horror that you can't turn away.
This guy is a real dinosaur in radio. I'm surprised he hasn't been stuffed, mounted and put on display at the Smithsonian. As I said, I'm sure Jimmy Barrett is pleased to have him as competition. Although, when you consider WTOX has the power of a toaster oven, I don't guess Barrett really considers the station as competition.
WTOX, Richmond's other talk station, is evidently being programmed by a plant from Clear Channel. Some of the decisions they've made lately are unfathomable. Their late afternoon talk show seems to be hosted by whomever is hanging around the studio at 4 PM. Or, by whomever is willing to pay fifty bucks to have his own talk show.
Now, before you go getting all hot and bothered thinking I'm some arrogant egomaniac, let me say that I'm in a unique position to opine on this subject. I have been involved in some of the worst radio in Richmond. I have the distinct honor of being the only person to be fired by the management at WXGI radio twice. Now, keep in mind, that the only prerequisite for being hired as an on-air personality at WXGI is that one possess a voice box.
I was so bad that the station brought in one of the sponsors, a local restaurant owner by the name of Tex, to help me do the show. I was so bad that they fired me and offered the job to Tex. So, don't tell me I don't know bad radio. I AM bad radio.
I was told I'd never work in radio again. And, I've lived with that pain for years. But, I'm going to put all the hurt and all the bitterness behind me. Writing this has given me a fresh look at my little pathetic life.
From this moment on I'm going to move upward and onward. Yep. I've made my decision. I'm going after Tony Booth's job. Watch out Barrett.
I really didn't start this blog off today with the idea of talking about Tony Booth, but now that you have got me started... Tony Booth has been in radio around town for decades, and he is a prime example of succeeding through mediocrity. Although, I wouldn't say doing a morning talk show on WTOX would be anyone's idea of success. He has the style of the breathless radio announcers of the thirties and forties...you know, the sort of guy who gives the time and temperature as if he were officially announcing the end of the world.
I hadn't heard him on the air in recent months. Evidently he was stinking up the airwaves in Charlottesville, because he keeps saying things like, "The temperature in downtown Charlottesville, er, uh, I mean Richmond is..." Listening to the guy is somewhat like watching a train wreck. You're so intrigued by the horror that you can't turn away.
This guy is a real dinosaur in radio. I'm surprised he hasn't been stuffed, mounted and put on display at the Smithsonian. As I said, I'm sure Jimmy Barrett is pleased to have him as competition. Although, when you consider WTOX has the power of a toaster oven, I don't guess Barrett really considers the station as competition.
WTOX, Richmond's other talk station, is evidently being programmed by a plant from Clear Channel. Some of the decisions they've made lately are unfathomable. Their late afternoon talk show seems to be hosted by whomever is hanging around the studio at 4 PM. Or, by whomever is willing to pay fifty bucks to have his own talk show.
Now, before you go getting all hot and bothered thinking I'm some arrogant egomaniac, let me say that I'm in a unique position to opine on this subject. I have been involved in some of the worst radio in Richmond. I have the distinct honor of being the only person to be fired by the management at WXGI radio twice. Now, keep in mind, that the only prerequisite for being hired as an on-air personality at WXGI is that one possess a voice box.
I was so bad that the station brought in one of the sponsors, a local restaurant owner by the name of Tex, to help me do the show. I was so bad that they fired me and offered the job to Tex. So, don't tell me I don't know bad radio. I AM bad radio.
I was told I'd never work in radio again. And, I've lived with that pain for years. But, I'm going to put all the hurt and all the bitterness behind me. Writing this has given me a fresh look at my little pathetic life.
From this moment on I'm going to move upward and onward. Yep. I've made my decision. I'm going after Tony Booth's job. Watch out Barrett.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
That Wasn't Me, That Was the Male Menopause Talking
It just dawned on me this morning that I have been an idiot. I mean it dawned on me that in one very important aspect of my life, I've been an idiot. I'm sure there is a plethora of idiotic things I've done. But, I'm driving to work, and, all of a sudden, I have this kind of slap-yourself-in-the-forehead epiphany.
You see for years, I've scoffed at the idea of male menopause, assuming it's just an excuse for bad behavior. Then, today, I realize I need a good excuse for my behavior. Why didn't I think of this before. I've let people tell me how grumpy, or boorish, or opinionated, or whatever negative they can think of, I am. And, I've just taken it, like the meek guy I really am.
No more. I have an excuse. I'm going to blame everything on male menopause. Instead of mocking it, I'm going to milk it. Although I don't normally believe in research, I decided to see what the symptoms are so I can see how far I can carry this thing. Depression and mood swings are two of the emotional symptoms. I think I can pull this off.
If I criticize someone, from now on, it's not because I'm a bad person. I'm just depressed. If I speak harshly to someone, well, excuse me, but I'm having a mood swing today. This is great. Let me do a little more research on this. I'm going ride this menopause thing as far as it will take me.
Never mind. I started reading about physical symptoms. It's like these experts really believe in male menopause. I don't know what I believe about it, but I don't want any of the believers to think I'm going through all the things associated with the condition. I knew this was too good to be true.
Why couldn't these so-called experts have left well-enough alone. I don't mind being thought of as moody, but I'm not going to venture down some of the other roads. I guess I'm going to have to continue to let people think I'm just a naturally grumpy guy.
Because, believe you me, even though I'm no expert, there's no truth to this male menopause myth. Men don't go through these physiological changes just because they may have a few years on them. It's a lie, I tell you. Don't believe a word you read about it. Better yet, don't even read about it. Why waste your time? Gee, I've kinda gotten myself worked up over these ridiculous assertions. I think I'm having a hot flash. I need to go lie down.
You see for years, I've scoffed at the idea of male menopause, assuming it's just an excuse for bad behavior. Then, today, I realize I need a good excuse for my behavior. Why didn't I think of this before. I've let people tell me how grumpy, or boorish, or opinionated, or whatever negative they can think of, I am. And, I've just taken it, like the meek guy I really am.
No more. I have an excuse. I'm going to blame everything on male menopause. Instead of mocking it, I'm going to milk it. Although I don't normally believe in research, I decided to see what the symptoms are so I can see how far I can carry this thing. Depression and mood swings are two of the emotional symptoms. I think I can pull this off.
If I criticize someone, from now on, it's not because I'm a bad person. I'm just depressed. If I speak harshly to someone, well, excuse me, but I'm having a mood swing today. This is great. Let me do a little more research on this. I'm going ride this menopause thing as far as it will take me.
Never mind. I started reading about physical symptoms. It's like these experts really believe in male menopause. I don't know what I believe about it, but I don't want any of the believers to think I'm going through all the things associated with the condition. I knew this was too good to be true.
Why couldn't these so-called experts have left well-enough alone. I don't mind being thought of as moody, but I'm not going to venture down some of the other roads. I guess I'm going to have to continue to let people think I'm just a naturally grumpy guy.
Because, believe you me, even though I'm no expert, there's no truth to this male menopause myth. Men don't go through these physiological changes just because they may have a few years on them. It's a lie, I tell you. Don't believe a word you read about it. Better yet, don't even read about it. Why waste your time? Gee, I've kinda gotten myself worked up over these ridiculous assertions. I think I'm having a hot flash. I need to go lie down.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Drink Up!
Have you noticed that very subtly we have become a beverage-driven nation? Oh sure, Americans, at least most, have been drinking water since time immemorial. But just look how drinking has become the national pastime, almost. I like to cover myself with words like almost and virtually.
Who would have thought that thirty years ago, that so many manufacturers could make so much money selling bottled water. Rather than taking time to investigate the facts, I'll just say that the sale of bottled water rakes in at least a thousand dollars a year. And, when you start talking four figures, you have my attention.
But, it's not just water. Look at coffee. I'm sure the boomer generation has a lot to do with coffee consumption. When I was in kindergarten, my mother limited me to two cups a day. But now, I could drink the brew all day long. Not because i like the taste. In fact, look how Seven-Eleven has made a fortune (yes, at least a thousand dollars), providing all the stuff that will help their coffee not taste like coffee. I think the real success of coffee is its ability to produce a euphoria that most of us boomers haven't felt naturally since we graduated from high school with the foolish notion that we were going to make a success of life. Give me enough coffee, and I even begin to think I can write.
Speaking of Seven-Eleven, I do love their multi-flavor coffee bar. I'm partial to that sugar-free raspberry syrup. Sometimes, I just drink it straight (the syrup, not the coffee). The other day I noticed a mocha syrup, and my first thought was, hey, that's cool. Then it dawned on me. Isn't mocha coffee flavored? So what they're really offering is coffee-flavored coffee. I figured I didn't need that syrup.
Back to this beverage thing though. What's with this new obsession with high-energy drinks? They have to have the dumbest names. Red Bull. If it's red and came from a bull, I don't want to drink it. There are others too, such as Kronik and Rock Star, and one called I Can't Believe This Is Legal. Experts say these drinks are dangerous. But hey, they've been saying the same thing about red meat for years, and I'm still alive...thanks, of course to angioplasty and stents.
I'll tell you the main thing, though, that has me convinced that we are now such a beverage-oriented society. I heard a radio commercial for a new car, and the primary selling feature was not the air-conditioning, the CD player, or the twin-turbo, multi-rimmed wheels (I just made that up). It was the fact that the vehicle came with eight cupholders. I knew beverage holders were the thing that turned my wife on about cars, but I thought that was just her. I envision a day when, along with the gas tank, cars will come equipped with the beverage tank. It will hold about 15 gallons of your favorite beverage, and in the luxury models will be able to both heat and cool that beverage of choice. Then, instead of cupholders, there'd be a straw for the driver and passengers. You could just drive and suck at the same time. Which, come to think of it, well never mind.
I could go on, but there's another pot of the java waiting in the kitchen. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Who would have thought that thirty years ago, that so many manufacturers could make so much money selling bottled water. Rather than taking time to investigate the facts, I'll just say that the sale of bottled water rakes in at least a thousand dollars a year. And, when you start talking four figures, you have my attention.
But, it's not just water. Look at coffee. I'm sure the boomer generation has a lot to do with coffee consumption. When I was in kindergarten, my mother limited me to two cups a day. But now, I could drink the brew all day long. Not because i like the taste. In fact, look how Seven-Eleven has made a fortune (yes, at least a thousand dollars), providing all the stuff that will help their coffee not taste like coffee. I think the real success of coffee is its ability to produce a euphoria that most of us boomers haven't felt naturally since we graduated from high school with the foolish notion that we were going to make a success of life. Give me enough coffee, and I even begin to think I can write.
Speaking of Seven-Eleven, I do love their multi-flavor coffee bar. I'm partial to that sugar-free raspberry syrup. Sometimes, I just drink it straight (the syrup, not the coffee). The other day I noticed a mocha syrup, and my first thought was, hey, that's cool. Then it dawned on me. Isn't mocha coffee flavored? So what they're really offering is coffee-flavored coffee. I figured I didn't need that syrup.
Back to this beverage thing though. What's with this new obsession with high-energy drinks? They have to have the dumbest names. Red Bull. If it's red and came from a bull, I don't want to drink it. There are others too, such as Kronik and Rock Star, and one called I Can't Believe This Is Legal. Experts say these drinks are dangerous. But hey, they've been saying the same thing about red meat for years, and I'm still alive...thanks, of course to angioplasty and stents.
I'll tell you the main thing, though, that has me convinced that we are now such a beverage-oriented society. I heard a radio commercial for a new car, and the primary selling feature was not the air-conditioning, the CD player, or the twin-turbo, multi-rimmed wheels (I just made that up). It was the fact that the vehicle came with eight cupholders. I knew beverage holders were the thing that turned my wife on about cars, but I thought that was just her. I envision a day when, along with the gas tank, cars will come equipped with the beverage tank. It will hold about 15 gallons of your favorite beverage, and in the luxury models will be able to both heat and cool that beverage of choice. Then, instead of cupholders, there'd be a straw for the driver and passengers. You could just drive and suck at the same time. Which, come to think of it, well never mind.
I could go on, but there's another pot of the java waiting in the kitchen. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
My Brave Experiment
I want to try something today...a brave, daring (if you will), (and I will) experiment. I'm sitting here with absolutely no thoughts in my head. That's right. I'm not thinking about anything. As of this moment, I have no opinion on any subject. What I am going to do here is something an amateur should never attempt to do. Please do not try this at home. I'm going to open up a book, with my eyes closed. That's not the tricky part, but, yes, it does require a certain degree of skill. I'm going to point to a spot in the book, at random. And whatever word I'm pointing at (oh yeah, I'll open my eyes at this point) will be the catalyst to a beautifully, if not eloquently-written, treatise. Are you ready? Here goes.
My eyes are closed. I'm typing this with my eyes closed. Pretty skillful, eh? I'm reaching for a book. Darn it. I can't feel one. Hold on, while I open my eyes just long enough to find a book. Okay, my eyes are shut again. And I'm opening and pointing. And the key word is "salsa."
Well, that's not fair. Because I'm not sure if it's the sauce or the dance. How can one write about something if they're not sure if it's something they eat, or something they do with their feet? Everything I've ever attempted to do in life has been met with a degree of futility. Why couldn't I have pointed to a word like "president"? Now, that would have been easy. Some may say too easy, but I believe that in any course of life, it's always best to take the easy route. I've always said that if a job is worth doing, it's worth doing adequately, but let's not insist on it being done exactly right. For one thing, who is to say what is the exact right way to do something? Like in the song, "You say potato and I say potato." You know when you look at that in print, it makes absolutely no sense, unless you're writing about two people who are making some sort of agreement to say the word "potato."
I like potatoes. Did you notice though, that when you pluralize "potato" you add an "e"? Dan Quail noticed that. Do you remember Dan Quail? I think he was the only vice-president ever who had the name of a bird. I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to think if there's ever been a president or vice-president named after any other animal. As far as here in the United States goes, I don't think so, although maybe a lincoln is an animal. It'd be a good name for something like a mink or a chinchilla. But, unless it is, I can't think of an American president with an animal name.
Of course, Mexico's president is named Fox, which is the name of an animal, although Fox doesn't sound like a Mexican word, does it? Try this sentence: "El fox es bueno." Doesn't "fox" stick out like a sore, anglican thumb? Fox definitely does not have the ring of authentic Mexican. I tell you what does sound like a Mexican word...no matter whether you're talking about food or dance. It's "salsa."
My eyes are closed. I'm typing this with my eyes closed. Pretty skillful, eh? I'm reaching for a book. Darn it. I can't feel one. Hold on, while I open my eyes just long enough to find a book. Okay, my eyes are shut again. And I'm opening and pointing. And the key word is "salsa."
Well, that's not fair. Because I'm not sure if it's the sauce or the dance. How can one write about something if they're not sure if it's something they eat, or something they do with their feet? Everything I've ever attempted to do in life has been met with a degree of futility. Why couldn't I have pointed to a word like "president"? Now, that would have been easy. Some may say too easy, but I believe that in any course of life, it's always best to take the easy route. I've always said that if a job is worth doing, it's worth doing adequately, but let's not insist on it being done exactly right. For one thing, who is to say what is the exact right way to do something? Like in the song, "You say potato and I say potato." You know when you look at that in print, it makes absolutely no sense, unless you're writing about two people who are making some sort of agreement to say the word "potato."
I like potatoes. Did you notice though, that when you pluralize "potato" you add an "e"? Dan Quail noticed that. Do you remember Dan Quail? I think he was the only vice-president ever who had the name of a bird. I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to think if there's ever been a president or vice-president named after any other animal. As far as here in the United States goes, I don't think so, although maybe a lincoln is an animal. It'd be a good name for something like a mink or a chinchilla. But, unless it is, I can't think of an American president with an animal name.
Of course, Mexico's president is named Fox, which is the name of an animal, although Fox doesn't sound like a Mexican word, does it? Try this sentence: "El fox es bueno." Doesn't "fox" stick out like a sore, anglican thumb? Fox definitely does not have the ring of authentic Mexican. I tell you what does sound like a Mexican word...no matter whether you're talking about food or dance. It's "salsa."
Monday, September 19, 2005
Many Thoughts To Go Before I Sleep
My car tried to kill me again today. When something like that happens, it makes you realize how quickly our whole lives can turn around. You know, like one minute you have one (a life) and the next minute you're dead. I think I've told you about my Saturn's attempts at murder on previous occasions, but, just in case I haven't, and just in case you care...I have one of those automatic seat belt things. When I turn the car off, the seat belt disengages, sliding away from me. But, on occasion, including this morning, the seat belt actually lunged for my throat when I turned the ignition off. Thanks only to my Indiana Jones-like reflexes, I've been able to escape whenever this happens.
Sometimes, they say, when death stares one squarely in the face, one's whole life flashes before him. Not with me. What flashed before me were a bunch of column ideas that aren't developed enough for a stand-alone piece. So, having narrowly escaped with my life, I've decided that, prior to my demise, I'll just put a bunch of disjointed ideas into one piece.
You know, this is really a clever ploy to use when I don't have anything to write. And, let me say, that if you should hear of my death, please report my car to the FBI.
But, anyway, here are some recent thoughts I've had. First, I heard that Mexico's El Presidente Fox has offered to send Mexican workers into Louisiana to help with the recovery/cleanup. I sincerely think that's a generous offer. What I want to know is does anyone really think those workers are going to go there and work until the Seven-Elevens reopen?
Something else regarding the New Orleans disaster, I read that the mayor is promoting the idea that the French Quarter will be back on its feet in time for next year's Mardi Gras. It seems to me that if I'd just been hit with one of the worst natural disasters in history, I'd be a little cautious about planning a pagan debauchery. In fact, I'd want to go on record that maybe we had better hold off on any major drunken revelries/orgies. I'm not in any way suggesting that God did this to New Orleans. I don't think he did. But, if I lived there, I wouldn't be in the mood to take any chances right now.
On another completely different note, I think anyone who gets a caller ID for their phone should have to take lessons in the proper use of the contraption, and then get a license to use it. We are regularly getting phone calls, here at the office, from morons who say, "Somebody there just tried to call me." And then the caller will wait for us to figure out who it might be that phoned.
Well congratulations. You got a phone call. Hey, we have ten people making phone calls here. How do you expect our receptionist to know who called you? If the caller didn't leave a message, then forget about it. Don't be so anxious. They'll call back.
And, one more thought. Is Robby Gordon just about the biggest idiot in the sports world today? What an imbecile. I do have one bit of advice for him. Next time, Robby, rather than just hurling your helmet, why not throw yourself in front of the mean old car that hurt you. That'll show 'em. On second thought. Why not just strap yourself into my Saturn. Now that could really be fun.
Sometimes, they say, when death stares one squarely in the face, one's whole life flashes before him. Not with me. What flashed before me were a bunch of column ideas that aren't developed enough for a stand-alone piece. So, having narrowly escaped with my life, I've decided that, prior to my demise, I'll just put a bunch of disjointed ideas into one piece.
You know, this is really a clever ploy to use when I don't have anything to write. And, let me say, that if you should hear of my death, please report my car to the FBI.
But, anyway, here are some recent thoughts I've had. First, I heard that Mexico's El Presidente Fox has offered to send Mexican workers into Louisiana to help with the recovery/cleanup. I sincerely think that's a generous offer. What I want to know is does anyone really think those workers are going to go there and work until the Seven-Elevens reopen?
Something else regarding the New Orleans disaster, I read that the mayor is promoting the idea that the French Quarter will be back on its feet in time for next year's Mardi Gras. It seems to me that if I'd just been hit with one of the worst natural disasters in history, I'd be a little cautious about planning a pagan debauchery. In fact, I'd want to go on record that maybe we had better hold off on any major drunken revelries/orgies. I'm not in any way suggesting that God did this to New Orleans. I don't think he did. But, if I lived there, I wouldn't be in the mood to take any chances right now.
On another completely different note, I think anyone who gets a caller ID for their phone should have to take lessons in the proper use of the contraption, and then get a license to use it. We are regularly getting phone calls, here at the office, from morons who say, "Somebody there just tried to call me." And then the caller will wait for us to figure out who it might be that phoned.
Well congratulations. You got a phone call. Hey, we have ten people making phone calls here. How do you expect our receptionist to know who called you? If the caller didn't leave a message, then forget about it. Don't be so anxious. They'll call back.
And, one more thought. Is Robby Gordon just about the biggest idiot in the sports world today? What an imbecile. I do have one bit of advice for him. Next time, Robby, rather than just hurling your helmet, why not throw yourself in front of the mean old car that hurt you. That'll show 'em. On second thought. Why not just strap yourself into my Saturn. Now that could really be fun.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Intelligent Fools
Is there any president of any Parent-Teacher organization that hasn't, at one time or another, embezzled thousands of dollars from that organization? I'm beginning to wonder. Just yesterday, there was another story about some PTA president in some school, somewhere, who'd done it.
What I can't understand is how someone so smart can be so stupid. I'd think you'd have to have a degree of intelligence to figure out how to steal so much money and get by with it. If I were in charge of money for an organization, I'm sure that if I borrowed thirty cents for a pack of gum, the FBI would be at my door before I could finish the pack.
How do these people figure out how to embezzle tens of thousands of dollars and not get caught? How do you tell the other parents, "You know how we thought we had made $5,000 on the pie sale? Well, actually, we lost $20,000"? Evidently they are able to convince the people they have to answer to, at least for a period of time.
So, these embezzelers must be intelligent, and yet, they have to know that eventually they'll be caught, so they're also pretty stupid. I just can't figure it out.
Of course, I want to make it clear, before anyone starts investigating me, lack of ability to pull it off is not the main reason I don't embezzle. Somehow, call me old fashioned, it just seems like the wrong thing to do. To my knowledge, I've never stolen anything in my life, not even a pack of gum (you can tell I'm partial to gum). I have a feeling it would bother my conscience. And yet, you have what one would expect to be fairly normal moms and dads, getting a position of responsibility in the PTA and then start stealing the money.
Where did it begin? I can't imagine they decided to have kids with the thought that when those kids start school, they can start stealing money. I can't even imagine they plan to do it when they get involved in the PTA. My guess is that they start out with a sincere desire to be involved in their children's lives, even to make a difference. But, somewhere along the way, the idea hits them. As I say, I just can't figure out how that happens. If it were a one-time thing, that's understandable, but it's a story one reads over and over again.
Of course, it's not just PTA. We regularly hear of little league treasurers, church officials, and others who are given a trust, helping themselves to the till. According to the Association of Certified Fraud Examiners, fraud and abuse costs U.S. organizations more than $400 billion annually. That's unbelievable. It also adds up to over 1.3 trillion packs of Juicy Fruit. And, when you look at it that way, I guess I can kinda understand it.
What I can't understand is how someone so smart can be so stupid. I'd think you'd have to have a degree of intelligence to figure out how to steal so much money and get by with it. If I were in charge of money for an organization, I'm sure that if I borrowed thirty cents for a pack of gum, the FBI would be at my door before I could finish the pack.
How do these people figure out how to embezzle tens of thousands of dollars and not get caught? How do you tell the other parents, "You know how we thought we had made $5,000 on the pie sale? Well, actually, we lost $20,000"? Evidently they are able to convince the people they have to answer to, at least for a period of time.
So, these embezzelers must be intelligent, and yet, they have to know that eventually they'll be caught, so they're also pretty stupid. I just can't figure it out.
Of course, I want to make it clear, before anyone starts investigating me, lack of ability to pull it off is not the main reason I don't embezzle. Somehow, call me old fashioned, it just seems like the wrong thing to do. To my knowledge, I've never stolen anything in my life, not even a pack of gum (you can tell I'm partial to gum). I have a feeling it would bother my conscience. And yet, you have what one would expect to be fairly normal moms and dads, getting a position of responsibility in the PTA and then start stealing the money.
Where did it begin? I can't imagine they decided to have kids with the thought that when those kids start school, they can start stealing money. I can't even imagine they plan to do it when they get involved in the PTA. My guess is that they start out with a sincere desire to be involved in their children's lives, even to make a difference. But, somewhere along the way, the idea hits them. As I say, I just can't figure out how that happens. If it were a one-time thing, that's understandable, but it's a story one reads over and over again.
Of course, it's not just PTA. We regularly hear of little league treasurers, church officials, and others who are given a trust, helping themselves to the till. According to the Association of Certified Fraud Examiners, fraud and abuse costs U.S. organizations more than $400 billion annually. That's unbelievable. It also adds up to over 1.3 trillion packs of Juicy Fruit. And, when you look at it that way, I guess I can kinda understand it.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Great Divide
Well, I'm taking the lazy route today. Rather than come up with something fresh, witty and insightful...you know like i usually do, I'm going to share an email I received. The other day I alluded to having received a press release from a group protesting the supposedly racially-motivated failure to respond to the victim's of Hurricane Katrina in a timely manner. I mentioned that when I replied by voicing my concerns about the sincerity of such a protest, I had received a three-word response. Well, I must admit, the individual (whom I won't name) has sent me a somewhat more thoughtful reply. In all fairness, I will pass that on for you to read:
Dear Steve Cook,
Or, should I address you as "West End's Best"?
Now that the protest is over, I thought I'd give a more thoughtful answer to your e-mail -- mainly because I hate to write off anyone, no matter how boorish.
It's not necessary to go over the reasons why the Defenders called the demonstration about the government's response to Hurricane Katrina. The news media has made the situation very clear: One-third of New Orleans lived below the poverty line, but there was no attempt to get those without transportation out of the city. After the storm passed, up to a week went by before there was a serious attempt at rescue and relief. Then a virtual state of martial law was imposed. So we -- along with dozens of other groups around the country -- held a vigil demanding "Real Relief, not Repression."
Two weeks earlier, I had sent out a press release about an anti-war vigil in solidarity with Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a GI killed in Iraq who was asking for a meeting with President Bush. About 35 people came to that event, along all three major TV networks, the Times-Dispatch, Style Weekly and two or three radio stations.
For the Sept. 12 vigil on Katrina, I sent a press release to the exact same media list. We got about the same number of participants, but no media, except for WRIR, a small community-based radio station.
We did get your e-mail, accusing us of staging the protest to garner publicity.
My point is that the rules change when the issue is race. Katrina has exposed the deep divisions in this country based on race and class. It's relatively easy now to protest the war in Iraq -- it's increasingly unpopular, and sections of the power elite are getting nervous about where it is going.
But Katrina is different. It's potentially dangerous, opening up deep volcanoes of anger. I think that may have been why we got so much coverage on a little peace demo and practically nothing on Katrina. In this context, it doesn't surprise me that we got one e-mail accusing us of opportunism on the issue of Katrina.
I don't intend to carry on a dialogue with you. Both your e-mails were inane and hostile and didn't deserve any more response than the first one I sent. But you may benefit from thinking a bit about why it was that this particular issue got you so upset. Was it really concern that some group might be trying to make political hay off a disaster? Or was it because the issue dealt with race?
And if so, what does that say about you?
END OF EMAIL
I started to reply in my typical sarcastic manner, but in all seriousness, I felt the issue was too important to try for a cheap laugh. To me, the issue is so clear, and I am so right, that I wonder why everyone doesn't see it this way. Perhaps, my arrogance is clouding my vision. I would appreciate your feedback. Am I missing something here. I really would like to know.
Here is my reply:
Mr. ___________,
Admittedly, I am not overly happy with the way you have insulted me. However, I can appreciate that when emotions run high, one can respond in a manner that really does not reflect their true character. I’m going to assume that this is what happened. I really don’t think insults from either side is the solution.
I must admit, I do find it insulting to make the response to Hurricane Katrina a race issue. Admittedly, there are inequities in society, and obviously the minorities are, by far, the more frequent victims of such inequities. However, the generosity displayed by many Americans, has been totally devoid of racial under- or overtones. Americans saw scenes of predominantly poor, black fellow Americans, and opened up their hearts and pocketbooks.
To make this a racial issue, in the midst of this spirit of caring, is very wrong. It is counter-productive. Perhaps, there will be a time to explore the possibility that racial divisiveness has been at the root of the situation that put these victims of Katrina in such a pitiable plight. But, do you really think protests at this point are going to make white Americans more willing to help? I truly don’t.
If anything, I think it could cause many to reconsider. I feel that racial divisions are quite frequently based on our stereotyping those of a different skin color, ethnicity, or even economic background. And, I think your actions help to promote the stereotype of the “angry black American.” Certainly, the media promotes that image as they seek out stories of evacuees complaining and arguing and fighting.
I can’t imagine what it must be like to endure what these folks must have gone through and are continuing to go through. But, if I were you, and to be honest, I don’t know what your skin color or ethnic background is, I would be seeking to help paint a picture of the courage, the pride, the dignity, of the evacuees. Why waste your time making issues that, at this point in time, should not be made. There will be a time for that, I’m sure.
I just honestly believe that if you truly care about those displaced by Katrina, there are so many more worthwhile things you could be doing...things that would generate even greater generosity by persons of every racial background. Even, if you felt my original response to your press release was “inane and hostile,” why not reflect your high ideals by refraining from telling me to “go f_____ myself”?
I’m not upset by your response. Actually, I found it somewhat amusing. But I am upset because I feel your actions are not only a waste of time, but ultimately hurt those you seek to help. I don’t think your protest causes even one person to change his or her point of view, at least not in a way that’s positive towards your cause. If you had expended the same energy to go downtown and publicly thank Richmonders for their non-racially motivated generosity, and, at the same time, taken additional donations, you would have done so much more good. You would have demonstrated that while you have genuine concerns about racial issues, you realize that at this point in time, we’re all pulling together. And, if you don’t see that, or believe that, then I truly feel very sorry for you.
By the way, you don’t have to call me “West End’s Best.” Steve is just fine.
Sincerely,
Steve Cook
Dear Steve Cook,
Or, should I address you as "West End's Best"?
Now that the protest is over, I thought I'd give a more thoughtful answer to your e-mail -- mainly because I hate to write off anyone, no matter how boorish.
It's not necessary to go over the reasons why the Defenders called the demonstration about the government's response to Hurricane Katrina. The news media has made the situation very clear: One-third of New Orleans lived below the poverty line, but there was no attempt to get those without transportation out of the city. After the storm passed, up to a week went by before there was a serious attempt at rescue and relief. Then a virtual state of martial law was imposed. So we -- along with dozens of other groups around the country -- held a vigil demanding "Real Relief, not Repression."
Two weeks earlier, I had sent out a press release about an anti-war vigil in solidarity with Cindy Sheehan, the mother of a GI killed in Iraq who was asking for a meeting with President Bush. About 35 people came to that event, along all three major TV networks, the Times-Dispatch, Style Weekly and two or three radio stations.
For the Sept. 12 vigil on Katrina, I sent a press release to the exact same media list. We got about the same number of participants, but no media, except for WRIR, a small community-based radio station.
We did get your e-mail, accusing us of staging the protest to garner publicity.
My point is that the rules change when the issue is race. Katrina has exposed the deep divisions in this country based on race and class. It's relatively easy now to protest the war in Iraq -- it's increasingly unpopular, and sections of the power elite are getting nervous about where it is going.
But Katrina is different. It's potentially dangerous, opening up deep volcanoes of anger. I think that may have been why we got so much coverage on a little peace demo and practically nothing on Katrina. In this context, it doesn't surprise me that we got one e-mail accusing us of opportunism on the issue of Katrina.
I don't intend to carry on a dialogue with you. Both your e-mails were inane and hostile and didn't deserve any more response than the first one I sent. But you may benefit from thinking a bit about why it was that this particular issue got you so upset. Was it really concern that some group might be trying to make political hay off a disaster? Or was it because the issue dealt with race?
And if so, what does that say about you?
END OF EMAIL
I started to reply in my typical sarcastic manner, but in all seriousness, I felt the issue was too important to try for a cheap laugh. To me, the issue is so clear, and I am so right, that I wonder why everyone doesn't see it this way. Perhaps, my arrogance is clouding my vision. I would appreciate your feedback. Am I missing something here. I really would like to know.
Here is my reply:
Mr. ___________,
Admittedly, I am not overly happy with the way you have insulted me. However, I can appreciate that when emotions run high, one can respond in a manner that really does not reflect their true character. I’m going to assume that this is what happened. I really don’t think insults from either side is the solution.
I must admit, I do find it insulting to make the response to Hurricane Katrina a race issue. Admittedly, there are inequities in society, and obviously the minorities are, by far, the more frequent victims of such inequities. However, the generosity displayed by many Americans, has been totally devoid of racial under- or overtones. Americans saw scenes of predominantly poor, black fellow Americans, and opened up their hearts and pocketbooks.
To make this a racial issue, in the midst of this spirit of caring, is very wrong. It is counter-productive. Perhaps, there will be a time to explore the possibility that racial divisiveness has been at the root of the situation that put these victims of Katrina in such a pitiable plight. But, do you really think protests at this point are going to make white Americans more willing to help? I truly don’t.
If anything, I think it could cause many to reconsider. I feel that racial divisions are quite frequently based on our stereotyping those of a different skin color, ethnicity, or even economic background. And, I think your actions help to promote the stereotype of the “angry black American.” Certainly, the media promotes that image as they seek out stories of evacuees complaining and arguing and fighting.
I can’t imagine what it must be like to endure what these folks must have gone through and are continuing to go through. But, if I were you, and to be honest, I don’t know what your skin color or ethnic background is, I would be seeking to help paint a picture of the courage, the pride, the dignity, of the evacuees. Why waste your time making issues that, at this point in time, should not be made. There will be a time for that, I’m sure.
I just honestly believe that if you truly care about those displaced by Katrina, there are so many more worthwhile things you could be doing...things that would generate even greater generosity by persons of every racial background. Even, if you felt my original response to your press release was “inane and hostile,” why not reflect your high ideals by refraining from telling me to “go f_____ myself”?
I’m not upset by your response. Actually, I found it somewhat amusing. But I am upset because I feel your actions are not only a waste of time, but ultimately hurt those you seek to help. I don’t think your protest causes even one person to change his or her point of view, at least not in a way that’s positive towards your cause. If you had expended the same energy to go downtown and publicly thank Richmonders for their non-racially motivated generosity, and, at the same time, taken additional donations, you would have done so much more good. You would have demonstrated that while you have genuine concerns about racial issues, you realize that at this point in time, we’re all pulling together. And, if you don’t see that, or believe that, then I truly feel very sorry for you.
By the way, you don’t have to call me “West End’s Best.” Steve is just fine.
Sincerely,
Steve Cook
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