My blog today was going to blast the laxative industry for producing totally non-effective products. But, all I can say about that is, “never mind,” and “yes, I do feel much better.” What I will talk about is how quickly one goes from being a virile, healthy, young man to a doddering old idiot standing in Walgreen’s carefully perusing the labels on the various antacids, stool softeners, and laxatives, as if it were the most important concern in life, which, at the moment it may be.
As I’m standing there, it hits me…what a pathetic creature I’ve become. Not too many years ago, I’d have been ridiculing the 2006 version of me. But, I’ve been chastened. Laxatives were once merely a topic for humor. Now, they’re serious business.
One thing I have learned is that there are a great many products on the market for digestive issues. I’m sure the Boomer generation has really messed its plumbing systems up with years of junk and fast food consumption. I’m calling it the Golden Arches Syndrome.
McDonald’s (and then its many imitators and emulators) came along, at least here in Richmond, when I was in my late teens. And, like a shrewd drug pusher, they started off simply enough. I was content with a hamburger and an order of fries. The cost was less than a dollar, and that included a Coke.
But, then McDonald’s started supersizing. Why settle for the miniscule hamburger when I could have the Big Mac, and since you wanted to have a balanced meal, that is, a meal where you finished the burger and the fries at about the same time, you needed the large McDrum of Fries. Before I knew it I was consuming massive quantities of lard on a regular basis.
I did that for years. I didn’t know what was going on inside. I thought plaque, at its worst, was just something that I had to scrape off my teeth. Two angioplasties and several stents later, I realize that there’s a big McPrice to pay for my indulgences.
And that price has me popping antacids like I used to pop M&Ms. One thing I will say, is that, perhaps because of the Boomers who were raised on orange-flavored aspirin and cherry-flavored cough syrup, the antacid and laxative makers are coming up with some nice flavors
For a diabetic, the idea of vanilla Rolaids and chocolate laxatives is delightful. And, I must say, Rolaids’ new chewy vanilla-flavored medicine is delicious. It almost has a cake-batter tastiness. However, the chocolate laxative tastes eerily like the very thing it’s trying to generate.
But, as is so often the case, I digress. I think I’m trying to have a little moral to my column today. And that is, if you haven’t already destroyed most of your body’s organs with junk, don’t do it.
But if you have already done the damage, and you lie awake at night listening to the acid gushing through your system, then, why not do, as I’m about to do right now, and enjoy a tasty Rolaids chewy. Even at this point in life, there are still some small, simple pleasures.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Monday, January 09, 2006
Mr. Fix-It
Once in a while, I feel compelled to take some time out from my rather mundane schedule and provide solutions to the world's problems. Now, keep in mind, folks, that I can't do this every time a problem arises, but I will help out whenever I get a few minutes. I think I have time for three today.
Problem #1 - How to enforce seat belt laws. In Virginia, the driver and front-seat passenger are required by law to wear a seatbelt, but law enforcement officers can't stop a car, simply because the seat belt law is being ignored. Lawmakers have tried to get that changed, but with no success. The solution is simple. If law enforcement officers would simply hold non-seat belt wearing drivers to the letter of the law, we'd all wear seat belts. I went through radar this morning on I-64. I was doing about 70 in a 65 mile-per-hour zone. I didn't even blink an eye. Well, that's not true, I blink a lot, but I didn't worry about going five miles over the limit. I've seen drivers, especially on the interstate, go through radar at well over ten miles above the speed limit and police didn't budge.
Now suppose the police started pulling over anyone on I-64 who wasn't wearing a seat belt, and who was going just one mile over the limit. Just let the word get out that that's what the police were doing, and I bet there'd be a lot more buckling up. Okay, one problem down.
Problem #2 - The Richmond Braves/NASCAR messes. We can't do anything about getting NASCAR, but Henrico should go after the Braves. I think it's doable. Build a nice park where the Hall was going to be. Put in some hotels, office buildings, restaurants and stuff, and, oh yeah, a slave museum, and voila, you have yourself a neat Henrico County sports/entertainment/cultural center. Maybe they could even build a performing arts center while they're at it. Then, instead of worrying about having to go downtown, everyone would flock to Henrico. And, as for funding this whole thing, I have the solution to that to (this is a freebie), sell more laptops.
Problem #3 - Here's the big one...an issue that's been debated for years, and, this week, will get a lot more airplay, with that supreme court nomination thing going on. Let me use an illustration to once and forever settle this huge debate. If scientists found a rock on Mars and within that rock, they could hear a heartbeat, and when they poked at the rock, something inside it moved, and when they spoke to the rock, something inside it moved, what would the headline in all the papers proclaim? "Life found on Mars!" Right? Of course, right.
So, if you find the same thing, here on earth, in a woman's womb, what should we proclaim? Exactly. Problem resolved.
Next?
Problem #1 - How to enforce seat belt laws. In Virginia, the driver and front-seat passenger are required by law to wear a seatbelt, but law enforcement officers can't stop a car, simply because the seat belt law is being ignored. Lawmakers have tried to get that changed, but with no success. The solution is simple. If law enforcement officers would simply hold non-seat belt wearing drivers to the letter of the law, we'd all wear seat belts. I went through radar this morning on I-64. I was doing about 70 in a 65 mile-per-hour zone. I didn't even blink an eye. Well, that's not true, I blink a lot, but I didn't worry about going five miles over the limit. I've seen drivers, especially on the interstate, go through radar at well over ten miles above the speed limit and police didn't budge.
Now suppose the police started pulling over anyone on I-64 who wasn't wearing a seat belt, and who was going just one mile over the limit. Just let the word get out that that's what the police were doing, and I bet there'd be a lot more buckling up. Okay, one problem down.
Problem #2 - The Richmond Braves/NASCAR messes. We can't do anything about getting NASCAR, but Henrico should go after the Braves. I think it's doable. Build a nice park where the Hall was going to be. Put in some hotels, office buildings, restaurants and stuff, and, oh yeah, a slave museum, and voila, you have yourself a neat Henrico County sports/entertainment/cultural center. Maybe they could even build a performing arts center while they're at it. Then, instead of worrying about having to go downtown, everyone would flock to Henrico. And, as for funding this whole thing, I have the solution to that to (this is a freebie), sell more laptops.
Problem #3 - Here's the big one...an issue that's been debated for years, and, this week, will get a lot more airplay, with that supreme court nomination thing going on. Let me use an illustration to once and forever settle this huge debate. If scientists found a rock on Mars and within that rock, they could hear a heartbeat, and when they poked at the rock, something inside it moved, and when they spoke to the rock, something inside it moved, what would the headline in all the papers proclaim? "Life found on Mars!" Right? Of course, right.
So, if you find the same thing, here on earth, in a woman's womb, what should we proclaim? Exactly. Problem resolved.
Next?
Friday, January 06, 2006
NASCAR's Hall...It's a Shame
Well, Richmond didn't get the NASCAR Hall of Fame. Gee, you could knock me over with a feather. Who saw that coming? I mean besides just about anyone with a lick of sense? Do you think it may have something to do with the fact that the city of Richmond screws up just about everything it touches?
Really, think about it. Can you think of one really exciting project that has not met with political in-fighting, downright arrogance, and, often total rejection? I can't.
Maybe, one day, the city's leaders will wake up to the fact that when you air all your dirty laundry in public, and when you demonstrate a resistance to genuine efforts to make Richmond a more exciting, vibrant place to live, work, and play, that others are watching.
NASCAR is one of the hottest commodities out there. They can go just about anywhere they want with their Hall of Fame. And, truth be told, Richmond offers an awful lot. It's that vacant one where there ought to be a ballpark, down in Shockoe. Just kidding. Richmond really does have much to offer. For starters, there's probably more tobacco juice spit into the streets of Richmond, than any other city on NASCAR's list.
But, that's just for starters. Drive through Richmond on I-95, and look at the signs - Virginia Beach and Williamsburg this way, Charlottesville, that way, and the nation's capital, the other way. We are right in the middle of so much. And right here in the city, great museums (for NASCAR fans, that's those big buildings where they hang pretty pictures), lots of history (and, again, for NASCAR fans that means stars and bars [I'm not talking about Rusty Wallace in Hooters, either] and CSA belt buckles all over town), cultural arts (NASCAR fans, that means...well, nevermind).
We have it all, except, of course, for a nice ballpark and a new Performing Arts Center. But, the city does offer much that would seemingly, especially when combined with our proximity to much of the nation's population, make this area the number one choice for NASCAR.
It's a crying shame what has been done to the city of Richmond by self-aggrandizing politicians and others. It wasn't that many years ago, that a Saturday night downtown was something special, now it's more about a Saturday Night Special.
A couple of years ago, Brad Armstrong (remember him?) told me that members of the Royal family were expected to tour Richmond in 2007. "We want to make sure we have something to show them," he said. Well, Brad, you just might get your wish. In fact, maybe we should start a tour business, to showcase all of those vacant lots and excavation pits around town.
You know, I feel a song coming on...I'd like to dedicate it to our mayor, Governor Wilder. It goes something like this:
We don't have plans and schemes.
We don't have much of anything
Except for a few discarded artist's renderings
Since we have had you (you-who, you-who)
We don't have a new ball park
And, we don't have a center for the performing arts
We still have politicians throwing darts
Since we have had you (you-who, you-who)
I can't think of anything else to write. I get started on something and then I just kind of fizzle out. Gee, I might qualify as a candidate for city council.
Really, think about it. Can you think of one really exciting project that has not met with political in-fighting, downright arrogance, and, often total rejection? I can't.
Maybe, one day, the city's leaders will wake up to the fact that when you air all your dirty laundry in public, and when you demonstrate a resistance to genuine efforts to make Richmond a more exciting, vibrant place to live, work, and play, that others are watching.
NASCAR is one of the hottest commodities out there. They can go just about anywhere they want with their Hall of Fame. And, truth be told, Richmond offers an awful lot. It's that vacant one where there ought to be a ballpark, down in Shockoe. Just kidding. Richmond really does have much to offer. For starters, there's probably more tobacco juice spit into the streets of Richmond, than any other city on NASCAR's list.
But, that's just for starters. Drive through Richmond on I-95, and look at the signs - Virginia Beach and Williamsburg this way, Charlottesville, that way, and the nation's capital, the other way. We are right in the middle of so much. And right here in the city, great museums (for NASCAR fans, that's those big buildings where they hang pretty pictures), lots of history (and, again, for NASCAR fans that means stars and bars [I'm not talking about Rusty Wallace in Hooters, either] and CSA belt buckles all over town), cultural arts (NASCAR fans, that means...well, nevermind).
We have it all, except, of course, for a nice ballpark and a new Performing Arts Center. But, the city does offer much that would seemingly, especially when combined with our proximity to much of the nation's population, make this area the number one choice for NASCAR.
It's a crying shame what has been done to the city of Richmond by self-aggrandizing politicians and others. It wasn't that many years ago, that a Saturday night downtown was something special, now it's more about a Saturday Night Special.
A couple of years ago, Brad Armstrong (remember him?) told me that members of the Royal family were expected to tour Richmond in 2007. "We want to make sure we have something to show them," he said. Well, Brad, you just might get your wish. In fact, maybe we should start a tour business, to showcase all of those vacant lots and excavation pits around town.
You know, I feel a song coming on...I'd like to dedicate it to our mayor, Governor Wilder. It goes something like this:
We don't have plans and schemes.
We don't have much of anything
Except for a few discarded artist's renderings
Since we have had you (you-who, you-who)
We don't have a new ball park
And, we don't have a center for the performing arts
We still have politicians throwing darts
Since we have had you (you-who, you-who)
I can't think of anything else to write. I get started on something and then I just kind of fizzle out. Gee, I might qualify as a candidate for city council.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
I Couldn't Sleep And That's No Laughing Matter
I had one of those insomniac nights last night. You know what that means - lots of late night television. And, let me tell you, as bad as TV is during primetime, it's much worse between midnight and six in the morning.
The first thing I realized as I watched a late-night repeat of the Tonight Show, is that I'm so old, I actually remember when Jay Leno was funny. Nowadays he's just a pathetic old man trying to act like he's young. Leno is not alone, however. There is very little intentional humor on TV overnight.
Conan had this smarmy little actor on. The guy looked like he should have been baking Keebler cookies, he was so tiny, and he had that typical "small-man" ego. He was talking about his great adventure in an underwater cage, photographing sharks. He was just beaming with excitement at hearing himself speak. He also showed a clip of a new TV show he's starring in. I think it's called Four Kings, but I'm not sure. But, let me warn you. If you see a show by that title, don't, I repeat, don't watch it.
He showed a clip of the show. Now, wouldn't you think that if you were going to show a clip of a new show, you'd pick the funniest moment to show? If the clip that ran is the funniest, you don't want to be anywhere near the program when it comes on.
I really do think most comedy writers today are guys, who when about age four or five, learned that if they said the word "poo-poo" they could get a laugh. Unfortunately, they progressed (from bad to worse) from "poo-poo" long ago. Each new show seems to try to out-rank the last show, and I do mean rank. If one believes that real humor is basically using dirty, or shocking, words, then that one should shy away from any comedy writing whatsoever.
Something that is funny on late night television are those commercials for telephone chat lines. These commercials show the most beautiful women and most handsome men sitting around the most gorgeous houses chatting it up with other beautiful people. There really should be some sort of truth-in-advertising laws to prohhibit that. Can you imagine what sort of people really do resort to those chat lines? If they looked like the people on TV, I can assure you, they're not sitting around the house alone at night talking to complete (and moronic) strangers.
On one commercial, the lovely woman was covered from head to toe with soap suds. She was saying, "I like to get in my bubble bath and call Tramp-Line." The real gals who use those chat lines probably get a bubble bath by being hosed down and brushed off with one of those industrial brooms.
The types of commercials shown on late-night TV doesn't say much about the median I.Q. of the late-night viewer. There was one infomercial from some organization called Professional Education Association. Wow! What an impressive-sounding company that is. I started to call and get me some of that education they were offering, but then I saw it was really Carlton Sheets. I guess he's giving instructions on operating a gas station. I'm not sure.
Anyway, I was finally lulled to sleep by Jay Leno's dulcet tones. That guy really isn't funny...at all...not even a little bit. And, it's not that I've lost my sense of humor. Actually, my sense of humor is as keen as it ever was. It must be. I still laugh uproariously at all of my jokes.
The first thing I realized as I watched a late-night repeat of the Tonight Show, is that I'm so old, I actually remember when Jay Leno was funny. Nowadays he's just a pathetic old man trying to act like he's young. Leno is not alone, however. There is very little intentional humor on TV overnight.
Conan had this smarmy little actor on. The guy looked like he should have been baking Keebler cookies, he was so tiny, and he had that typical "small-man" ego. He was talking about his great adventure in an underwater cage, photographing sharks. He was just beaming with excitement at hearing himself speak. He also showed a clip of a new TV show he's starring in. I think it's called Four Kings, but I'm not sure. But, let me warn you. If you see a show by that title, don't, I repeat, don't watch it.
He showed a clip of the show. Now, wouldn't you think that if you were going to show a clip of a new show, you'd pick the funniest moment to show? If the clip that ran is the funniest, you don't want to be anywhere near the program when it comes on.
I really do think most comedy writers today are guys, who when about age four or five, learned that if they said the word "poo-poo" they could get a laugh. Unfortunately, they progressed (from bad to worse) from "poo-poo" long ago. Each new show seems to try to out-rank the last show, and I do mean rank. If one believes that real humor is basically using dirty, or shocking, words, then that one should shy away from any comedy writing whatsoever.
Something that is funny on late night television are those commercials for telephone chat lines. These commercials show the most beautiful women and most handsome men sitting around the most gorgeous houses chatting it up with other beautiful people. There really should be some sort of truth-in-advertising laws to prohhibit that. Can you imagine what sort of people really do resort to those chat lines? If they looked like the people on TV, I can assure you, they're not sitting around the house alone at night talking to complete (and moronic) strangers.
On one commercial, the lovely woman was covered from head to toe with soap suds. She was saying, "I like to get in my bubble bath and call Tramp-Line." The real gals who use those chat lines probably get a bubble bath by being hosed down and brushed off with one of those industrial brooms.
The types of commercials shown on late-night TV doesn't say much about the median I.Q. of the late-night viewer. There was one infomercial from some organization called Professional Education Association. Wow! What an impressive-sounding company that is. I started to call and get me some of that education they were offering, but then I saw it was really Carlton Sheets. I guess he's giving instructions on operating a gas station. I'm not sure.
Anyway, I was finally lulled to sleep by Jay Leno's dulcet tones. That guy really isn't funny...at all...not even a little bit. And, it's not that I've lost my sense of humor. Actually, my sense of humor is as keen as it ever was. It must be. I still laugh uproariously at all of my jokes.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Great Expectorations
I'm going to be a bit daring today and broach a subject from which almost everyone shies away. It's something close to my heart, and yours too, for that matter, if you're like me, anyway. I'm going to talk about phlegm. Now don't run from this. It's time to face this subject head on.
I'm certainly not going to belittle those with excessive phlegm. Indeed, if phlegm had some sort of monetary value, I'd be a national treasure. What I am going to do is belittle those who think nothing of expelling their phlegm in public.
I have a friend who may be one of the great phlegm manufacturers of all times. He keeps a Dixie cup with him wherever he goes. Need I say more.
I'll sometimes visit this friend to watch a football game on TV, but as soon as I see he's having one of those Dixie cup days, I have to leave. I'm thinking to myself, what sort of barn were you raised in. Actually, he was raised on a farm, but I don't think that has anything to do with it.
I don't know about you, but once I see someone hacking up phlegm into a receptical which they then keep by their side, I can't concentrate on anything else. It has to be one of the most disgusting practices imaginable. If I have to remove phlegm, which we all do from time to time, I excuse myself, go into the bathroom and swoosh, it's down the drain. I can't stand to be around my own phlegm, much less the phlegm of friends and family.
Now, I recognize that phlegm is a necessity. They say it keeps the lungs lubricated, or something like that. It's not my job to teach a medical course here. In its place, I'm sure phlegm is a wonderful thing, but its place is not in some cup next to me.
If there's one thing you've learned about me by now it's that I'm not one to complain. I believe in finding solutions to problems. And, while I don't really know the solution to this problem, I'm sure there are some brilliant minds out there working on a polite phlegm removal system right now.
What I want to do is form a research group. I'm calling it the Society of Phlegm Eradicators Worldwide, or SPEW for short. I am using this blog, which I'm sure is read by millions daily, to put the call out for those who want to get involved. Maybe you've been wanting to contribute to a good cause, but just can't find one you feel is worthy of your time or assets. I'm confident SPEW is just what you are looking for.
I'm thinking of doing some sort of telethon, but I'm not sure that most viewers would be willing to devote that much time to watching people spit. So, a telethon may need a little fine tuning, but I think the details can be worked out. I would like to hear from those who have developed their own phlegm removal program that doesn't offend or nauseate others. Please feel free to share your thoughts and ideas, and, hopefully, in our lifetime, public phlegm will become a thing of the past.
Too ambitious? Perhaps, but even if I don't live to see a phlegm-free world, I would like to think that centuries from now, whenever my name is mentioned, people will associate me with SPEW. One can only hope.
I'm certainly not going to belittle those with excessive phlegm. Indeed, if phlegm had some sort of monetary value, I'd be a national treasure. What I am going to do is belittle those who think nothing of expelling their phlegm in public.
I have a friend who may be one of the great phlegm manufacturers of all times. He keeps a Dixie cup with him wherever he goes. Need I say more.
I'll sometimes visit this friend to watch a football game on TV, but as soon as I see he's having one of those Dixie cup days, I have to leave. I'm thinking to myself, what sort of barn were you raised in. Actually, he was raised on a farm, but I don't think that has anything to do with it.
I don't know about you, but once I see someone hacking up phlegm into a receptical which they then keep by their side, I can't concentrate on anything else. It has to be one of the most disgusting practices imaginable. If I have to remove phlegm, which we all do from time to time, I excuse myself, go into the bathroom and swoosh, it's down the drain. I can't stand to be around my own phlegm, much less the phlegm of friends and family.
Now, I recognize that phlegm is a necessity. They say it keeps the lungs lubricated, or something like that. It's not my job to teach a medical course here. In its place, I'm sure phlegm is a wonderful thing, but its place is not in some cup next to me.
If there's one thing you've learned about me by now it's that I'm not one to complain. I believe in finding solutions to problems. And, while I don't really know the solution to this problem, I'm sure there are some brilliant minds out there working on a polite phlegm removal system right now.
What I want to do is form a research group. I'm calling it the Society of Phlegm Eradicators Worldwide, or SPEW for short. I am using this blog, which I'm sure is read by millions daily, to put the call out for those who want to get involved. Maybe you've been wanting to contribute to a good cause, but just can't find one you feel is worthy of your time or assets. I'm confident SPEW is just what you are looking for.
I'm thinking of doing some sort of telethon, but I'm not sure that most viewers would be willing to devote that much time to watching people spit. So, a telethon may need a little fine tuning, but I think the details can be worked out. I would like to hear from those who have developed their own phlegm removal program that doesn't offend or nauseate others. Please feel free to share your thoughts and ideas, and, hopefully, in our lifetime, public phlegm will become a thing of the past.
Too ambitious? Perhaps, but even if I don't live to see a phlegm-free world, I would like to think that centuries from now, whenever my name is mentioned, people will associate me with SPEW. One can only hope.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Today is the First Day Blah Blah Blah
So, I wake up this morning, and I gotta tell you, I'm feeling good. It's a new year. I'm a new man. Today, I'm thinking to myself, is the first day of the rest of my life. And what a life it's going to be. I'm done with complaining. I'm just going to look on the bright side of things and, if I can't think of something nice to say, then I'll simply refrain from speaking. I get in the car, whistling a happy tune, and drive to work.
And then, I get behind a school bus. That does it for me. I made it twenty minutes, but some things just really irk me. The school bus is going down some residential street, I use as a short cut to work. Doesn't the school board realize that my getting to work is more important than getting these little brats to school?
And, why can't these kids walk a few feet and all catch the bus at the same spot? When I was a kid (and this is the total truth), I had to climb a mountain to get to school, and I'm talking first grade here. If you don't believe me, ask anyone who attended Boones Mill Elementary. The dilapidated old school house sat on top of a mountain. There were 186 narrow, steep steps that we little kids had to climb just to get us some education.
Admittedly, that character-building exercise didn't build all that much character in me, but at least I did it. These kids in Chesterfield, don't even have to walk a block. I'm surprised the bus driver didn't stop at each house, go inside, and carry the poor little things out on her back. In the course of three blocks, the bus stopped five times. That's ridiculous.
It's not only ridiculous, it's the reason this year will not be any better than the last. It's the sole cause of me reverting back to my rather contentious 2005 self. You can appreciate, I'm sure, that it's not my fault.
So, as long as I'm complaining, here a a few more things I might as well get off my chest. Have you seen where they want to put a new ballpark now? I didn't think there was a more unattractive section of the city than the location of the Diamond, but, lo and behold, the city has found some place even worse in which to build a stadium...the Fulton Gas Works, or whatever that section is called.
It's not even near a Greyhound station. There's absolutely nothing nearby. Not even decent roads. You know how some women are abused by their husbands for so long, that they begin to think they deserve being abused? Well, I think the R-Braves are suffering from abused local sports franchise syndrome. They must be buying into the belief that they deserve to be stuck in some desolate, seedy section of town. Admittedly, the new site is fairly close to the proposed Rockett's Landing development. But, is there any reason to believe that will eventually become a reality? I know artist's renderings have been produced, which generally is the downtown Richmond kiss of death for a project.
I think I'm on to the mayor's dirty little secret. I think he wants to propose a site so horrible, that the existing location will look great. Well, I'm too smart for that, Mr. Mayor. I know what you're trying to pull.
I think Shockoe Bottom is a great place for a ballpark. There are already entrepreneurs who have invested big sums down that way. I think what has made Shockoe Bottom succeed is that there never were any artist's renderings.
I tell you what. Build a stadium in the Bottom and I'll personally build a slave trail museum down there. I'll even go down on Sunday afternoons and conduct tours. Just, please build me a nice ball park. That's all I ask.
I could go on with a laundry list of gripes, but, hey, we have a whole year to air out my grievances. But, come 2007, I'm a new man. In 2007, you won't hear one complaint from my lips. I promise.
And then, I get behind a school bus. That does it for me. I made it twenty minutes, but some things just really irk me. The school bus is going down some residential street, I use as a short cut to work. Doesn't the school board realize that my getting to work is more important than getting these little brats to school?
And, why can't these kids walk a few feet and all catch the bus at the same spot? When I was a kid (and this is the total truth), I had to climb a mountain to get to school, and I'm talking first grade here. If you don't believe me, ask anyone who attended Boones Mill Elementary. The dilapidated old school house sat on top of a mountain. There were 186 narrow, steep steps that we little kids had to climb just to get us some education.
Admittedly, that character-building exercise didn't build all that much character in me, but at least I did it. These kids in Chesterfield, don't even have to walk a block. I'm surprised the bus driver didn't stop at each house, go inside, and carry the poor little things out on her back. In the course of three blocks, the bus stopped five times. That's ridiculous.
It's not only ridiculous, it's the reason this year will not be any better than the last. It's the sole cause of me reverting back to my rather contentious 2005 self. You can appreciate, I'm sure, that it's not my fault.
So, as long as I'm complaining, here a a few more things I might as well get off my chest. Have you seen where they want to put a new ballpark now? I didn't think there was a more unattractive section of the city than the location of the Diamond, but, lo and behold, the city has found some place even worse in which to build a stadium...the Fulton Gas Works, or whatever that section is called.
It's not even near a Greyhound station. There's absolutely nothing nearby. Not even decent roads. You know how some women are abused by their husbands for so long, that they begin to think they deserve being abused? Well, I think the R-Braves are suffering from abused local sports franchise syndrome. They must be buying into the belief that they deserve to be stuck in some desolate, seedy section of town. Admittedly, the new site is fairly close to the proposed Rockett's Landing development. But, is there any reason to believe that will eventually become a reality? I know artist's renderings have been produced, which generally is the downtown Richmond kiss of death for a project.
I think I'm on to the mayor's dirty little secret. I think he wants to propose a site so horrible, that the existing location will look great. Well, I'm too smart for that, Mr. Mayor. I know what you're trying to pull.
I think Shockoe Bottom is a great place for a ballpark. There are already entrepreneurs who have invested big sums down that way. I think what has made Shockoe Bottom succeed is that there never were any artist's renderings.
I tell you what. Build a stadium in the Bottom and I'll personally build a slave trail museum down there. I'll even go down on Sunday afternoons and conduct tours. Just, please build me a nice ball park. That's all I ask.
I could go on with a laundry list of gripes, but, hey, we have a whole year to air out my grievances. But, come 2007, I'm a new man. In 2007, you won't hear one complaint from my lips. I promise.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
My First Ever Year In Review Column (And, boy am I psyched)
Well, it’s the end of another year…another year that went by way too quickly. I’ve been, as old men are wont to do, waxing nostalgic this morning. I just thought I’d stop for a moment and let the wax dry, and maybe take a few minutes to reflect on some of the highlights of this past year, perhaps even sharing a secret or two, that at the time, I couldn’t or wouldn’t reveal.
The biggest event of the year, for me personally anyway, was my face transplant in early February. The picture you see of me on this page is my new face. I would like to have gotten a little bit better looking one, but my insurance plan is not all that good.
Some of you may have heard about my transplant, but here’s a little secret I hadn’t divulged until now. The reason I got the transplant was to hide something that, in retrospect, isn’t all that embarrassing. So, now I will reveal…I’m Doug Wilder’s twin brother. There, I’ve said it. And I feel good for having done so.
I’ve been looking back on some of my columns from the past few months in an effort to trigger that fading memory of mine. I fondly remember back in March, when ground was broken in Shockoe Bottom for the new ballpark. Do you remember how Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, and Mickey Mantle all showed up for that big day? Whatever happened with that anyway? I was in the Bottom the other day, and I couldn’t find the site.
Another big highlight, at least at the time I thought so, was the grand opening of what was touted to be the best Mexican restaurant in Virginia, La Cucaracha. The restaurant did a lot of advertising in our magazines, and so, quite logically, I ate there with a certain degree of regularity, along with a tad of gluttony. In one column I wrote, “The La Cucaracha Platter has got to be one of the yummiest dishes I’ve had in years. I can’t identify the secret ingredient, but about fifteen minutes after I’ve eaten, I have this irresistible urge to crawl behind the toilet, lie on my back and wiggle my arms and legs in the air.”
I hope you had a chance to enjoy the restaurant before its rather abrupt closing. I was in the hospital undergoing a series of stomach-pumpings at the time it shut down.
My second biggest regret of the year had to do with the three weeks in the fall when I was supposedly in China. Truth be told and secrets be revealed, I’d actually secreted myself away to California, where I worked with an active, albeit radical group in an effort to spring Tookie Williams from prison. I hope I won’t get in any trouble for revealing that. I’m sure any statute of limitations on prison breaks has run out by now. At the time, with a certain degree of naiveté, I wrote in a column, “What has Tookie ever done to hurt anyone…except for those few murders, that is?” Ah, the sweet innocence of youth.
And, that brings us up to date on some of the highlights of 2005. This has been fun. I’d love to hear from you. Maybe you could share your highlights of this year. And then, maybe we can do it again next year. And, maybe even you could invite me over to your house and we could share a cup of tea or a glass of Scotch, and you could make us something to eat while we chatted. But I gotta run. It’s time to go buff nostalgic.
The biggest event of the year, for me personally anyway, was my face transplant in early February. The picture you see of me on this page is my new face. I would like to have gotten a little bit better looking one, but my insurance plan is not all that good.
Some of you may have heard about my transplant, but here’s a little secret I hadn’t divulged until now. The reason I got the transplant was to hide something that, in retrospect, isn’t all that embarrassing. So, now I will reveal…I’m Doug Wilder’s twin brother. There, I’ve said it. And I feel good for having done so.
I’ve been looking back on some of my columns from the past few months in an effort to trigger that fading memory of mine. I fondly remember back in March, when ground was broken in Shockoe Bottom for the new ballpark. Do you remember how Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, and Mickey Mantle all showed up for that big day? Whatever happened with that anyway? I was in the Bottom the other day, and I couldn’t find the site.
Another big highlight, at least at the time I thought so, was the grand opening of what was touted to be the best Mexican restaurant in Virginia, La Cucaracha. The restaurant did a lot of advertising in our magazines, and so, quite logically, I ate there with a certain degree of regularity, along with a tad of gluttony. In one column I wrote, “The La Cucaracha Platter has got to be one of the yummiest dishes I’ve had in years. I can’t identify the secret ingredient, but about fifteen minutes after I’ve eaten, I have this irresistible urge to crawl behind the toilet, lie on my back and wiggle my arms and legs in the air.”
I hope you had a chance to enjoy the restaurant before its rather abrupt closing. I was in the hospital undergoing a series of stomach-pumpings at the time it shut down.
My second biggest regret of the year had to do with the three weeks in the fall when I was supposedly in China. Truth be told and secrets be revealed, I’d actually secreted myself away to California, where I worked with an active, albeit radical group in an effort to spring Tookie Williams from prison. I hope I won’t get in any trouble for revealing that. I’m sure any statute of limitations on prison breaks has run out by now. At the time, with a certain degree of naiveté, I wrote in a column, “What has Tookie ever done to hurt anyone…except for those few murders, that is?” Ah, the sweet innocence of youth.
And, that brings us up to date on some of the highlights of 2005. This has been fun. I’d love to hear from you. Maybe you could share your highlights of this year. And then, maybe we can do it again next year. And, maybe even you could invite me over to your house and we could share a cup of tea or a glass of Scotch, and you could make us something to eat while we chatted. But I gotta run. It’s time to go buff nostalgic.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
These Are A Few of My Favorite Things, In Case You're Interested
After my column yesterday, I was deluged (okay one person) with questions such as, "Steve what exactly do you like in life?"
You want to know what I like? Would you like to know what are some of my favorite things, so to speak? Well, I could just come right out and tell you. But, I won't. In keeping with my true personality, I've decided to tell you in song. So, think Julie Andrews as I tell you some of my favorite things:
Tornado warnings and bird flue from China
A food poisoning scare from a quaint local diner
The grotesque facial contortions when Celine Dion sings
These are a few of my favorite things.
An angioplasty when they put the stent in
A political scandal involving a Clinton
The personal anguish that Nancy Grace brings
These are a few of my favorite things.
When all seems to be right.
And my friends are so happy,
And everything is first rate,
I simply remember my favorite things
And (yippee) I don’t feel so great.
My blood sugar soaring when I eat a cupcake
TV evangelists' smiles that we all know are so fake
The sickening feeling when your car’s engine pings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Vacant lots down in Shockoe instead of ballplayers
The constant objections of our governor-mayor’s
The R-Braves flying outa here, as if they had wings
These are a few of my favorite things.
When things seem to work out
When the news is all good
When everything seems so swell
I simply remember my favorite things
And (hooray) then I feel like heck.
Well, there, in a nutshell, are the things that I enjoy on this big round planet that I like to call Earth. Somehow just sharing this with you makes my day just a bit brighter. I hope you feel the same way too.
You want to know what I like? Would you like to know what are some of my favorite things, so to speak? Well, I could just come right out and tell you. But, I won't. In keeping with my true personality, I've decided to tell you in song. So, think Julie Andrews as I tell you some of my favorite things:
Tornado warnings and bird flue from China
A food poisoning scare from a quaint local diner
The grotesque facial contortions when Celine Dion sings
These are a few of my favorite things.
An angioplasty when they put the stent in
A political scandal involving a Clinton
The personal anguish that Nancy Grace brings
These are a few of my favorite things.
When all seems to be right.
And my friends are so happy,
And everything is first rate,
I simply remember my favorite things
And (yippee) I don’t feel so great.
My blood sugar soaring when I eat a cupcake
TV evangelists' smiles that we all know are so fake
The sickening feeling when your car’s engine pings
These are a few of my favorite things.
Vacant lots down in Shockoe instead of ballplayers
The constant objections of our governor-mayor’s
The R-Braves flying outa here, as if they had wings
These are a few of my favorite things.
When things seem to work out
When the news is all good
When everything seems so swell
I simply remember my favorite things
And (hooray) then I feel like heck.
Well, there, in a nutshell, are the things that I enjoy on this big round planet that I like to call Earth. Somehow just sharing this with you makes my day just a bit brighter. I hope you feel the same way too.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Tis The Season
Whew! It's December 27th. You know what that means...no more Christmas music for about 11 months. It means Karen Carpenter and Burl Ives go back in the box (no pun intended) (okay, a little pun intended). It means the Jingle Bell dogs and Alvin and the Chipmunks are done for the year.
I love this time of year...you know, when this whole mess is over. For someone, like myself, who loves dreary, sunless days, and who scans the TV for the bad news, this is a great time of year. By noon this past Sunday, I'm guessing families all around the world were disappointed and angry. The kids didn't get what they wanted. The grown-ups didn't get what they wanted. And, if it was something they wanted, it probably doesn't work right, or there's a piece missing.
How heartwarming it is for a parent to spend hundreds of dollars on toys, and then hear the kids say, "Is that all there is." And, that hundred dollar toy is sitting under the tree, while the kid plays with the box it came in. I love it. Within the next few days the credit card bills start coming in. That's another seasonal, after-Christmas treat.
And, any marriages that didn't hit the rocks due to a little too much egg nog and mistletoe at the Christmas parties, will take an even bigger hit at the New Year's Eve parties. When you consider the hedonistic manner in which the New Year is celebrated, it almost makes Christmas look like a religious holiday. Isn't it amazing how holy this holiday season really is?
You know, if my friends threw me a birthday party (which they don't), and then brought everyone BUT me gifts, and then came to the party and engaged in all sorts of conduct that I hated, I have a feeling I'd be a little peeved. I guess the celebrants feel Jesus is more tolerant than I.
This really is the hap-happiest time of the year...for me. It means I can go back to the malls without being mauled by, what seems to be an endless supply of, huge women in spandex tights fighting over bins of merchandise. It means I don't have to have a bell rung in my ear everytime I enter K-Mart. It means I can drive down Parham Road without waiting in five-mile traffic jams heading to Regency Square. This really is my season to be jolly.
Starting next week, and for several months thereafter, people will really be going to work every day, and some days, even doing some work. From Thanksgiving through the end of the year, for many folks, it's like one long vacation. I wonder just how much of a hit the nation's economy takes during the holiday season.
Go ahead, call me Scrooge. I like Scrooge. I like the sound of the name. I like the way it feels in your mouth when you say it. Try it. The "SKR" sound is rather fun to make. Scrooge's only problem was he didn't have the strength of his convictions. Just once, I'd love to see him grab Tiny Tim's tiny little crutch and pound the tiny little brat over his tiny little head.
You see, I'm not such a bad guy. I enjoy myself. I have fun. I just don't happen to enjoy the last month of the year. Well, I gotta go do some shopping. It's already December 27th. I only have a couple more days before the Easter decorations go up.
I love this time of year...you know, when this whole mess is over. For someone, like myself, who loves dreary, sunless days, and who scans the TV for the bad news, this is a great time of year. By noon this past Sunday, I'm guessing families all around the world were disappointed and angry. The kids didn't get what they wanted. The grown-ups didn't get what they wanted. And, if it was something they wanted, it probably doesn't work right, or there's a piece missing.
How heartwarming it is for a parent to spend hundreds of dollars on toys, and then hear the kids say, "Is that all there is." And, that hundred dollar toy is sitting under the tree, while the kid plays with the box it came in. I love it. Within the next few days the credit card bills start coming in. That's another seasonal, after-Christmas treat.
And, any marriages that didn't hit the rocks due to a little too much egg nog and mistletoe at the Christmas parties, will take an even bigger hit at the New Year's Eve parties. When you consider the hedonistic manner in which the New Year is celebrated, it almost makes Christmas look like a religious holiday. Isn't it amazing how holy this holiday season really is?
You know, if my friends threw me a birthday party (which they don't), and then brought everyone BUT me gifts, and then came to the party and engaged in all sorts of conduct that I hated, I have a feeling I'd be a little peeved. I guess the celebrants feel Jesus is more tolerant than I.
This really is the hap-happiest time of the year...for me. It means I can go back to the malls without being mauled by, what seems to be an endless supply of, huge women in spandex tights fighting over bins of merchandise. It means I don't have to have a bell rung in my ear everytime I enter K-Mart. It means I can drive down Parham Road without waiting in five-mile traffic jams heading to Regency Square. This really is my season to be jolly.
Starting next week, and for several months thereafter, people will really be going to work every day, and some days, even doing some work. From Thanksgiving through the end of the year, for many folks, it's like one long vacation. I wonder just how much of a hit the nation's economy takes during the holiday season.
Go ahead, call me Scrooge. I like Scrooge. I like the sound of the name. I like the way it feels in your mouth when you say it. Try it. The "SKR" sound is rather fun to make. Scrooge's only problem was he didn't have the strength of his convictions. Just once, I'd love to see him grab Tiny Tim's tiny little crutch and pound the tiny little brat over his tiny little head.
You see, I'm not such a bad guy. I enjoy myself. I have fun. I just don't happen to enjoy the last month of the year. Well, I gotta go do some shopping. It's already December 27th. I only have a couple more days before the Easter decorations go up.
Monday, December 26, 2005
A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Wedding
I've come to the conclusion that for sheer non-stop hilarity, nothing beats a good wedding. I attended a family wedding this past weekend, and, let me tell you, the laughs were fast and furious. First, just in case anyone in the family is reading this, I will say that the bride and groom were a beautiful couple. In fact, the entire wedding party was very attractive. But, as is so often the case, particularly when the couple getting married have lots of young friends, you see some interesting sights at weddings today.
This wedding had its share of blue jean wearing, face-piercing guests. I often wonder when I'm attending a somewhat formal, or at least dressy function, if these young hip-hopping guys try to coordinate their boxer shorts with the rest of their wardrobe. Does one pull his pants up, and then lower them to get just the right underpants waistband exposure? Does he look in the mirror and say, "Hey, these boxers look terrific with my shirt?"
Do you remember the days when, if one's underwear was showing, it would be embarrassing? Well, those days have come and gone, it would appear. People will wear just about anything to a wedding these days. One young man was wearing a jacket, that, through the use of clasically elegant embroidery, proudly proclaimed Budweiser to be the king of beers. Others had, not only jeans, but those purposely-torn jeans. I used to split my pants with regularity, but it was always accidental, and always a cause for embarrassment. Nowadays, it's evidently gauche if your clothes are not torn.
But enough about the clothing. That was only the warm up act for a truly entertaining afternoon. The pianist/organist was priceless. This woman, using nothing but the ten fingers on her two hands, was able to perfectly replicate the sounds one would expect to hear if a person were playing the piano with his or her elbows. And, when she turned to her left to play the organ, it only got more enjoyable.
The lady knew every chord, and she played them all simultaneously. At one point, I nervously looked over at her, fully thinking she had passed out on the keyboard. I don't know how she did it, but she was able to depress every key on the organ at the same moment.
At the exact announced time for the wedding to begin, she turned, looked towards the back of the room, nodded, as if she'd been given the signal, and began to play Here Comes the Bride on the organ. I glanced back to see if the bride were coming, because I hadn't even seen the parents being seated at that point.
No one was coming down the aisle except a couple of guys with metal studs all over their faces. I'm sure if I had had a good magnet on me, I could have forced them to sit next to me. Fortunately, I had no such magnet.
Anyway, the organist finishes up Here Comes the Bride, and then plays it again. Again no bridal party is in sight. After about ten minutes of Here Comes the Bride, here comes the minister. He's wearing this little headset, and, quite logically, I initially assumed he was a Time Life operator who'd rushed to make it to the wedding. Well the guy, who, as it turns out, is the aforementioned minister, goes up to the organist and whispers something to her. He then speaks to the audience, using his cute little headset (a la Garth Brooks), and informs us that one of the ladies is late, and there's going to be a slight delay.
No problem. I was basking in the joy of the organ/piano recital.
Speaking of which, the organist, now turns again to her right and begins to bang on the piano. I think she was squeezing out some Christmas carols, but I can't say with authority, exactly what it was she was playing. Finally, after about ten more minutes, the minister comes down the aisle, looking a little frantic. "Now I can't find the groom," he announces. I'm not sure if he's speaking to himself, or to us. But, the headset picks it up. He looks behind a few doors, and finally locates the groom. The two of them come out and stand on the little stage area.
Next, the accomplished organist gets the signal, so she starts playing Here Comes the Bride again. This time the bride and groom's famililies are escorted in. She then stops the song in mid-stream and starts playing Here Comes the Bride again as the groomsmen and bridesmaids march in. Then when the flower girl and the young ring bearer come in, she stops playing Here Comes the Bride. Guess what she plays for them. You got it...Here Comes the Bride.
Finally, it's time for the bride and her father, so as a change of pace, the organist decides to play Here Comes the Bride. Everybody in the party gets settled in and the minister starts in to his wedding sermon. He's a good speaker, but very dramtic. He looks like a rather youngish Barry Manlow, but with a beard, and, truth be told, the wedding was done somewhat like a Las Vegas lounge act. The minster is moving around on the stage, stepping down to whisper in the bride's ear. He's evidently trying to reassure her of something. He's very animated in his delivery, but within minutes, with only a brief pause for the minister to show everyone his wedding ring, the bride and groom are united in marriage.
The wedding was so much fun, I was hoping for more hilarity at the reception. Unfortunately the reception is very subdued. Everyone is so busy eating ham biscuits and fried chicken, that no one even bothers to speak to one another. I've heard more chatter at a mime convention. But, the biscuits were good, and to me, a good biscuit beats a good laugh any day.
All in all it was a great day. I enjoyed it so much, I can't wait to go to another wedding. If you care to invite me to yours, please do so. I'll even grace you with my rendition of Here Comes the Bride. But I must warn you...I do it with a kazoo.
This wedding had its share of blue jean wearing, face-piercing guests. I often wonder when I'm attending a somewhat formal, or at least dressy function, if these young hip-hopping guys try to coordinate their boxer shorts with the rest of their wardrobe. Does one pull his pants up, and then lower them to get just the right underpants waistband exposure? Does he look in the mirror and say, "Hey, these boxers look terrific with my shirt?"
Do you remember the days when, if one's underwear was showing, it would be embarrassing? Well, those days have come and gone, it would appear. People will wear just about anything to a wedding these days. One young man was wearing a jacket, that, through the use of clasically elegant embroidery, proudly proclaimed Budweiser to be the king of beers. Others had, not only jeans, but those purposely-torn jeans. I used to split my pants with regularity, but it was always accidental, and always a cause for embarrassment. Nowadays, it's evidently gauche if your clothes are not torn.
But enough about the clothing. That was only the warm up act for a truly entertaining afternoon. The pianist/organist was priceless. This woman, using nothing but the ten fingers on her two hands, was able to perfectly replicate the sounds one would expect to hear if a person were playing the piano with his or her elbows. And, when she turned to her left to play the organ, it only got more enjoyable.
The lady knew every chord, and she played them all simultaneously. At one point, I nervously looked over at her, fully thinking she had passed out on the keyboard. I don't know how she did it, but she was able to depress every key on the organ at the same moment.
At the exact announced time for the wedding to begin, she turned, looked towards the back of the room, nodded, as if she'd been given the signal, and began to play Here Comes the Bride on the organ. I glanced back to see if the bride were coming, because I hadn't even seen the parents being seated at that point.
No one was coming down the aisle except a couple of guys with metal studs all over their faces. I'm sure if I had had a good magnet on me, I could have forced them to sit next to me. Fortunately, I had no such magnet.
Anyway, the organist finishes up Here Comes the Bride, and then plays it again. Again no bridal party is in sight. After about ten minutes of Here Comes the Bride, here comes the minister. He's wearing this little headset, and, quite logically, I initially assumed he was a Time Life operator who'd rushed to make it to the wedding. Well the guy, who, as it turns out, is the aforementioned minister, goes up to the organist and whispers something to her. He then speaks to the audience, using his cute little headset (a la Garth Brooks), and informs us that one of the ladies is late, and there's going to be a slight delay.
No problem. I was basking in the joy of the organ/piano recital.
Speaking of which, the organist, now turns again to her right and begins to bang on the piano. I think she was squeezing out some Christmas carols, but I can't say with authority, exactly what it was she was playing. Finally, after about ten more minutes, the minister comes down the aisle, looking a little frantic. "Now I can't find the groom," he announces. I'm not sure if he's speaking to himself, or to us. But, the headset picks it up. He looks behind a few doors, and finally locates the groom. The two of them come out and stand on the little stage area.
Next, the accomplished organist gets the signal, so she starts playing Here Comes the Bride again. This time the bride and groom's famililies are escorted in. She then stops the song in mid-stream and starts playing Here Comes the Bride again as the groomsmen and bridesmaids march in. Then when the flower girl and the young ring bearer come in, she stops playing Here Comes the Bride. Guess what she plays for them. You got it...Here Comes the Bride.
Finally, it's time for the bride and her father, so as a change of pace, the organist decides to play Here Comes the Bride. Everybody in the party gets settled in and the minister starts in to his wedding sermon. He's a good speaker, but very dramtic. He looks like a rather youngish Barry Manlow, but with a beard, and, truth be told, the wedding was done somewhat like a Las Vegas lounge act. The minster is moving around on the stage, stepping down to whisper in the bride's ear. He's evidently trying to reassure her of something. He's very animated in his delivery, but within minutes, with only a brief pause for the minister to show everyone his wedding ring, the bride and groom are united in marriage.
The wedding was so much fun, I was hoping for more hilarity at the reception. Unfortunately the reception is very subdued. Everyone is so busy eating ham biscuits and fried chicken, that no one even bothers to speak to one another. I've heard more chatter at a mime convention. But, the biscuits were good, and to me, a good biscuit beats a good laugh any day.
All in all it was a great day. I enjoyed it so much, I can't wait to go to another wedding. If you care to invite me to yours, please do so. I'll even grace you with my rendition of Here Comes the Bride. But I must warn you...I do it with a kazoo.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
My Own True Love
They say that when it comes to love, there's that special one out there for each of us. I'm sure I've been in love before, but this time is so very special. First, just so my wife doesn't get too upset, I want to make sure you know that I'm talking about restaurants here.
They say that when it comes to restaurants, we're only meant to have one true love in our life. I'm not so sure I believe that. I've probably been in love with a restaurant before, but, who know, for whatever reason, after a while we tend to go our separate ways. Maybe my tastes change. Maybe it stops doing those special little things I loved about it when we first met.
I am a fickle sort of guy, so I don't know what the future holds, but, for now anyway, I have found a restaurant I love. It's Jacqueomo's in Shockoe Bottom. I'm not going to try and convince you that Jacquemos is the very best restaurant in the world. I think "best" is very subjective. And, even when we have a restaurant love, we tend to see others from time to time, when we're in that sort of mood.
But, there are so many things I love about Jacqueomo's. For starters, the people are great...from the owner, Jimmy News to the outstanding chef, Adam Ginsburg, to the bartender, Steve. Everyone really. The waitresses are friendly. The service is great. The food is fantastic. In fact, everything I've eaten there has been excellent.
Jimmy has been in the restaurant business around town for so long, that, rumor has it, his first establishment was destroyed when Grant took Richmond. He's a great guy, and Jacqueomo's is a great restaurant.
But, it dawned on me last night as I was sitting there having dinner, just what I like the most about the place. It's the fact that when I go in, they know my name.
I hope that doesn't sound egotistical. I don't want people to know me for anything I've done. I just want them to remember me because they like me. Because, truth be told, I am quite likeable.
At Jacqueomo's, whenever I walk in, Steve the bartender, says "Hey, Steve." Unless he's talking to himself, I think that's cool. He doesn't even call me Scott, which is what just about everybody who thinks they remember me, calls me.
Last night, I was eating dinner at the bar. I always eat at the bar to try and mask the fact that I'm eating alone. The bar was crowded. I think there was a party of female World War II veterans or something. Anyway, despite the crowd, Steve took time to chat. And, I guess my restaurant-love mushiness must have come through, because I told him how much I appreciated him remembering my name.
Steve says to me, "Well, you're our Norm." I think he was capilizing the "norm" in reference to the Cheers TV show. Now, I'm not as regular a patron as Norm was on Cheers, but I've always said I'd love to find a place where everybody knows my name. Anyway, Steve and I chat for a few minutes, along with a couple of waitresses standing there. One of the young women said if I mentioned her in this blog, to call her "Marilyn." I don't know if she's hiding from the law, or doesn't want her parents to know she's talked to me or what, but anyway Marilyn was there along with Bridgett. Bridgett isn't the other girl's real name either, but she felt that since Marilyn could be Marilyn, she could be Bridgett. One of the two waitresses, and I can't remember which one, in response to my saying how nice it is to be remembered, asked me, "Weren't you wearing a bright green shirt the last time you came in?" She didn't say "ugly, bright green," but I could tell she was thinking it.
And, now that I'm thinking about it, I was wearing a bright green shirt. So even if people don't remember me, it's nice to know they remember my clothes. I guess that's nice, anyway.
Continuing with the conversation (and I know it sounds as if I spent hours talking about myself), I said to Steve, the bartender, "I guess it's easy for you to remember my name, seeing as it's your name."
In response to that, Bridgett says, "Huh? I thought your name was Norm." I never said Bridgett was the brightest waitress, just that she's friendly. And, a great waitress too.
Well, when one is in love, he or she can blather on for hours. I won't keep you with any more sentimental talk about "my restaurant." But, let me assure you, I'm not the jealous type. I won't mind if you fall in love with Jacqueomo's, too.
(This is not a shameless plug, but just as a public service, Jacqueomo's is located at 101 North 18th Street in Shockoe Bottom. Their phone number is 804 344-5181. And, if you go in, tell 'em Steve sent you, but make sure they know you're not talking about the bartender. And, if they say "Steve who?" please let me know.)
They say that when it comes to restaurants, we're only meant to have one true love in our life. I'm not so sure I believe that. I've probably been in love with a restaurant before, but, who know, for whatever reason, after a while we tend to go our separate ways. Maybe my tastes change. Maybe it stops doing those special little things I loved about it when we first met.
I am a fickle sort of guy, so I don't know what the future holds, but, for now anyway, I have found a restaurant I love. It's Jacqueomo's in Shockoe Bottom. I'm not going to try and convince you that Jacquemos is the very best restaurant in the world. I think "best" is very subjective. And, even when we have a restaurant love, we tend to see others from time to time, when we're in that sort of mood.
But, there are so many things I love about Jacqueomo's. For starters, the people are great...from the owner, Jimmy News to the outstanding chef, Adam Ginsburg, to the bartender, Steve. Everyone really. The waitresses are friendly. The service is great. The food is fantastic. In fact, everything I've eaten there has been excellent.
Jimmy has been in the restaurant business around town for so long, that, rumor has it, his first establishment was destroyed when Grant took Richmond. He's a great guy, and Jacqueomo's is a great restaurant.
But, it dawned on me last night as I was sitting there having dinner, just what I like the most about the place. It's the fact that when I go in, they know my name.
I hope that doesn't sound egotistical. I don't want people to know me for anything I've done. I just want them to remember me because they like me. Because, truth be told, I am quite likeable.
At Jacqueomo's, whenever I walk in, Steve the bartender, says "Hey, Steve." Unless he's talking to himself, I think that's cool. He doesn't even call me Scott, which is what just about everybody who thinks they remember me, calls me.
Last night, I was eating dinner at the bar. I always eat at the bar to try and mask the fact that I'm eating alone. The bar was crowded. I think there was a party of female World War II veterans or something. Anyway, despite the crowd, Steve took time to chat. And, I guess my restaurant-love mushiness must have come through, because I told him how much I appreciated him remembering my name.
Steve says to me, "Well, you're our Norm." I think he was capilizing the "norm" in reference to the Cheers TV show. Now, I'm not as regular a patron as Norm was on Cheers, but I've always said I'd love to find a place where everybody knows my name. Anyway, Steve and I chat for a few minutes, along with a couple of waitresses standing there. One of the young women said if I mentioned her in this blog, to call her "Marilyn." I don't know if she's hiding from the law, or doesn't want her parents to know she's talked to me or what, but anyway Marilyn was there along with Bridgett. Bridgett isn't the other girl's real name either, but she felt that since Marilyn could be Marilyn, she could be Bridgett. One of the two waitresses, and I can't remember which one, in response to my saying how nice it is to be remembered, asked me, "Weren't you wearing a bright green shirt the last time you came in?" She didn't say "ugly, bright green," but I could tell she was thinking it.
And, now that I'm thinking about it, I was wearing a bright green shirt. So even if people don't remember me, it's nice to know they remember my clothes. I guess that's nice, anyway.
Continuing with the conversation (and I know it sounds as if I spent hours talking about myself), I said to Steve, the bartender, "I guess it's easy for you to remember my name, seeing as it's your name."
In response to that, Bridgett says, "Huh? I thought your name was Norm." I never said Bridgett was the brightest waitress, just that she's friendly. And, a great waitress too.
Well, when one is in love, he or she can blather on for hours. I won't keep you with any more sentimental talk about "my restaurant." But, let me assure you, I'm not the jealous type. I won't mind if you fall in love with Jacqueomo's, too.
(This is not a shameless plug, but just as a public service, Jacqueomo's is located at 101 North 18th Street in Shockoe Bottom. Their phone number is 804 344-5181. And, if you go in, tell 'em Steve sent you, but make sure they know you're not talking about the bartender. And, if they say "Steve who?" please let me know.)
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
This May Be Hard to Believe, But...
Maybe I'm naive, or just one of those fresh-faced innocents whom you meet every now and then, but I'm continually amazed by the vast number of personal friends, as well as family members, who adhere to one or more of the many conspiracy theories that have been bantered about over the years. I'm talking about reasonably intelligent people who honestly believe, apparently, any sort of tripe that they hear or read.
For instance, my boss, and I won't mention his name for fear of retribution, truly believes that all the auto makers are conspiring to keep a very practical, workable non-internal combustion engine off the market. And he's not alone. We were discussing this the other day, and virtually everyone, besides me, believes that the big automobile industrialist tycoon types have banded together to keep us dependent on oil.
Why? That's my question. If there's a better engine out there, then just go ahead and sell it. The fact that they can sell these hybrid rip-offs to so many of us, at inflated prices, is proof that there's big money to be made on a gasoline-free car.
And, if there's a cheaper, cleaner fuel out there, then surely the petroleum industry execs have enough money to produce it and create new sources of revenue. I'm convinced that nothing of the sort exists, at least nothing that's marketable and produceable in mass quantity, at this time. How do I know? It's a brilliant conclusion I've come to, and I'll share it in a few moments.
But, first, I want to mention another conspiracy theory that absolutely astounds me. I was with a relative-in-law recently, and, again, I won't mention her name, so she won't know I'm talking about her. She, right out of the blue, announces that there's a simple cure for cancer. I'm amazed...not that there might be such a thing, but that she really believes it.
"How do you know that?" I ask her, politely.
"Because there's this homeless woman who used to be a nurse and she told me." Well, there you go. What a lame-brain I've been all these years. In all fairness to me, I never knew about this homeless woman before. Had I known, I may have been as convinced of this so-called cure.
"So, why is it kept a secret?" I ask, again very politely.
"Because if it got out, the doctors would lose all that money on cancer treatments," she replies innocently.
Wow those nasty doctors are sure greedy. Imagine all those doctors who've stood around and watched their children and spouses and parents die of cancer, when they could have cured them, but it would have meant money out of their pockets. That's hard to imagine, but, it must be true, because this homeless ex-nurse in Virginia says so.
This aforementioned family member-in-law believes any conspiracy that is based on the premise that all doctors are crooks. I know that many doctors are money-grubbing louses, but I'm willing to bet that there are a few out there who truly care about their fellow man. Now, that's a wild theory I know. This in-law doesn't believe a word doctors say, but if she were riding along and heard on the radio from some quack that elephant mucus mixed with monkey brains would cure arthritis, she'd immediately start scouring the herb/health fanatics stores for Dumbonzo or whatever they named the magic medicine. And, if it were a thousand dollars an ounce, she'd buy some.
Obviously, we live in a world today where it's fashionable, and, at times, even reasonable, to distrust those in positions of authority or prominence. But, my theory is that it would be impossible for such conspiracy theories to be true. Are you ready for my brilliant deduction?
Here goes. If we are to believe these theories, we'd have to believe that the conspirators are a bunch of greedy, corrupt, manipulative men and women, who, despite all these flaws, deal with one another with total integrity. We'd have to believe that, while these conspirators are greedy, that they're so loyal to each other, that not even one of them has ever decided to break rank and go out on his own and make the big bucks for himself.
If a doctor had a pill that could truly cure cancer, don't you think he could sell each pill for as much as, or more than, he'd charge for all of his treatments combined? How much would you pay for a pill that you knew could stop your loved one from dying of cancer? Well, these theorists believe such a pill exists. And, they also believe that the medical/pharmaceutical industry can't figure out a way to make a bigger profit by selling the pill rather than keep it under wraps.
That's my take on the matter. If you see an error in my reasoning, please let me know. That is if this column ever sees the light of day. You may not believe this, but there's a cartel of other columnists who are conspiring right now to keep you from reading this. I'm not sure why, but I know they're out there.
For instance, my boss, and I won't mention his name for fear of retribution, truly believes that all the auto makers are conspiring to keep a very practical, workable non-internal combustion engine off the market. And he's not alone. We were discussing this the other day, and virtually everyone, besides me, believes that the big automobile industrialist tycoon types have banded together to keep us dependent on oil.
Why? That's my question. If there's a better engine out there, then just go ahead and sell it. The fact that they can sell these hybrid rip-offs to so many of us, at inflated prices, is proof that there's big money to be made on a gasoline-free car.
And, if there's a cheaper, cleaner fuel out there, then surely the petroleum industry execs have enough money to produce it and create new sources of revenue. I'm convinced that nothing of the sort exists, at least nothing that's marketable and produceable in mass quantity, at this time. How do I know? It's a brilliant conclusion I've come to, and I'll share it in a few moments.
But, first, I want to mention another conspiracy theory that absolutely astounds me. I was with a relative-in-law recently, and, again, I won't mention her name, so she won't know I'm talking about her. She, right out of the blue, announces that there's a simple cure for cancer. I'm amazed...not that there might be such a thing, but that she really believes it.
"How do you know that?" I ask her, politely.
"Because there's this homeless woman who used to be a nurse and she told me." Well, there you go. What a lame-brain I've been all these years. In all fairness to me, I never knew about this homeless woman before. Had I known, I may have been as convinced of this so-called cure.
"So, why is it kept a secret?" I ask, again very politely.
"Because if it got out, the doctors would lose all that money on cancer treatments," she replies innocently.
Wow those nasty doctors are sure greedy. Imagine all those doctors who've stood around and watched their children and spouses and parents die of cancer, when they could have cured them, but it would have meant money out of their pockets. That's hard to imagine, but, it must be true, because this homeless ex-nurse in Virginia says so.
This aforementioned family member-in-law believes any conspiracy that is based on the premise that all doctors are crooks. I know that many doctors are money-grubbing louses, but I'm willing to bet that there are a few out there who truly care about their fellow man. Now, that's a wild theory I know. This in-law doesn't believe a word doctors say, but if she were riding along and heard on the radio from some quack that elephant mucus mixed with monkey brains would cure arthritis, she'd immediately start scouring the herb/health fanatics stores for Dumbonzo or whatever they named the magic medicine. And, if it were a thousand dollars an ounce, she'd buy some.
Obviously, we live in a world today where it's fashionable, and, at times, even reasonable, to distrust those in positions of authority or prominence. But, my theory is that it would be impossible for such conspiracy theories to be true. Are you ready for my brilliant deduction?
Here goes. If we are to believe these theories, we'd have to believe that the conspirators are a bunch of greedy, corrupt, manipulative men and women, who, despite all these flaws, deal with one another with total integrity. We'd have to believe that, while these conspirators are greedy, that they're so loyal to each other, that not even one of them has ever decided to break rank and go out on his own and make the big bucks for himself.
If a doctor had a pill that could truly cure cancer, don't you think he could sell each pill for as much as, or more than, he'd charge for all of his treatments combined? How much would you pay for a pill that you knew could stop your loved one from dying of cancer? Well, these theorists believe such a pill exists. And, they also believe that the medical/pharmaceutical industry can't figure out a way to make a bigger profit by selling the pill rather than keep it under wraps.
That's my take on the matter. If you see an error in my reasoning, please let me know. That is if this column ever sees the light of day. You may not believe this, but there's a cartel of other columnists who are conspiring right now to keep you from reading this. I'm not sure why, but I know they're out there.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
I'm Talking And I Can't Shut Up
As I’ve stated before, I think I’m a pretty fun guy (insert your favorite mushroom joke here). I’m not a party animal, and, I do dislike parties where I don’t know anyone, but when family and friends get together, I’d like to think I’m rather entertaining.
Therefore, it’s with rather sad feelings that I’ve come to realize that I’m losing it. I used to enjoy telling a joke or two around the table at get togethers. But, these days, everyone just stares at me strangely, as if to say, “what in the world is he talking about and when will he ever stop?”
And it’s not just my jokes either. Time was I could bring down the house by lying in the floor and doing my impression of bacon frying. It was a comedy sketch I’d seen on TV, but if I do say so myself, nobody did bacon frying better than I. Not anymore. I guess the idea of a fat old man twitching on the floor is just not that amusing to most folks. Or, could it be that most of my friends do, after seeing my bacon thing over and over again, grow tired of seeing my timeless humor. It’s a moot point, I guess, because just doing the bacon shtick hurts so badly, I can’t move for about an hour after the performance.
There’s something about asking your friends to lift you off the floor and lay you on the coffee table that makes for a less-than-satisfying ending to a comedy routine. And something else, when I was younger I never got nauseatingly dizzy when I did the bacon thing.
But, then too, when I was younger, we’d hold our nose and spin around in a circle to make us dizzy. Now, all I need to do is eat a Hostess Twinkie and forget to take my diabetes medicine and I get the same effect. I guess it’s true, what they say about an ill wind blowing no good, or is it that the ill wind blows some good. That makes more sense, but since, I’m not positive what an ill wind is, I really don’t know much about that old saying.
Anyway, I’ve gotten way off the subject. Hey, maybe this is the subject. Maybe I’m not entertaining anymore because I ramble. You know, I think I’ve hit on something here. I do know that I have become a rambling old man. Really, I have.
I wouldn’t have believed it until I got a tape recorder to record the interviews I do for our magazine articles. When I play the interviews back, I find that I’m doing 90% of the talking. I’m sitting there trying to transcribe the interview and I find myself screaming at myself, “Will you shut up and let the other guy speak.”
I’ve become very self-conscious of my rambling. I’m sitting at a table, with a group of friends, and I notice that I have an opinion on just about everything. I also find I’m telling people more than they’d ever want to know about virtually any topic. I’ll spend hours recounting the most boring details in what had begun (or so I thought) as a very entertaining conversation. But no, I ruin it. I just keep talking. I get frantic. The more I want to stop, the more I seem egged on by some old man fixation to keep on chattering away. I’m thinking to myself, I’m talking and I can’t shut up.
I used to hate to be around old men who’d get you in a corner and talk and talk and talk about the most mundane, boring things. I bet those old coots thought they were as entertaining as I have been thinking I’ve been.
Well, I don’t know if I made any points here, but I do think writing this has been rather therapeutic. I feel I’m more in touch with myself right now. Have I learned anything? Well, that’s an interesting question. Let’s discuss it in greater depth. You got a few more minutes?
Therefore, it’s with rather sad feelings that I’ve come to realize that I’m losing it. I used to enjoy telling a joke or two around the table at get togethers. But, these days, everyone just stares at me strangely, as if to say, “what in the world is he talking about and when will he ever stop?”
And it’s not just my jokes either. Time was I could bring down the house by lying in the floor and doing my impression of bacon frying. It was a comedy sketch I’d seen on TV, but if I do say so myself, nobody did bacon frying better than I. Not anymore. I guess the idea of a fat old man twitching on the floor is just not that amusing to most folks. Or, could it be that most of my friends do, after seeing my bacon thing over and over again, grow tired of seeing my timeless humor. It’s a moot point, I guess, because just doing the bacon shtick hurts so badly, I can’t move for about an hour after the performance.
There’s something about asking your friends to lift you off the floor and lay you on the coffee table that makes for a less-than-satisfying ending to a comedy routine. And something else, when I was younger I never got nauseatingly dizzy when I did the bacon thing.
But, then too, when I was younger, we’d hold our nose and spin around in a circle to make us dizzy. Now, all I need to do is eat a Hostess Twinkie and forget to take my diabetes medicine and I get the same effect. I guess it’s true, what they say about an ill wind blowing no good, or is it that the ill wind blows some good. That makes more sense, but since, I’m not positive what an ill wind is, I really don’t know much about that old saying.
Anyway, I’ve gotten way off the subject. Hey, maybe this is the subject. Maybe I’m not entertaining anymore because I ramble. You know, I think I’ve hit on something here. I do know that I have become a rambling old man. Really, I have.
I wouldn’t have believed it until I got a tape recorder to record the interviews I do for our magazine articles. When I play the interviews back, I find that I’m doing 90% of the talking. I’m sitting there trying to transcribe the interview and I find myself screaming at myself, “Will you shut up and let the other guy speak.”
I’ve become very self-conscious of my rambling. I’m sitting at a table, with a group of friends, and I notice that I have an opinion on just about everything. I also find I’m telling people more than they’d ever want to know about virtually any topic. I’ll spend hours recounting the most boring details in what had begun (or so I thought) as a very entertaining conversation. But no, I ruin it. I just keep talking. I get frantic. The more I want to stop, the more I seem egged on by some old man fixation to keep on chattering away. I’m thinking to myself, I’m talking and I can’t shut up.
I used to hate to be around old men who’d get you in a corner and talk and talk and talk about the most mundane, boring things. I bet those old coots thought they were as entertaining as I have been thinking I’ve been.
Well, I don’t know if I made any points here, but I do think writing this has been rather therapeutic. I feel I’m more in touch with myself right now. Have I learned anything? Well, that’s an interesting question. Let’s discuss it in greater depth. You got a few more minutes?
Monday, December 19, 2005
The Dukes of Downtown
I think I have a great idea for a new-comedy adventure series for network TV. Now, if I can only find someone who knows how to write, I'm ready to roll with this. The working title is The Dukes of Downtown Richmond. It's the ongoing rip-snorting funny story about a group of hillbilly, public servant outcasts, who are so back-woodsy in their approach to running a small southern city, that they'd make those original Dukes look like Manhattan sophisticates.
I'm working on my cast of characters as well as a few storylines right now, but, if you have any writing skills, and want to help out, here's an opportunity to make it big in show biz, and I’m talking really big.
The Richmond political folks certainly provide enough fodder for plenty of great stories. For instance, in one episode Boss Wilder-Boar, giddy with success in having worked his way down from governor to mayor, decides that if he bares his chest for a gay dating site, he might be able to get elected further down to a member of the school board. I think the laughs would be fast and furious for that one.
As a subplot to that one, the ever-lovely Daisy (don’t call me Reva) Trammell is sent by Mayor Wilder-Boar to flirt with the current school board chairman in order to get some secret information. But, for some inexplicable reason, regardless of the many feminine wiles Daisy uses on the chairman, she fails to elicit any reaction. I know if I were at home watching that episode I’d be laughing my fool head off.
Then how about an episode where the newly-elected Sheriff Woody has to go to court to get the outgoing sheriff to let him in his own jailhouse? A tad unbelievable, but nonetheless, hilarious.
As an underlying theme to run throughout each show, I think you could have the two brothers, or cousins, or whatever, Brad Armstrong Duke and Bruce Baldwin Duke as the stars. They would constantly be trying to outwit Mayor Wilder-Boar in an effort to have a ballpark and a performing arts center built downtown. But, Wilder-Boar has bigger plans up his sleeve…maybe even putting in casinos in Shockoe Bottom. That’s just a possibility.
I could spend the entire day sharing my story ideas with you. I think in one episode, Wilder-Boar hires the two Duke boys to repossess a top aide’s city-owned vehicle because the aide was using the car to do consulting for a political candidate. Or tell me what you think about this one. Wilder-Boar agrees to let a bunch of former city council members hold a reunion, and he deputizes Brad and Bruce to help make sure that none of the members escape from jail during the reunion. It’s a non-stop laugh riot, I tell you.
So, are you in or not? I’m looking for a few more good ideas. In fact, I have the morning paper right here. It should provide me with plenty of inspiration. Maybe I could get Robbin Thompson and Steve Bassett to write the theme song.
I'm working on my cast of characters as well as a few storylines right now, but, if you have any writing skills, and want to help out, here's an opportunity to make it big in show biz, and I’m talking really big.
The Richmond political folks certainly provide enough fodder for plenty of great stories. For instance, in one episode Boss Wilder-Boar, giddy with success in having worked his way down from governor to mayor, decides that if he bares his chest for a gay dating site, he might be able to get elected further down to a member of the school board. I think the laughs would be fast and furious for that one.
As a subplot to that one, the ever-lovely Daisy (don’t call me Reva) Trammell is sent by Mayor Wilder-Boar to flirt with the current school board chairman in order to get some secret information. But, for some inexplicable reason, regardless of the many feminine wiles Daisy uses on the chairman, she fails to elicit any reaction. I know if I were at home watching that episode I’d be laughing my fool head off.
Then how about an episode where the newly-elected Sheriff Woody has to go to court to get the outgoing sheriff to let him in his own jailhouse? A tad unbelievable, but nonetheless, hilarious.
As an underlying theme to run throughout each show, I think you could have the two brothers, or cousins, or whatever, Brad Armstrong Duke and Bruce Baldwin Duke as the stars. They would constantly be trying to outwit Mayor Wilder-Boar in an effort to have a ballpark and a performing arts center built downtown. But, Wilder-Boar has bigger plans up his sleeve…maybe even putting in casinos in Shockoe Bottom. That’s just a possibility.
I could spend the entire day sharing my story ideas with you. I think in one episode, Wilder-Boar hires the two Duke boys to repossess a top aide’s city-owned vehicle because the aide was using the car to do consulting for a political candidate. Or tell me what you think about this one. Wilder-Boar agrees to let a bunch of former city council members hold a reunion, and he deputizes Brad and Bruce to help make sure that none of the members escape from jail during the reunion. It’s a non-stop laugh riot, I tell you.
So, are you in or not? I’m looking for a few more good ideas. In fact, I have the morning paper right here. It should provide me with plenty of inspiration. Maybe I could get Robbin Thompson and Steve Bassett to write the theme song.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Mr. Popularity Strikes Again
I attended a cocktail reception the other night. It was hosted by the Richmond Association of Realtors, which is an excellent association, even if it is made up primarily of real estate agents. One quick sidepoint before I get into the real meat of this column. Doesn't it seem to you that realtors should know how to pronounce what they are. I cringe every time a realtor calls himself a "real-a-tor."
Anyway, back to my main gripe. Why I don't like cocktail receptions, or virtually any social gathering, for that matter. I'll admit right up front, I'm not very good at cocktail receptions, so I don't very often go. But this one was held at the Country Club of Virginia. I've never been there. And, I was curious. Just how do the other half live?
First to answer that question, I wasn't all that impressed by the CCV. Its urinals were no better than any Shoney's I've visited. When you get my age, you measure all experiences by the quality of the restrooms. Actually the stalls were a little small. Maybe all rich people are small. They did have cotton towels rather than paper ones. But, since you can't (or I won't) blow my nose on a cotton towel, again, I wasn't overly impressed.
The food was also not up to what I would have thought rich folks eat. It was all rather bland, I'm guessing since the average age of the members at the club is somewhere near 82, the culinary staff is more intent on providing hors d'oeuvres that can be gummed, rather than worrying about taste.
But, the food and toilets were passable (no pun intended). The real thing I hated about the party is the thing I hate about all such gatherings, nobody ever talks to me. Regardless of the function I attend (including my own wedding), everybody else seems to be chatting it up with everyone else, and I'm just kinda standing around looking pathetic.
I try to stand right next to others who are engaged in conversation in order to create the impression that I'm part of their happy little group. I even laugh when they laugh. But invariably, within moments, they'll notice me and, en masse, move away.
I sometimes get the feeling that I must have a sign on my back that reads, "ignore me." Even if I run into people I know, they'll just smile and move on along so as to be with the fun people. I've even come up with some ice-breaking conversation starters, hoping to get someone to acknowledge my existance. I'll go up to a group sitting at one of the small tables. I'll point to an empty chair and cleverly ask, "Is anyone sitting there?" The least they could do is smile and tell me someone is indeed sitting there. They don't even do that. They barely look up.
The other night I felt like I was playing the Jimmy Stewart role in It's a Wonderful Life, except I didn't even have an angel around to chat with. I don't know what it is. I was dressed okay. My teeth had been brushed relatively recently. Even my deodorant was working pretty well. But I spent an hour-and-a-half pretending I was talking to other people. Sometimes I'd even carry two glasses with me to make others think I was taking a drink to a companion. The more I reflect on my experiences the other night, the clearer it becomes just how unpopular I really am. Think about it. You know you're really at the acme of your unpopularity when you can't even get a real estate agent to talk to you.
Anyway, back to my main gripe. Why I don't like cocktail receptions, or virtually any social gathering, for that matter. I'll admit right up front, I'm not very good at cocktail receptions, so I don't very often go. But this one was held at the Country Club of Virginia. I've never been there. And, I was curious. Just how do the other half live?
First to answer that question, I wasn't all that impressed by the CCV. Its urinals were no better than any Shoney's I've visited. When you get my age, you measure all experiences by the quality of the restrooms. Actually the stalls were a little small. Maybe all rich people are small. They did have cotton towels rather than paper ones. But, since you can't (or I won't) blow my nose on a cotton towel, again, I wasn't overly impressed.
The food was also not up to what I would have thought rich folks eat. It was all rather bland, I'm guessing since the average age of the members at the club is somewhere near 82, the culinary staff is more intent on providing hors d'oeuvres that can be gummed, rather than worrying about taste.
But, the food and toilets were passable (no pun intended). The real thing I hated about the party is the thing I hate about all such gatherings, nobody ever talks to me. Regardless of the function I attend (including my own wedding), everybody else seems to be chatting it up with everyone else, and I'm just kinda standing around looking pathetic.
I try to stand right next to others who are engaged in conversation in order to create the impression that I'm part of their happy little group. I even laugh when they laugh. But invariably, within moments, they'll notice me and, en masse, move away.
I sometimes get the feeling that I must have a sign on my back that reads, "ignore me." Even if I run into people I know, they'll just smile and move on along so as to be with the fun people. I've even come up with some ice-breaking conversation starters, hoping to get someone to acknowledge my existance. I'll go up to a group sitting at one of the small tables. I'll point to an empty chair and cleverly ask, "Is anyone sitting there?" The least they could do is smile and tell me someone is indeed sitting there. They don't even do that. They barely look up.
The other night I felt like I was playing the Jimmy Stewart role in It's a Wonderful Life, except I didn't even have an angel around to chat with. I don't know what it is. I was dressed okay. My teeth had been brushed relatively recently. Even my deodorant was working pretty well. But I spent an hour-and-a-half pretending I was talking to other people. Sometimes I'd even carry two glasses with me to make others think I was taking a drink to a companion. The more I reflect on my experiences the other night, the clearer it becomes just how unpopular I really am. Think about it. You know you're really at the acme of your unpopularity when you can't even get a real estate agent to talk to you.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
The Socio-Political Implications of Investing in Chinese Manufacturing (NOT!)
Although my real strength lies in writing well-thought-out social commentary, the only blog I've written recently that anyone seemed to enjoy was the one about big hairy armpits (not mine, just armpits in general). And, while I don't really have much more to say on the subject of big hairy armpits, I do have lots of thoughts on subjects that are equally as disgusting.
For instance, spitting when talking. Don't you just hate it when that happens? If you answered "yes," then here's a piece of advice. Don't talk to me. Or, if you do, keep your distance. I catch myself spitting quite frequently when engaged in conversation. Now, I'm not talking about a big, throat-clearing, gut-wrenching, let'er rip, type of spitting. I just spray it when I say it, so to speak.
I think it's because I have an extremely wet mouth. My dentist once told me I had the wettest mouth he'd ever seen. I quickly informed that dentist that, under no circumstances, was he ever to try and kiss me again.
Speaking of dentists, here's something else that grosses me out. It's looking up a dentist's nose. Invariably, when I'm sitting in that dental chair, and look up at the dentist, there'll be something hanging out of his nose, or at least coming dangerously close to being hurled out of his nose. I become transfixed seeing the object moving up and down in his nose as he speaks. And there I am, mouth wide open, right beneath that nose. Dentists are wearing rubber gloves these days. Which kind of bothers me. It's like saying, I'll take your money, but I don't want to touch your saliva." I think someone should invent some sort of rubber nose guard for the dentist and his/her assistants to wear to protect us patients from them.
Speaking of things hanging from someone else's nose, do you find that if you're talking to that person, you can't concentrate on the conversation? I do. All I can do is stare at his nose. I really have mixed emotions. I'm not sure whether I want the dangling object to be launched or not. That would mean I wouldn't have to look at it, but it would also mean that the object would now be a part of my environment. Also, do you say something about it to the person or not. I worry about such things.
And, if I'm speaking with someone and they can't keep their eyes off my nose, I become very self-conscious. I begin to imagine I feel something dangling. Often, they're simply just admiring my statuesque nose, I think. But, I can't help wondering if there just might be something hanging out of my nose.
These days when someone is staring intently at my face, there's no telling what he or she may be looking at. I used to think I was pretty good looking, well, at least, that I was not revolting to look at. But, recently, while washing my hands in the restroom on an airplane (did I mention that I took a fabulous trip to China in October?) I looked in the mirror with a fluorescent light hanging just over my head. I literally screamed. I have more flaws on my face than Mary Tyler Moore has plastic surgery incisions. And, if it's not the flaws, there's probably some wild hair growing out of my ears. So, going back to what I said earlier, for any number of reasons, if you're talking to me, don't stand too closely.
Well, I hope this satisfies all my friends who prefer that I take a less than intellectual approach in my columns. It's hard, because I'm such a deep thinker, but this is my best effort. If you don't like it, then come just a little bit closer. I have something I want to tell you.
For instance, spitting when talking. Don't you just hate it when that happens? If you answered "yes," then here's a piece of advice. Don't talk to me. Or, if you do, keep your distance. I catch myself spitting quite frequently when engaged in conversation. Now, I'm not talking about a big, throat-clearing, gut-wrenching, let'er rip, type of spitting. I just spray it when I say it, so to speak.
I think it's because I have an extremely wet mouth. My dentist once told me I had the wettest mouth he'd ever seen. I quickly informed that dentist that, under no circumstances, was he ever to try and kiss me again.
Speaking of dentists, here's something else that grosses me out. It's looking up a dentist's nose. Invariably, when I'm sitting in that dental chair, and look up at the dentist, there'll be something hanging out of his nose, or at least coming dangerously close to being hurled out of his nose. I become transfixed seeing the object moving up and down in his nose as he speaks. And there I am, mouth wide open, right beneath that nose. Dentists are wearing rubber gloves these days. Which kind of bothers me. It's like saying, I'll take your money, but I don't want to touch your saliva." I think someone should invent some sort of rubber nose guard for the dentist and his/her assistants to wear to protect us patients from them.
Speaking of things hanging from someone else's nose, do you find that if you're talking to that person, you can't concentrate on the conversation? I do. All I can do is stare at his nose. I really have mixed emotions. I'm not sure whether I want the dangling object to be launched or not. That would mean I wouldn't have to look at it, but it would also mean that the object would now be a part of my environment. Also, do you say something about it to the person or not. I worry about such things.
And, if I'm speaking with someone and they can't keep their eyes off my nose, I become very self-conscious. I begin to imagine I feel something dangling. Often, they're simply just admiring my statuesque nose, I think. But, I can't help wondering if there just might be something hanging out of my nose.
These days when someone is staring intently at my face, there's no telling what he or she may be looking at. I used to think I was pretty good looking, well, at least, that I was not revolting to look at. But, recently, while washing my hands in the restroom on an airplane (did I mention that I took a fabulous trip to China in October?) I looked in the mirror with a fluorescent light hanging just over my head. I literally screamed. I have more flaws on my face than Mary Tyler Moore has plastic surgery incisions. And, if it's not the flaws, there's probably some wild hair growing out of my ears. So, going back to what I said earlier, for any number of reasons, if you're talking to me, don't stand too closely.
Well, I hope this satisfies all my friends who prefer that I take a less than intellectual approach in my columns. It's hard, because I'm such a deep thinker, but this is my best effort. If you don't like it, then come just a little bit closer. I have something I want to tell you.
Took Took Tookie, Goodbye
Rumor has it that washed up television star and political activist, Ed Asner is slated to take over Paul Harvey’s Rest of the Story program once network officials discover that Harvey has been dead for over five years. I say this is a rumor, but, truth be told (or, maybe not), I have obtained Asner’s script he used to audition for the job. And, I’m going to share it with you. Here goes:
Tookie grew up in rough neighborhoods. In order to protect himself and others from gangs, he started his own gang. In February 1979, Tookie holds up a 7-Eleven, and, in the process, he kills a clerk. The clerk is taken into the backroom and shot twice in the back at close range.
Less than two weeks later, Tookie kills again. This time a motel owner, his wife, and daughter. And, again, he shoots them at close range. Witnesses later testify that Tookie laughs at the gurgling sound the man made while dying.
Tookie is convicted or murder and sentenced to die. While in prison, Tookie claims he’s seen the light. He claims to have turned his life around. Tookie even writes children’s books denouncing violence. But there are many doubters. Many are convinced there is no true repentance. The governor refuses to stay his execution.
Perhaps, you’ve guessed by now. This lying murderer is none other than George “Tookie” Bush. Only now you know the rest of the story.
Okay, I admit it. I made that whole thing up. But, there is an underlying point here. I don’t make many valid points, so I hope you’ll take note of this one. My point is totally non-political, but does it seem strange that entertainers like Asner, Ted Danson, Richard Dreyfuss, Elliott Gould, and others, rail against the President of the United States, some even comparing him to Hitler, while petitioning for mercy for a cold-blooded killer?
Asner, who has supported Planned Parenthood, an organization that wholeheartedly endorses abortion, doesn’t seem to mind the murder of innocent babies, innocent 7-Eleven clerks and innocent motel owners. But he’s offended by the execution – not the murder, but the execution – of Tookie Williams. Go figure.
Ted Danson has campaigned to “keep abortions safe,” using the coat hanger in a back alley scare tactic employed by so many pro-choicers (sometimes pronounced pro-abortionists). He wants to keep abortions safe. He wants to keep Tookie Williams alive (or wanted to, anyway). Too bad he isn’t interested in keeping our children safe from gang members like Tookie Williams.
It really is a crazy, mixed-up world. I can understand concerns about capital punishment. There are obvious flaws and inconsistencies in our judicial systems, but what I can’t understand is why so many of those who are against capital punishment are in favor of abortion. Okay, let’s assume that Tookie Williams really did change. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. I could believe your sincerity if you were also in favor of giving that fetus the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it really is a human life growing in the womb. Gee, what a shocking thought.
I read an interesting comment once that compared the ancient pagan ritual of sacrificing children in the fire, to modern-day abortions. The comment basically was that in ancient times, women sacrificed their children on the altar of Molech. Today, many women sacrifice their unborn children on the altar of convenience. I think there’s a lot of truth to that. In fact, I think that comment may very well be the rest of the story.
Tookie grew up in rough neighborhoods. In order to protect himself and others from gangs, he started his own gang. In February 1979, Tookie holds up a 7-Eleven, and, in the process, he kills a clerk. The clerk is taken into the backroom and shot twice in the back at close range.
Less than two weeks later, Tookie kills again. This time a motel owner, his wife, and daughter. And, again, he shoots them at close range. Witnesses later testify that Tookie laughs at the gurgling sound the man made while dying.
Tookie is convicted or murder and sentenced to die. While in prison, Tookie claims he’s seen the light. He claims to have turned his life around. Tookie even writes children’s books denouncing violence. But there are many doubters. Many are convinced there is no true repentance. The governor refuses to stay his execution.
Perhaps, you’ve guessed by now. This lying murderer is none other than George “Tookie” Bush. Only now you know the rest of the story.
Okay, I admit it. I made that whole thing up. But, there is an underlying point here. I don’t make many valid points, so I hope you’ll take note of this one. My point is totally non-political, but does it seem strange that entertainers like Asner, Ted Danson, Richard Dreyfuss, Elliott Gould, and others, rail against the President of the United States, some even comparing him to Hitler, while petitioning for mercy for a cold-blooded killer?
Asner, who has supported Planned Parenthood, an organization that wholeheartedly endorses abortion, doesn’t seem to mind the murder of innocent babies, innocent 7-Eleven clerks and innocent motel owners. But he’s offended by the execution – not the murder, but the execution – of Tookie Williams. Go figure.
Ted Danson has campaigned to “keep abortions safe,” using the coat hanger in a back alley scare tactic employed by so many pro-choicers (sometimes pronounced pro-abortionists). He wants to keep abortions safe. He wants to keep Tookie Williams alive (or wanted to, anyway). Too bad he isn’t interested in keeping our children safe from gang members like Tookie Williams.
It really is a crazy, mixed-up world. I can understand concerns about capital punishment. There are obvious flaws and inconsistencies in our judicial systems, but what I can’t understand is why so many of those who are against capital punishment are in favor of abortion. Okay, let’s assume that Tookie Williams really did change. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. I could believe your sincerity if you were also in favor of giving that fetus the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it really is a human life growing in the womb. Gee, what a shocking thought.
I read an interesting comment once that compared the ancient pagan ritual of sacrificing children in the fire, to modern-day abortions. The comment basically was that in ancient times, women sacrificed their children on the altar of Molech. Today, many women sacrifice their unborn children on the altar of convenience. I think there’s a lot of truth to that. In fact, I think that comment may very well be the rest of the story.
Monday, December 12, 2005
A Dining Tip
Well my day is ruined. And, I'm hoping you want to hear all about it. I'm going to tell you about it, regardless. If I didn't, I would have absolutely nothing to write about today. I had planned to tell you a little horror story about an experience my daughter and her friends had at a local restaurant last night. Seems that, after being seated by the hostess, they waited at the table while two of the waitstaff argued about who would be forced to serve them.
Gee, I was going to jump all over that. I had some really clever lines. It would have been uproarious. I giggled all the way to work this morning regaling myself with excerpts from the column I was going to be writing.
Then I got this brainstorm idea. I figured to make it even funnier, I'd phone the restaurant and tell the manager about my daughter's awful experience. His or her nonchalant attitude would be further fodder to fuel my article. I don't usually go to any effort to research my columns. Believe it or not, it all comes directly from this genius machine residing inside my head. But, since I figured the manager would inspire me, I decided to call.
Bad idea. The manager, a very congenial woman by the name of Carmen, was quite attentive. She sympathized and empathized and did all those nice things that aren't done all that often these days. She even offered to send my daughter a certificate for a complimentary meal at the restaurant. "I want to make sure she'll come back to see us," Carmen said.
I was blown away. I've had less (much less) successful encounters with managers in the past. I remember one occasion when the waitress (at a restaurant that's no longer in business) gave us really horrible service. When I informed her that the meal I had ordered was supposed to come with a salad, she simply said, "You're wrong." She never even offered to check it out. I compensated, somewhat, by not offering to leave a tip. As I'm walking through the parking lot, she comes out and accosts us and says, "You didn't tip me. I'm not going to stand for that."
At that point, I asked to speak to her manager. He was totally unconcerned. His basic reply was, "Well, our waitresses do work for tips." I had a little tip for him, but my wife pulled me out of the restaurant before I had a chance to offer it.
I'm a good tipper, maybe even a semi-great tipper, but I don't tip for poor service.
I dined in a high-falutin restaurant in New York City some time back. I was with a group of about ten, and because we didn't order alcohol the waitstaff stood right behind us and made fun of us and our delightful southern accents. You'd have thought we'd stepped right off the set of Deliverance and into their restaurant. "Those stupid hicks," one said to the other loud enough for us to hear. "Just drinking water..." Well, when it came time to tip, we figured we'd show 'em how stupid we were.
As we were leaving, one of the waitstaff comes up and says, "I just want to let you know that the gratuity is not included in the price of the meal." We thanked her for the education. And, as we walked past the maitre 'd, one in our group said, "Wonder what they meant there were no croutons on the bill?" I guess we showed them.
Well, when I called Carmen (at Champps in Stony Point), I was hoping she'd treat me miserably, you know, give me another hilarious tale to add to my repertoire. Unfortunately no. She was polite. She stressed how sorry she was, and assured me the matter would be addressed, and, as I said, she offered to compensate.
She wasn't good for laughs, but, from a customer service and P.R. standpoint, she was great. I might not have gotten around to eating at Champps, but now, I'll make a special point to do so. So all you waiters and waitresses down at Champps, listen up. I'm a huge tipper. Phenomenol tipper, in fact. You can argue about who gets to serve me, but not over who has to serve me, and there may even be some croutons in your future.
Gee, I was going to jump all over that. I had some really clever lines. It would have been uproarious. I giggled all the way to work this morning regaling myself with excerpts from the column I was going to be writing.
Then I got this brainstorm idea. I figured to make it even funnier, I'd phone the restaurant and tell the manager about my daughter's awful experience. His or her nonchalant attitude would be further fodder to fuel my article. I don't usually go to any effort to research my columns. Believe it or not, it all comes directly from this genius machine residing inside my head. But, since I figured the manager would inspire me, I decided to call.
Bad idea. The manager, a very congenial woman by the name of Carmen, was quite attentive. She sympathized and empathized and did all those nice things that aren't done all that often these days. She even offered to send my daughter a certificate for a complimentary meal at the restaurant. "I want to make sure she'll come back to see us," Carmen said.
I was blown away. I've had less (much less) successful encounters with managers in the past. I remember one occasion when the waitress (at a restaurant that's no longer in business) gave us really horrible service. When I informed her that the meal I had ordered was supposed to come with a salad, she simply said, "You're wrong." She never even offered to check it out. I compensated, somewhat, by not offering to leave a tip. As I'm walking through the parking lot, she comes out and accosts us and says, "You didn't tip me. I'm not going to stand for that."
At that point, I asked to speak to her manager. He was totally unconcerned. His basic reply was, "Well, our waitresses do work for tips." I had a little tip for him, but my wife pulled me out of the restaurant before I had a chance to offer it.
I'm a good tipper, maybe even a semi-great tipper, but I don't tip for poor service.
I dined in a high-falutin restaurant in New York City some time back. I was with a group of about ten, and because we didn't order alcohol the waitstaff stood right behind us and made fun of us and our delightful southern accents. You'd have thought we'd stepped right off the set of Deliverance and into their restaurant. "Those stupid hicks," one said to the other loud enough for us to hear. "Just drinking water..." Well, when it came time to tip, we figured we'd show 'em how stupid we were.
As we were leaving, one of the waitstaff comes up and says, "I just want to let you know that the gratuity is not included in the price of the meal." We thanked her for the education. And, as we walked past the maitre 'd, one in our group said, "Wonder what they meant there were no croutons on the bill?" I guess we showed them.
Well, when I called Carmen (at Champps in Stony Point), I was hoping she'd treat me miserably, you know, give me another hilarious tale to add to my repertoire. Unfortunately no. She was polite. She stressed how sorry she was, and assured me the matter would be addressed, and, as I said, she offered to compensate.
She wasn't good for laughs, but, from a customer service and P.R. standpoint, she was great. I might not have gotten around to eating at Champps, but now, I'll make a special point to do so. So all you waiters and waitresses down at Champps, listen up. I'm a huge tipper. Phenomenol tipper, in fact. You can argue about who gets to serve me, but not over who has to serve me, and there may even be some croutons in your future.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Give Credit Where Credit Is Due
So, I’m sitting at my desk this morning, and, in all honesty, I’m coming up empty on something to write about. Then out of the blue, the phone rings. Although it’s early, before business hours, I pick up the phone.
“Is this Mr. Steve Cook?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.
I get that instant throbbing feeling one gets as his head starts to swell. “Yes, but you can call me ‘The,’” I say.
“My name is Lochru,” he says. “And, I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“Lochru? “ I question. “Sounds rather Druidish.”
“Bingo,” he says.
“Bingo?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers. “I’m a Druid.”
“Sure you are,” I say with a certain degree of sarcasm.
“No, honestly,” he continues. “I’m Druid, actually half-Druid, half-Nordic…and half-Roman.” He laughs. “That’s an old Druid joke.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” I ask him. The Druids have been extinct for centuries.” I say. I’m not so sure that’s accurate, but I throw it out there.
“You’re basically correct,” he answers. “I was frozen for centuries at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir, and only just recently thawed out.”
Now I know he’s lying. “The Falling Creek Reservoir hardly ever freezes,” I say.
“Thin blood, I guess,” he answers.
I decide to play along. “So where are you living now,” I ask.
“I’ve been renting a room from Rufus T. Matthews,” he says.
“You mean the Chesterfield guy…”
“Yeah, the guy who won’t sell his house to them coloreds,” he says, doing a pretty decent Rufus T. Matthews impersonation. “What antiquated thinking,” he adds, in his own voice. “But, all in all, the guy’s not so bad, just a little behind in the times.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about ‘the times’ for someone who’s been frozen for centuries,” I say, congratulating myself on the quick retort.
“I read,” he says.
“So, you said you wanted my help,” I say, changing the subject.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been following this ongoing debate about whether to call it a Christmas tree or a holiday tree, and whether to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’”
“So?” I ask him.
“Well,” he continues, “I heard this woman on TV say since it’s Christian, it ought to be called a Christmas tree. I have to admit, that gets my goat.”
“What do you mean, Mr….Is it Lochru,” I ask.
“Yeah, but you can call me what everyone else does, or did…back in the day,” he says.
“And, what’s that?”
“Sonny,” he answers.
“Okay, Sonny,” I say. “What do you mean it gets your goat?”
“Everybody’s talking about all these holiday festivities, but nobody ever stops to thank us Druids,” he says. He does sound sincerely upset.
“Could you explain?” I ask him.
“Hey,” he continues. “A lot of these things started with us Druids, although I admit, we stole some of ‘em from the Romans.”
“What kind of things?” I ask him.
“You know, the holly, the mistletoe, that sort of stuff.”
“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “We were big on the nature stuff. We specialized in the worship of trees and bushes and the like.”
“Tell me more.” I’m getting interested in what Sonny has to say.
“We even had a Holly King,” he explains. “He wears red, lives just one night a year, and drives a team of eight deer.”
“You’re kidding,” I say. “That sounds like…”
“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.
“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.
“Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know, let’s give credit where credit is due,” he says. “Give us the credit for all these traditions you folks stole from us, and, if, I run into any re-thawed fellow Druids, I’ll let them know that this idea of not selling your home to ‘them coloreds,' originated with you all.”
With that he hung up. I really don’t know whether to say anything about this or not.
“Is this Mr. Steve Cook?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.
I get that instant throbbing feeling one gets as his head starts to swell. “Yes, but you can call me ‘The,’” I say.
“My name is Lochru,” he says. “And, I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“Lochru? “ I question. “Sounds rather Druidish.”
“Bingo,” he says.
“Bingo?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers. “I’m a Druid.”
“Sure you are,” I say with a certain degree of sarcasm.
“No, honestly,” he continues. “I’m Druid, actually half-Druid, half-Nordic…and half-Roman.” He laughs. “That’s an old Druid joke.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” I ask him. The Druids have been extinct for centuries.” I say. I’m not so sure that’s accurate, but I throw it out there.
“You’re basically correct,” he answers. “I was frozen for centuries at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir, and only just recently thawed out.”
Now I know he’s lying. “The Falling Creek Reservoir hardly ever freezes,” I say.
“Thin blood, I guess,” he answers.
I decide to play along. “So where are you living now,” I ask.
“I’ve been renting a room from Rufus T. Matthews,” he says.
“You mean the Chesterfield guy…”
“Yeah, the guy who won’t sell his house to them coloreds,” he says, doing a pretty decent Rufus T. Matthews impersonation. “What antiquated thinking,” he adds, in his own voice. “But, all in all, the guy’s not so bad, just a little behind in the times.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about ‘the times’ for someone who’s been frozen for centuries,” I say, congratulating myself on the quick retort.
“I read,” he says.
“So, you said you wanted my help,” I say, changing the subject.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been following this ongoing debate about whether to call it a Christmas tree or a holiday tree, and whether to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’”
“So?” I ask him.
“Well,” he continues, “I heard this woman on TV say since it’s Christian, it ought to be called a Christmas tree. I have to admit, that gets my goat.”
“What do you mean, Mr….Is it Lochru,” I ask.
“Yeah, but you can call me what everyone else does, or did…back in the day,” he says.
“And, what’s that?”
“Sonny,” he answers.
“Okay, Sonny,” I say. “What do you mean it gets your goat?”
“Everybody’s talking about all these holiday festivities, but nobody ever stops to thank us Druids,” he says. He does sound sincerely upset.
“Could you explain?” I ask him.
“Hey,” he continues. “A lot of these things started with us Druids, although I admit, we stole some of ‘em from the Romans.”
“What kind of things?” I ask him.
“You know, the holly, the mistletoe, that sort of stuff.”
“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “We were big on the nature stuff. We specialized in the worship of trees and bushes and the like.”
“Tell me more.” I’m getting interested in what Sonny has to say.
“We even had a Holly King,” he explains. “He wears red, lives just one night a year, and drives a team of eight deer.”
“You’re kidding,” I say. “That sounds like…”
“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.
“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.
“Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know, let’s give credit where credit is due,” he says. “Give us the credit for all these traditions you folks stole from us, and, if, I run into any re-thawed fellow Druids, I’ll let them know that this idea of not selling your home to ‘them coloreds,' originated with you all.”
With that he hung up. I really don’t know whether to say anything about this or not.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Did You Hear the One About the School Board Chairman?
Okay, all you supporters of a ballpark in Shockoe Bottom, I have some great news. I think I have come up with a virtually sure-fire plan to get city officials, as well as city residents, to come out in full support of the Atlanta/Richmond Braves proposal for a new stadium in the Bottom.
Being an astute student of history, I've learned from the recent goings-on in Richmond. And, it's all very simple. Here's what has to be done. R-Braves general manager, Bruce Baldwin, simply has to announce that he, and the entire Braves team are all gay. Just for a little insurance, he may want to post semi-nude pictures of himself and the players on a pornographic internet site. That's not mandatory, but it would be a nice touch.
Do you see the logic here? Just look at the reaction to the Stephen Johnson deal. Here, you have the chairman of the Richmond School Board posting a semi-nude picture of himself, along with what has been termed an explicitly worded profile of himself on a pornographic, gay, Internet website. When word gets out about his little indiscretion, he does resign his chairmanship, but feels it appropriate to stay on the school board.
Now, if you're thinking there'd be public outrage, you'd better check your calendar. The times, they are a-changing. Here we are in a city that prides itself on being slow to change. We're so slow that when Bruce Baldwin announced a proposal to build a mega-complex in downtown Richmond, centered around a beautiful new ballpark, you'd have thunk he was calling for the repeal of the Emancipation Proclamation.
The guy's virtually tarred and feathered by everyone including the city's own mayor, Governor Wilder. But what happens when Stephen Johnson steps down as chairman of the school board, and then proceeds to blast the Richmond Times Dispatch for telling on him? He gets a standing ovation.
According to the story in the TD, the crowd, including fellow board members did everything but hoist him on their shoulders and carry him out of the room, singing "For he's a jolly gay fellow."
You think I'm exaggerating? Well, here's what school superintendent, Deborah Jewell-Sherman, was quoted as saying, "I want to publicly thank Mr. Stephen B. Johnson for the tremendous job he has done over the last year as chairman of the School Board." Forget the fact that Mr. Stephen B. Johnson has set a horrible example for the city's youth, you know the ones who go to those schools he's working for. Let's just concentrate on that tremendous job he's done.
Bruce Baldwin, are you getting this? The ballpark is in the bag if you'll just bare your chest for the camera. The Times Dispatch went on to continue Ms. Jewell-Sherman's quote: ""I have never been prouder of you, Mr. Johnson, than I am tonight when you put before your own personal feelings the well-being of the Richmond Public School Board." Next, the newspaper writes: "She (she, being the school superintendent, don't forget) stood and began applauding. Nearly everyone in the packed room joined her."
I don't seem to recall Bruce Baldwin getting a standing O when he proposed an exciting, dynamic project for the city. I don't seem to recall anyone telling him what a tremendous job he's done in providing the city with a first-class professional sports organization over the past several years.
But, Stephen B. Johnson, now that's another story. Deborah Jewell-Sherman is so proud of the former school board chairman that she couldn't resist embracing him, much the way a city that hates change has embraced homosexuality. And, let's be honest, that's really what this is all about. One thing you have to say about the gay community, they've done a great job making heterosexuals feel embarrassed for opposing homosexuality...so embarrassed that now, seemingly normal, good, decent everyday folks are too scared to come right out and tell Stephen B. Johnson that they're repulsed by his actions.
People today are so scared about being branded homophobic that they'll sell their own kids down the river (the James River, in this instance) rather than risk offending a gay guy.
My personal feelings (or anyone else's) about homosexuality are not at the heart of this story. WRVA's afternoon talk show host, Mac Watson, has summed this up well. He's basically stated that if Johnson were straight and had posted his evidently titilating profile on a heterosexual porn dating site, he would not have received the same, warm, accepting reaction from the public. Mac's exactly right.
I know that a city like Richmond has not been turned into an east coast version of San Francisco overnight. But, I also know that many Richmonders are just too gutless to let their true feelings be known. According to the TD, when one Richmond resident began circulating a petition urging Johnson to resign from the board, she only got five signatures.
So, bottom line, Bruce Baldwin, you know what you gotta do. Listen to me, and before you know it, we'll be watching baseball in the Bottom and enjoying three-dollar beer night.
Being an astute student of history, I've learned from the recent goings-on in Richmond. And, it's all very simple. Here's what has to be done. R-Braves general manager, Bruce Baldwin, simply has to announce that he, and the entire Braves team are all gay. Just for a little insurance, he may want to post semi-nude pictures of himself and the players on a pornographic internet site. That's not mandatory, but it would be a nice touch.
Do you see the logic here? Just look at the reaction to the Stephen Johnson deal. Here, you have the chairman of the Richmond School Board posting a semi-nude picture of himself, along with what has been termed an explicitly worded profile of himself on a pornographic, gay, Internet website. When word gets out about his little indiscretion, he does resign his chairmanship, but feels it appropriate to stay on the school board.
Now, if you're thinking there'd be public outrage, you'd better check your calendar. The times, they are a-changing. Here we are in a city that prides itself on being slow to change. We're so slow that when Bruce Baldwin announced a proposal to build a mega-complex in downtown Richmond, centered around a beautiful new ballpark, you'd have thunk he was calling for the repeal of the Emancipation Proclamation.
The guy's virtually tarred and feathered by everyone including the city's own mayor, Governor Wilder. But what happens when Stephen Johnson steps down as chairman of the school board, and then proceeds to blast the Richmond Times Dispatch for telling on him? He gets a standing ovation.
According to the story in the TD, the crowd, including fellow board members did everything but hoist him on their shoulders and carry him out of the room, singing "For he's a jolly gay fellow."
You think I'm exaggerating? Well, here's what school superintendent, Deborah Jewell-Sherman, was quoted as saying, "I want to publicly thank Mr. Stephen B. Johnson for the tremendous job he has done over the last year as chairman of the School Board." Forget the fact that Mr. Stephen B. Johnson has set a horrible example for the city's youth, you know the ones who go to those schools he's working for. Let's just concentrate on that tremendous job he's done.
Bruce Baldwin, are you getting this? The ballpark is in the bag if you'll just bare your chest for the camera. The Times Dispatch went on to continue Ms. Jewell-Sherman's quote: ""I have never been prouder of you, Mr. Johnson, than I am tonight when you put before your own personal feelings the well-being of the Richmond Public School Board." Next, the newspaper writes: "She (she, being the school superintendent, don't forget) stood and began applauding. Nearly everyone in the packed room joined her."
I don't seem to recall Bruce Baldwin getting a standing O when he proposed an exciting, dynamic project for the city. I don't seem to recall anyone telling him what a tremendous job he's done in providing the city with a first-class professional sports organization over the past several years.
But, Stephen B. Johnson, now that's another story. Deborah Jewell-Sherman is so proud of the former school board chairman that she couldn't resist embracing him, much the way a city that hates change has embraced homosexuality. And, let's be honest, that's really what this is all about. One thing you have to say about the gay community, they've done a great job making heterosexuals feel embarrassed for opposing homosexuality...so embarrassed that now, seemingly normal, good, decent everyday folks are too scared to come right out and tell Stephen B. Johnson that they're repulsed by his actions.
People today are so scared about being branded homophobic that they'll sell their own kids down the river (the James River, in this instance) rather than risk offending a gay guy.
My personal feelings (or anyone else's) about homosexuality are not at the heart of this story. WRVA's afternoon talk show host, Mac Watson, has summed this up well. He's basically stated that if Johnson were straight and had posted his evidently titilating profile on a heterosexual porn dating site, he would not have received the same, warm, accepting reaction from the public. Mac's exactly right.
I know that a city like Richmond has not been turned into an east coast version of San Francisco overnight. But, I also know that many Richmonders are just too gutless to let their true feelings be known. According to the TD, when one Richmond resident began circulating a petition urging Johnson to resign from the board, she only got five signatures.
So, bottom line, Bruce Baldwin, you know what you gotta do. Listen to me, and before you know it, we'll be watching baseball in the Bottom and enjoying three-dollar beer night.
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