Takes a Licking and Keeps on Licking

My wife and I are having a slight difference of opinion. I think I'm a pretty good husband. She can't stand the sight of me. No, just kidding. What we don't quite see eye to eye on has to do with our dogs...Sheddy and Poopy. I've changed the dogs name so that my wife won't know who I'm writing about.
I see dogs differently than does she. And I know that there are many of you pet lovers out there who will be totally in her corner. While you're there, how about helping to clean up the mess the dogs have made.
They're not bad dogs...I mean, they don't drink or smoke or curse. But, they're dogs. They have hair that falls off their bodies in great quantity. They love to lick, even though I've done or said nothing that could possibly give them the idea I was inviting their licks. And they love to jump in the bed...on me.
My wife finds this behavior perfectly acceptable. Although I'm willing to bet that she wouldn't look as favorably on me if my hair was all over the house, or if I went around licking her and anyone else that walks in the house. She does let me on the bed, but only after I've showered, and then she has to put a towel on the pillow so my wet head doesn't leave stains.
The two precious pups, however, can go right from drinking out of their porcelain water bowl in the bathroom to the bed, no questions asked. Where, I ask you, is the justice in that.
Now, keep in mind, I'm not criticizing my wife. I understand that there are many dog lovers and she's one of them. It's just that I'm not. And, no matter how much she might wish I were, it's just not in my makeup. Sometimes she'll ask me to say something nice to the dogs. I swear, I would, but I just don't know what dogs like to hear. If I tell them how pretty they are and how much I love them, I think they'll detect the insincerity in my voice. Dogs hate hypocrites, I'm told.
I try to like the dogs. Sometimes I'll even pat one of them on the head. But, how do they repay me? They lick me. Look, I'm just patting you on the head, that's all. That wet feel on my hand or, heaven forbid, face, is downright gross.
Dogs don't understand that. They take the least little display of affection as an invitation to bond...to form some sort of a relationship. I could walk in the room, kick the dog (which I never would), and then say, "Hey Poopy," and Poopy would come running as if we were long lost friends.
I guess there's something to be said for that sort of forgiving, accepting attitude. Maybe it would be nice if humans were so willing to offer their affection so unconditionally. Who knows, maybe the dogs will help me to be a kinder, gentler sort of guy. Maybe I'll be able to make a few friends, rather than keeping everyone at arm's length. I feel like going right out and making some friends right now. Who knows, maybe you and I could really bond. I'm ready for that. Just one request, even if you do find me somewhat likeable, please just don't lick me.

To Dream The Improbable Dream

First, I want to apologize for not getting back to you yesterday. I know you were glued to your computer, waiting, breathlessly, to hear more of my fascinating tales of unfulfilled goals and ambitions. I meant to write, but I was tied up most all day yesterday getting a petition drive going to try and change the name of the Maymont bear.
You know, if someone had held a contest to come up with the most asanine, the most ridiculous name you would give a bear who lived in a park in Richmond, Virginia, I would have thought Phoenix to be a pretty good choice. The name has nothing to do with bears, with Richmond, with Virginia (there is a small town named Phenix, but that's about as close as you could get). It's not an especially pretty name. It doesn't say "wild and growly" to me. I am dumbfounded.
But we'll leave that to another day. If you do want to sign my petition, please let me know. And, if you're like me and adore the name, Bobby the Baby Biting Bear, give me a shout out.
I was talking previously about jobs I always wanted, no, make that careers, but for one reason or another, never achieved. I mentioned the circus. I think I would have loved that, even if I was just shoveling elephant droppings. I really would have liked to have been a hobo, but hopping freights, as enjoyable as it must be, would probably not have been my forte. I'd have probably lost a leg on my first hop, and there's nothing more pathetic than a one-legged hobo.
But my all-time most favorite career would be a book-mobile driver. I remember my first book-mobile. (Who doesn't?) I remember as a first grader at Boones Mill Elementary School, in Franklin County, a book-mobile came to the school. I remember thinking to myself, "Why, this is almost like a library on wheels."
I remember climbing on board, and seeing all those beautiful books. I knew from that day on that when I grew up I'd be a book-mobile driver. Sometimes you just know things. And, sometimes you're absolutely wrong. This was one of those times, because for whatever reason, I never became a book-mobile driver. Maybe it's because I have poor depth perception. Those big side-mounted mirrors stick out way too far on the big rigs. I think I could have been a book-mobile host. You know, riding along and then when the book-mobile got to wherever it was going, I could open the door and welcome people aboard and even make some recommendations. As strange as it may seem, whenever I would apply for such a job, the book-mobile people would just stare at me and shake their heads. Maybe I was just a little too ahead of my time.
When I was about twenty, I dabbled with the idea of starting my own book-mobile company. I thought maybe I could buy a cargo van, and install shelves, and go buy some discount books at the book store and drive around town. Some of my friends discouraged me saying that no one would want to crawl around in a van looking for books. I felt that if I kept the really good books on the bottom shelf, perhaps my customers wouldn't notice.
That was another sticking point...customers. It seems that most people who use the services of a book-mobile are very tight with their money. They expect book-mobiles to just lend out their books at no charge! How in the world can a guy make a living doing that? Why just the cost of gasoline would put me out of business within about three days.
So that was that. My dream burst like one of those big bubbles that the truly professional bubble blowers whom you see on TV can blow. Hey, now, that's a career I hadn't thought of. Excuse me. I'm going to go do a little research.
.

The Gift of Gabby Hayes

I'm going through a three-quarter-life crisis. It's too late to be a mid-life one. I have been analyzing my life and virtually everything I ever wanted to be or do I haven't been or done. I know all kids, or at least most kids, set rather lofty goals as to what they want to be when they grow up. I didn't want to be a doctor. My father was a doctor and he was always rushing out of the house at all hours saving lives. Too inconvenient for me. Just a quick aside, I do wonder at what point in life does a person decide, "Hey, I want to be a proctologist." Not that we don't need proctologists. I just wonder if there's a turning point, where certain people know that's their calling in life. It would have been my luck to spend years in medical school and then get such a calling.
I also didn't want to be a movie star. What I wanted to be was a sidekick. I loved sidekicks. Andy Devine was one of my favorites. He was Jingles on Wild Bill Hickock. Remember? His voice sounded like he had swallowed a curtain rod, which is what my mother told me he had done. I don't know if that was true or not. My mother tended to make things up when she didn't have the facts, or just to scare me. For instance, it wasn't until I was in my twenties that it finally dawned on me that playing with a rubber band couldn't hardly put your eye out. She always swore she knew a kid that that had happened to.
But the very best sidekick ever was Gabby Hayes. I think I could have made a pretty good Gabby Hayes. I could, and still can, say "Dag nab it," so perfectly, that you'd swear Hayes had risen from his grave and was speaking.
That's the only impersonation I could ever really master. I thought about getting up a lounge act doing impersonations. That was another goal of mine, but with the inability to really do anything other than "dag nab i," I felt my range was just a little too limited. I know that personally, I wouldn't want to spend twenty bucks to hear someone come on stage and say, "Dag nab it," and then exit. So, I felt that it wouldn't be fair for me to do that.
I have worked on a few other impersonations, but just don't have them down all that well. I can do a great Lauren Bacall doing an impersonation of Mr. Ed. "Wilburrrrr!" Somehow impersonations just don't translate that well in print, but try doing Lauren Bacall doing Mr. Ed at home. It may not be as good as mine, but at least you'll get the idea.
I can also do John Wayne, but only for the one word..."Pilgrim." Again, it's hard to pull off a really dazzling performance with just a few words.
But, back to the sidekick idea. I would have pursued that, but I could tell, as early as twenty five years ago that sidekicks were a dying breed. The last really true sidekick was Ed McMahon. By the way, I can say, "Ohhhhhhahhhh," like him, at least it sounds somewhat like him.
There just aren't any good sidekicks anymore. I don't really consider Robin a sidekick to Batman. He's more like an apprentice. Gabby Hayes is dead and gone, and there's no one who can replace him. True, I can say "Dag nab it," but I could never duplicate his beard. I'm just too hairless. If I shave on Monday, I get Thursday shadow. And, a really good western movie sidekick has to have a beard.
There are other goals I had, that for one reason or another I had to abandon along this meandering highway I like to call "life." Maybe I'll tell you more about that tomorrow. Or, possibly, in keeping with my true character, I may decide not to bother with it. Or, I may have packed up and run off with the circus. Oops, I guess I kind of gave away one of my lifelong ambitions. But, if I'm still around, we'll talk tomorrow. Maybe.

Take a Number and Rot

First, before I begin my tale of unparalleled stupidity by a government agency, I just want to say how proud I am of Mayor Governor Wilder and the entire bunch who came up with the name for Maymont's new bear. People are always accusing Richmonders of being too localized in their thinking...of thinking that if it's not from Richmond, it ain't worth much. But, I think it's safe to go out on a limb after this past weekend and say, "You're very Richmond, if you name the Richmond bear after a southwestern United States city.
Okay, really, what did you truly name the bear? Come on. It's a cute joke...naming the bear Phoenix, but this is carrying a joke too far. I could understand that some of the judges weren't crazy about my suggestion, Bobby, the Baby-Biting Bear, but really, that name makes a lot more sense, and is a heck of a lot cuter than Phoenix.
Is it some sort of symbolism? I know the dead bears were cremated, so is this saying that the new bear rose from the ashes of those child-devouring bears that used to terrorize visitors to Maymont? Could this be a way of scaring the kids. You know, as if to say, "Ha Ha. You thought you killed the bears, but they're back in one bigger, meaner, child biting furry machine."
If so, then, hmmm, I'm all for it. I like it, actually. Forget what I said. Maybe this was a good decision on the part of city officials.
Now, on to the issue at hand. My wife and I have been living at the DMV over the past few days, trying to get a matter straightened out. Those folks there are not only the rudest, crudest, most arrogant group of government-payroll leeches, but they're also exceptionally stupid. And them's there good points.
My wife sent off her check weeks ago for her new decals. She got the new registration but not the decals. So, she calls DMV - Dirty Moronic Vultures...of course vultures only eat the flesh after the animal has died. The folks at DMV slay you then devour you.
Anyway, she calls DMV and after about a 30 minute wait, she's told she has to come in and pick up replacement decals, so she goes, gets in the drive through line and waits about an hour. Finally, she has to give up, because there are other things happening in her life. So we go back the next day. Unbelieveably, there's hardly any line in the drive through. We pull up, give the woman the registration - a new registration I might add, and the woman tells my wife that she can't give her the decals because that car was sold to someone in North Carolina in November.
The fact that my wife is driving the car, and holding a new registration that DMV sent her in May means absolutely nothing to the barely English-speaking customer service rep. One thing to keep in mind when you go to DMV, yes, it is a Virginia governmental agency, but they don't speak English.
My wife's car is leased, so, home we go and call Honda Finance. We have to be transferred three times, but each rep is very polite, and they speak beautiful English. The irony is not lost on me that the only company in America with English speaking reps is a Japanese company. Not one person even so much as said, "Ah so..."
The final word from Honda is that they had never notified DMV of any change in the lease status. They insist it must be the fault of DMV. Having had previous dealings with DMV, I have no trouble believing that.
The next day is Saturday. My wife gets up early and gets to DMV at eight AM...opening time. Already there is a line around the interior of the building...not waiting to be served, just waiting to get a number so you can go somewhere else and wait to be served. It took an hour just to get a number.
At the window, my wife explains the problem. The rep is new and asks a fellow rep what should she do. That rep says to go ahead and give her the decals. But, the new rep calls a manager who refuses to do that. In other words, there are no real rules. Everyone just kind of makes it up as they go along. If my wife had gotten the other window, she would have had her decals. Makes perfect sense to me.
So, anyway, my wife has to get Honda to fax her some paper, then she has to go back down to DMV and spend another morning. I think the next time she needs to take along something I like to call an intimidator. Something that gets the DMV morons motivated. I wonder if Phoenix might be available.

There's A Song In My Heart - But It's a Sad One

I'm sad today. You ask me why I'm sad. You wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back, And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.

Oops, a little Johnny Cash got in the way there.
But, I think you can tell that this is something deep in my own heart.
I'm nothing if not sincere.

And the reason I'm sad today is, as many of you, no doubt, also are, is because of our two dearly departed Maymont bears. Up until today, I thought I had an ally. I thought Mayor Governor Wilder felt the pain that I did. But, apparently, I've been horribly deceived. I guess you heard the news already.
Saturday is Welcome the New Bear day at Maymont. That's right. It's like our two friends never existed. See ya black bears, we have us a new cute little cub now.
How can people be so heartless. How can people be so cruel.
Easy
Easy to be hard.

Oops, a little Three Dog Night got in the way there.
But you do see my point. Don't you?
They say when you lose a bear, you should pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.
That, my friend, is easier said than done. Sure, it might have worked for Goldilocks. But, hey, Steve Cook is human. Cut Steve Cook and he bleeds. And, internally, I'm bleeding. Wait, don't call the paramedics. I speak figuratively, even somewhat allegorically.
I guess I'm just a little bewildered to think that all of these Richmonders who were crying about the bears only weeks ago, are going to go out and celebrate the new bear this weekend.
Well, let me tell you my friends. I might go. It might be therapeutic. I guess. I want to hear the Mayor reveal the new name. Oh please let it be my suggestion - Bobby, the Baby Biting Bear. I hear the Mayor is also going to announce that he's legally adopted the bear. So whatever it's first name, it's last name will be Wilder.
Oh yes, I'll go. I'll smile.
But if there's a smile on my face
It's only there trying to fool the public
But when it comes down to fooling you
Now honey that's quite a different subject

But don't let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Cos really I'm sad, Oh I'm sadder than sad
Well I'm hurt and I want you so bad
Like a clown I appear to be glad ooh yeah

Well there're some sad things known to man
But ain't too much sadder than
The tears of a clown when there's noone around
Oh yeah, baby baby, oh yeah baby baby

I really need to cut off my radio at night.

But, look for me at Maymont. Oh yes, I'll stand in the face-painting line, but don't be surprised when you see me. I'll be the one with the big frown painted on my sad little face.

Now That's Just Stupid

How about those suicides in Guantanomo? I guess those terrorist really showed us a thing or two, huh? That'll teach us to try and imprison those fellows.
And, hey, what about that big bus boycott in Richmond today? What if they gave a boycott and nobody didn't come? That's kind of the way it was. Although the local head of the NAACP did have a clever line. He said city officials (as in Mayor Governor Wilder) think more of black bears than they do black people. You know, when folks come up with such brilliant sound bites, it just naturally makes you to respect them and their cause all the more.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that there seems to be an international pandemic of stupidity. It's like virtually everyone has lost the ability to think reasonably and to keep their big mouths shut when all they have to say is something asanine.
Even Ann Coulter seems to have lost it. I always kind of liked her, and, I think she makes a lot of sense most of the time, but why would she publicly call 9/11 widows "witches" and accuse them of using their husbands' deaths for their own political gain? I mean, for heaven's sake, even if you believe it (even if it's partially true), keep your big mouth shut. You just come off looking stupid.
Of course compared to that idiot in California who sued to have the phrase "In God We Trust" taken off of currency, because, he said, as an atheist, the phrase violated his consitutional rights, Coulter seems downright brilliant.
Really, I'm not kidding. There's a super-normal plague of stupidity that's settled in on the world. Did you hear the press conference regarding the bombing of Zarqawi?
Some of the journalist were more concerned about the obese (now dead) terrorist master mind than they were about the Maymont bears. Go figure.
I believe if Hitler were alive today, there'd be a large number of media folks who'd view him as simply misunderstood and in need of some TLC. It's funny, on one hand, we're becoming a more violent world, and on the other hand, we want to pollycoddle every ne'er do well who straps on the dynamite and decides to blow himself and a bunch of his enemies up.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe everybody else gets it, and I'm just an uneducated boob. Perhaps I'm losing it. Next thing you know, I'll be getting up at three in the morning to watch the World Cup. If it comes to that...just shoot me.

Let Them Eat Cake

You know something that I just can't stand? Besides people in general, that is? It's people who make a big to do about their birthday, or about birthdays in general. What is the big deal? That you lived another year?
I used to work in corporate America, in large offices, and virtually every day someone was having a birthday. So, virtually every day someone thought they should be given special treatment. When 55 year old women go around calling each other the "birthday girl" it makes me wanna gag. Wait, don't tell me how old you are. Let me count the wrinkles.
And whoever came up with this oh, so hilarious over-the-hill black balloon craze ought to be shot. It's not just the black balloons. It's the black streamers, and the black confetti, and the black cards. I'd like to give 'em a black eye.
What I really hate are those happy birthday spontaneous combustion outbursts you hear in restaurants. I know there are no-smoking sections, I wish they'd have no birthday celebration sections in restaurants.
Every dog-gone time I go out to eat I encounter at least one of the unruly displays of celebratory excitement. It starts by a gang of waiters (who should be pouring me some more ice water) marching through the restaurant clapping their hands.
As soon as I hear the clapping begin, I want to dive through the plate glass window. I know what's in store.
This roving gang of limited-talent birthday thugs converge on the "birthday girl's" table and begin this "Happy Birthday" chant. They can't sing Happy Birthday to You because that song is copyrighted and they'd have to pay a fee everytime they sing it.
So they do the next worse thing. They have this hideous, tuneless cacophony of random notes that goes something like, "Happy happy" clap-clap "Happy happy" clap-clap "Happy hapy birthday." And then after the hubbub dies down, everyone in the restaurant is supposed to stop what they're doing (such as gagging) and applaud. I'm not sure if we're supposed to applaud the performance or the fact that someone in the place is having a birthday.
Go ahead. Ask me if I appl....NOPE.
Here's a little advice to the birthday celebrant, and I mean this is the nicest way possible. Shut up. No one cares. We all have birthdays. They mean nothing. I've had one each year since I was born. And, it's really nothing to get so excited about.
One more thing, what's with the birthday cake? I've seen grown women giggling hysterically at the thought of putting one candle for each year on the cake of a co-worker.
The only person who should get a little excited over that would be the fire marshall. But nothing seems to delight forty plus (age, not size, although...) women like birthday candles. They light the candles, the birthday girl blows her saliva all over the cake, everyone applauds, and then they all eat the saliva-drenched cake. Wow, what a great idea.
The whole thing is ridiculous. So, my final word. When June 29th comes around this year, I don't want you to do anything for me. Remember that. On June 29th, I don't want anyone to say anything. Not on June 29th. And, now I have to stop writing and go look at neckties. I sure do like neckties.

Just Call Me Steve Cool

I ran into an old school mate today…hadn’t seen him since 1967. He doesn’t look like a teenager anymore, but he didn’t look all that old. That disappoints me. I want to be the youngest looking person in my age group.
When I meet up with someone with whom I went to school, and identify myself, they always ask what basically amounts to the same question: “Steve who?” Today, the question was, “What year were you?”
“Same as you,” I answered. His puzzled look spoke volumes. Trying to put him at ease, I added, “I was recently voted the most unmemorable person to ever attend Hermitage High School.”
“Oh really?” he asked. I got the impression he had no trouble at all believing that. To be honest, I wasn’t voted most unmemorable. I’m not sure that they even give that sort of an award, but truth is, someone would have to remember you to vote for you. So, the fact that I’ve never been voted the most unmemorable, is a good indication that I am.
I’m not throwing myself a pity party here, but I had very few friends in high school. Maybe like zero.
I was a pretty shy sort of guy, although I always found myself to be rather humorous. I think I would have made a good friend. I never stole anyone’s girlfriend. Of course, that wasn’t for lack of trying.
I never really got in any trouble. Maybe that was part of my unpopularity, especially with the girls. Girls always seem to like the bad boys…the troublemakers. I was too afraid to make trouble. I was afraid that if anyone ever scolded me, I’d just break down and cry.
Girls don’t seem to be especially turned on by guys who cry. Believe me, I know.
I probably should have carried a switchblade or something when I was in school. You could in those days. Today, you get expelled for having a plastic butter knife in your pocket. Back when I went to school, I think machine guns were allowed. Although, I never thought to bring one to school.
I should have kept a pack of smokes rolled up in my t-shirt sleeve. I would have, except I didn’t smoke and we weren’t allowed to wear t-shirts, at least not on the outside. We weren’t even allowed to have our shirttails out. That was okay by me. I always dressed neatly in the latest fashions from the Sears Huskies department.
I know some of the uppity kids used to make fun of me because I didn’t wear something called Weejuns, or something like that. I think they were shoes, but it may have been some sort of sweater.
I wouldn’t say I was a total geek, but I do know that when, years later, the movie American Graffiti came out, Richard Dreyfuss’ character wore the exact shirt I wore in high school. And, he seemed kinda geeky.
But, even geeks have a personality and I think I probably didn’t. I just sort of existed. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking…”and he seems so suave and debonair today.” Yep, go figure. I think I’m even well known enough today to be voted most unmemorable. Cool, eh? I’ve come a long way. Now, maybe I can work on my bad boy image. Do bad boys wear trusses?

Another One Doesn't Ride the Bus

Did you ever hear the joke about the guy who got through high school just by the skin of his teeth? No one thought he'd ever amount to anything. And yet, twenty-five years later, he arrives at his school reunion, riding in a quarter-million dollar vehicle...a Greyhound Bus. Well, I was reminded of that story today.
I don't know if it's a flaw in my personality...probably not. But, I get really irked when people do stupid things. You're probably thinking that I'm about to start lambasting someone. You're right. Actually, a bunch of someones. It's the state NAACP and a group calling themselves Youth for Social Change. Have you heard how they plan to protest a decision made by the city's Commonwealth Attorney which cleared two police officers in the shooting death of a young man who fled on foot when police tried to stop him for a traffic violation.
I'm not irritated that these people think it's a cover-up. Maybe it is. Maybe not. Personally, I don't think so, but that's not the point. What flabbergasts me is HOW they plan to protest. Get this...this is priceless. They're encouraging the city's black population to not ride the city buses on Monday.
Now think about that. While riding a city bus is no disgrace, it doesn't really portray a picture of success. To my way of thinking, it'd be like if the NAACP encouraged its devotees to not cash their welfare checks this month, or not to use food stamps on Monday. Why do something that emphasizes a somewhat negative stereotype?
Maybe what this Youth for Social Change group ought to do is ask the citizens not to try struggling with police when they attempt to stop them. Maybe they should say, "Let's protest by not trying to outrun the law."
I know. I'm old fashioned when it comes to such things. But to say let's don't ride the bus just doesn't seem to send the sort of message I'd want to send. Now don't you go saying, "Well Steve, you're not black. You don't know how it is."
It is true that I'm not black. But I have enough sense to know a negative stereotype when I see one. And telling blacks to stay home from work makes about as much sense as that recent illegal immigrants day off. The one boycotting is primarily hurting himself, besides making himself look downright stupid.
If you youths want social change, why not make it a change that dignifies those you're supposedly trying to help. Don't hold up a banner in the newspaper that proclaims, "Hey, we still ride buses cause we can't afford an automobile." And, that's exactly what you're doing.
Listen folks, I may be lilly-white, but I can still give you some good advice. Just ask me. I've got plenty. For instance, that NAACP name. That's an idea whose time has come and gone. That's gotta go. Give me a call. Let's talk about it.

Come to Grandpa

I have a special affinity for grandparents. There's nothing more special in most children's lives than a doting grandfather (or grandmother). That's why I was so deeply moved by the heartwarming tale coming out of Lake County, Florida.
It's a story that will warm every cockle of your heart. It's the story of two grandparents, Robert and Versie Johnson.
Things apparently haven't been all rosey with the Johnsons. Their son is in jail. But who hasn't had a skeleton or two in their closets from time to time?
Anyway, their son asked them for a favor...a favor regarding his wife and three kids. And, bless their hearts, these two loving grandparents did everything in their power to help fulfill their son's one wish. You see, the son, the father of the kids, simply wanted his parents to hire someone to kill the three children and their mother, and, oh yes (forgive me PETA), the family dog.
So Robert and Versie went out and found a hit man. They even offered him a whopping one hundred dollars to do the killings. I'm figuring that's about twenty-five bucks a person with the dog being done in for free (again, PETA, forgive me).
As loving, and as generous as Robert and Versie are, they're evidently somewhat lacking in the gray matter, if you know what I mean. Because these two doting grandparents slipped up and contacted an undercover officer.
They even met with him at a local Best Western and gave him the hundred. Well, at least Versie did. Apparently Robert was too timid to actually meet the guy who was going to kill his grandkids. Sentimental old fool.
The mother of the kids doesn't sound any too bright herself. When informed that her loving hubby had tried to get her and the young'uns killed, she was shocked. "I never saw this coming," said said. "I loved (him) with all my heart. (He) was good to me and good to the kids. (He) was a nice guy, everybody's friend."
This nice guy is in jail awaiting trial on child abuse charges. His kids are slated to testify against him. And she loves him with all her heart. I don't know if Child Protective Services can take kids away because of parental stupidity, but this is one time when I wish they'd at least give it a try.
Of course, the ones I really feel sorry for are the grandparents. This loving couple is now in jail. Why? For simply trying to help their son. They're a lovely couple. Check the link to take a look at 'em... http://www.local6.com/news/9296581/detail.html. And now, in their golden years, they're behind bars. Isn't there any justice left in this wicked old world?

Every Dog Must Have Its Day (or Two Days in This Case)

Did you see that NBC mini-series this past week? I think its title was "10.5 Cliche Apocalypse." It had to be perhaps the worst TV movie ever, and, yet, at the same time, absolutely riveting.
It was like every cliche ever done in every B movie joins forces with the worst special effects Hollywood has ever produced (at least in the past 50 years) and attacks every landmark that the average semi-brain-dead TV viewer could possibly imagine. In one action-packed mini-series you get to see nature in all its fury attack Hawaii, Las Vegas, the Hoover Dam, Mount Rushmore and much more. How cool can you get? The only thing the writers forgot was to give someone a mild case of bird flu. There, my friend, would go the perfect screenplay.
What was particularly touching about the movie though was that in the midst of absolutely devastating destruction and unparalleled loss of life, the key characters took the time to have meaningful dialogue with one another. For instance, there was the President's semi-homely (think an ugly Amy Carter, if your mind will allow you to do that) daughter who feels over protected and wants to prove she's up to the challenge of helping to save lives. The only problem is she really can't save lives. In fact, she can't do much more than carry towels around the earthquake torn areas. First, why would FEMA waste money sending someone to a disaster relief site who had no more skills than carrying towels? Oops, I guess I answered my own question.
Anyway the daughter gets out into the field and immediately realizes she can't put her finger in the open wound of another person without nearly passing out. So the good doctor stops trying to help the injured and begins his own special process of helping the President's daughter to heal emotionally. I'm sure that if I were bleeding to death I'd be more than understanding if such a thing were to happen.
Then there was this lady scientist who is evidently fighting the emotional demons of having a brilliant scientist father who after getting his feelings hurt parlays his genius into a successful poker career. Finally, as fate would have it, the father and daughter are reunited. And, as the United States splits into two killing everyone in the path of a fast-moving cartoon crevice, father and daughter take a little time out to reflect on their troubled past. Very touching, I must say.
There were other great story lines masterfully woven into the spellbinding plot. And I stayed in a constant state of amazement that all of the main characters had time to resolve their silly little personal issues while virtually everyone they knew was lying dead around them. Wouldn't it be nice if in real life, we stopped worrying about trivialities like people dying, and took the time to really get in touch with our feelings?
The most amazing thing about the whole story was that there was no hero...no one came along and saved the day. Despite the fact that the brilliant card-playing ex-scientist proclaims, "Hey, we have a great big world to save," in the end, the rift in the earth's substrata (or whatever) won. It tore the U.S. in two, in a most animated way.
But, and here's the really touching part, just before the credits (blames) roll, President Beau Bridges states rather philosophically, in so many words, "Well the country has been cut in half, but we're still one country." Nothing truly unites a nation like a new fault line creating a permanent geo-physical split down its center. I guess the basic moral of the story was it doesn't really matter how many people die. As long as you can end up with a comforting cliche all is right in the world.
I, for one, don't buy into that theory. As my old pappy used to tell me, "Son," he said. "Avoid cliches like the plague." I've always subscribed to his (my pappy's) theory, and all I can say is that all's well that ends well. Or, do I say if life hands you a lemon, make lemonade? Funny, I can't remember what it is I always say, but I'm always saying it, that's for sure.

Feeling a Little Horse

So, I'm sitting at my desk, banging my head on the keyboard, as it were, trying to figure out why we say "as it were," instead of "as it was." But, I was also trying to come up with something clever to write about today, and I kept coming up empty. My head hurts. My throat is sore. I think I'm coming down with something and, to tell the truth I was about to totally throw in the towel, as it were, when my phone rings.
Aha! I say, somewhat hoarsely. Maybe this is my inspiration. So, I pick up the phone, the talk/listen part, anyway, and I say, "
Steve, here."
"Steve," the deep, somewhat familiar voice on the other end of the line says.
"Yes," I say in my rather soprano-ish voice. My voice always goes up a couple of octaves when I'm on the phone. And, I'm getting pretty sick of people replying, "Yes, mam," to me.
Anyway, the voice on the other end of the line continues, "I bet you don't know who this is."
I now know who the voice reminds me of, so I take a guess. "Mr. Ed?" I say, half-jokingly.
"Close, but no cigar," he answers.
"Sir, you have me at a disadvantage," I say.
"Let me introduce myself then," he says. "I'm Barbaro. At least that's what you folks call me."
"Barbaro...as in the horse?" I ask with skepticism.
"You got it," he says.
"A horse is a horse," I say.
"Of course, of course," he says.
"And no one can talk to a horse, of course," I say.
"That is, of course," he continues, "unless the horse is the famous Barbaro."
"You do have a nice singing voice," I compliment him.
"A little too baritone for my tastes," he says modestly.
"Okay," I say. "I'll play your little game. Let's say you are Barbaro, why are you calling me?"
"I need a public forum, and I've heard that up to three people read your blog each day."
"Why thanks," I say. I'm blushing. It's not often one gets complimented by a Kentucky Derby winner. "So, why do you need a public forum," I ask.
"Well, I just want to thank everyone for their cards and letters."
"Cards and letters?" I ask, being totally in the dark.
"Oh yes," Barbaro says, "and flowers too. The outpouring of concern and condolences has been truly amazing."
"You mean," I ask, "that humans are sending get-well cards to a horse?"
"And, I take it you have a problem with that?" Barbaro asks me.
"Well, you are a horse," I say.
"Perhaps, you don't believe horses have feelings. Hey, cut me, I bleed. I gotta tell you those cards have done a lot to cheer me up."
"You do sound pretty chipper for a horse that has just lost any chance of ever racing again."
"You think I like racing?" Barbaro asks.
"You don't?" I say incredulously.
"Heavens no!" he answers. "It's hard work. I'm just in it for the perks."
"The perks?" I ask.
"I'm guessing you've never tried to impress a filly," he says.
"You would be correct," I quickly assure him.
"Listen, pal," he says, "nothing turns a pretty little filly's head like a Kentucky Derby win."
"I've heard you have quite an eye for the ladies," I say.
"Big time," he says. "I don't know if its the Percocet, or what, but I'm feeling friskier than a teenager on prom night."
"I don't need the analogies," I say. "This is a G-rated blog.
"Sorry," he says. "I do get carried away sometimes."
"Yeah, in an ambulance," I joke.
"That's not funny," he says. "I almost died out there."
"Well, you're still not out of the woods," I say.
"What? Do you know something I don't know?" He sounds scared, and I'm wishing I had kept my mouth shut.
"Uh, no, not at all," I say. I probably should have left it at that, but with my big mouth, I keep on. "But you are a horse, and they shoot horses, don't they?"
"What are you suggesting?" he asks with genuine terror in his voice. I know I've gone too far.
"Nothing...nothing at all. It's just an old movie. Forget I ever said it." I try to be reassuring, but somehow I think this horse sees right through my charade.
"Stop playing charades," he says. "This is serious. What do you mean they shoot horses?"
"Well, in the old days...I mean many many years ago, they would shoot horses when they broke a leg." I continue, "But they say you're doing well. In fact, I heard you have a fifty-fifty chance of not being shot." I realize instantly that that didn't come out the way I had hoped.
"Fifty-fifty?" He asks. "And, that's supposed to make me feel good?"
"Hey, I wouldn't worry about it," I say.
"I'm sure you wouldn't," he says. "You're not a horse."
"Come on. Calm down," I encourage him. "Besides I bet there's a cute little filly nearby that could get your mind off your leg problems."
"Suddenly, that doesn't interest me so much," he says. "I guess you think I'm just some shallow stud who only wants to hang around the stable waiting to mate. There's a lot more to me than that. You humans are all alike."
"Hey, I'm sorry," I say. "Maybe I am a horse bigot."
"Apology accepted," he says graciously. "I guess the realization that I might not make it has hit me rather hard. I really don't know what I'm going to.....well, hellooo there."
"Who are you talking to?" I ask.
"Hey, gotta go," he says, his mood seems markedly improved. "This little filly just sauntered over, and I have a Derby medal I think she just might want to see. I hope she doesn't notice my limp. That can really turn the gals off."
With that, the phone went dead. And, now I'm back to trying to come up with something to write about. I'm still drawing blanks.

Beauty's Only Skin Deep, But Skin is the Best Part

I spent some time over the past few days in a local hospital maternity ward. It's fascinating to watch new parents parade in and out...to see the joy, the wonderment. It's not only very touching, but the experience gets my somewhat philosophical mind to thinking deep thoughts.
My observations have me pondering one of life's biggest questions - Why do ugly people tend to marry ugly people? Now, that may seem to be a question with an obvious answer, but when you think deeply, you'll see that the answer is not so obvious.
You might think that it's only natural for ugly people to marry ugly people, but, why is it natural? Here's where my questions come in. Do ugly people realize they're ugly? Does one come to a point in life where he says, "Hey, I'm ugly. I'll never have a pretty wife, so let me go get an ugly one."?
And if that's so, does the ugly guy work his way down...starting with pretty, then going to attractive, then plain, then kinda ugly, and so on?
I'm not a good looking guy, but I'd never marry ugly. Oh sure, it's nice to say that it's what one looks like inside that counts. But hey, I'm not kissing the person inside. I'm kissing the lips on the outside and if those lips are hooked to an ugly face, it's not as pleasant.
I saw some really ugly couples this weekend, and I'm guessing that since they're new parents, they had to have been doing some kissing. Maybe there's a genetic thing in ugly people that causes them to be less shallow. I don't think so. When about 75% of the ugly ones have packs of Marlboros wrapped up in the sleeve of their t-shirts and Confederate flags sewn on the seat of their jeans, I'm thinking they're probably not your deepest thinkers. But, maybe that's my own prejudices shining through.
Maybe, since you look at your face in the mirror every day, you get sort of immunized to ugly, so much so, that when you see ugly on someone else, it doesn't even register. That sort of makes sense to me. I've looked at my face for so many years, that I don't really see the true ugliness until I look at a picture of myself. I wonder how can such a good looking guy be so un-photogenic. I guess the point is that I'm not a good looking guy.
Even though I can accept that, and have for many years, there's no way I could have an ugly wife. I'd rather be alone. Does that sound shallow? Maybe so. But, at least I'm honest. That counts for something, doesn't it?
And, if nothing else, I'm bound to have made some points with my wife today. I'm saying she's pretty. Doesn't that make up for all those other times? I'm hoping. I sure don't want to lose the wife I have. At this point in my life, there's little chance I could get another pretty one.

The Man Who Knew Too Much

Before I get into the matter at hand (conspiracy theories), I want to apologize if I sound just a trifle irritated today. I had a very traumatizing experience yesterday...perhaps one of the worst experiences of my life...well, maybe not. I went to McDonald's for lunch. No, wait, that was not the trauma, in itself. Here's what happened. I go in. There's a young, somewhat attractive girl behind the counter.
I order a dollar hamburger and a small diet cola. I can swing two bucks for lunch. Anyway, the girl smiles at me. I can tell she's digging me. I realize that I still must have it.
Well, the girl rings up the order. "That'll be $1.56," she says, kinda winking at me.
"Just $1.56," I exclaim, being the honest guy I am.
Hold on, here comes the trauma part. "I gave you the senior drink discount," she says pleasantly.
Okay, so maybe she's not digging me. I had not asked for the senior discount. What in the name of all that's good and right in the world could have prompted this young woman to imagine that I would qualify for a senior discount.
Initially, I was so stunned I was speechless. But, after a few seconds, I asked, "What's the age limit for seniors?"
I was hoping against hope that she would say it was around thirty-five or so. Instead, "I don't know," she answered. "I just thought you'd qualify."
I spent the afternoon pre-planning my funeral. I'm history. It was a good run. Well, it really hasn't been that good, but it was a run.
But enough about me. On to the really important stuff...conspiracy therories. I guess I've been living under a rock, but I did not know until yesterday that there are a bunch of wackos who honestly believe that the United States government is responsible for the 9-11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Some even believe that strategically placed detonation devices brought the twin towers down.
Really, how absurd can you be? These people believe that all of the airplane passengers who died that day have been hidden in a witness protection program and their families have been paid off to pretend their loved ones are dead and to never see them again. Gee, that really makes a lot of sense. I think if you waved some bucks under my nose I'd abandon my family for the rest of my life.
You know the government can't even keep a clandestine phone tapping operation secret. How in the world could they go five years and not one of the thousands of people involved in this conspiracy has ever spilled the beans? Do you know what most conspiracy theories are? Well, here's something kind of uncanny itself. The word "conspiracy" contains a secret message explaining what most of these theories amount to. Let's play a little anagram game to deciper the secret message hidden within the word "conspiracy." Take the word and eliminate the letters o, n, s, i, y, and the second c. Now, take the remaining letters and rearrange them to get your secret answer.
Now, while I don't believe in conspiracy theories in general, there is one I'm sure is real. There is a legitimate reason to believe that American Idol is rigged. Everyone knows (and I do mean everyone) that Elliott Yamin was the very best singer. Taylor looked like some twisted pathetic creature trying to do Joe Cocker the other night and that McFee girl imagines herself a brilliant song stylist.
Listen, even Frank Sinatra stank up the joint at times when he tried to do his own interpretation of a classic song. If you haven't heard his improv of Mrs. Robinson, you need to listen to it to know what I'm talking about. McFee did this horrendous Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Sure, I know the judges loved it, or so they said.
In reality, the judges are just pawns themselves in a conspiracy to take some prancing clown to the throne. Taylor is a parody of poor Las Vegas entertainers. Call him "Having a Good Time Taylor" all you want, or whatever it was that Randy Jackson was blathering the other night. He may be having fun, but that's mainly because he's in on the conspiracy.
Couldn't you tell that all of the judges had been drugged the other night? Come one people, does no one see this besides myself. Simon is being bribed by a coalition of aging Wayne Newton wannabes who are determined to catapault Taylor to the top. You had better listen to me before it is too late. I have researched this thoroughly, and while I am not allowed to reveal my sources, I can assure you that this thing has been rigged for quite some time.
In a legitimate competition, Elliott Yamin would have been declared the American Idol weeks ago. There is no competition. And, I'm not just saying this because I want to suck up to him in order to get an interview with him. Okay, maybe I am, but that's totally beside the point.
Next week, Taylor will be the American Idol. Next month, it will be Taylor who? In fact, it kinda already is because I can't think of his last name and I'm surely not going to take the time to look it up.
I think it's a total shame what's happening in the world today. Don't any of you out there feel the outrage that I'm feeling. Just think about it people. Think about what's happening. Can you imagine...offering me a senior discount?

Another Visit To Inspirational Point

And now another visit to a place I like to call Steve's Inspirational Point. Here friends is our very own Brother Steve.

Thank you Steve. Friends, I was reminded recently of a lovely story that was told to me personally by a close friend who had returned from a trip to Africa. My dear friend swears that the story is the absolute truth. Whether it is or not, it certainly contains a message that each and every one of us should take seriously to heart. Can you say, "Yaaess, Brother Steve. I am ready to take your story to heart"?

It seems that these two cannibals took a little walk after dinner. And, let me interrupt myself for a moment to say how important it is for us to walk with our friends, to talk with our friends. If we were to take the time from our schedules to do that, we would be much happier people.

Anyway, these two cannibals, and just a quick side point, isn't it heartwarming to know that even our cannibal friends have friends? But, I do digress. Can you say, "Yaess, Brother Steve, you surely do"?

Back to the story...these two cannibals decided after enjoying a refreshing, wholesome meal together, that they would take a little walk, perhaps they wished to commune with nature. I surely do not know the real reason for this stroll. But, I have heard previously that cannibals are wont to walk into the woods after a meal. Another dear friend tells me of a cannibal who finished a particularly delightful meal and took a walk in the woods. It seems that while on this walk he passed his best friend.

But, that is a totally different story than the one I am telling you today. These two cannibals were strolling through the woods and one of them turns to the other. In other words, friends, he looked at his cannibal acquaintance as he spoke to him. So often in today's world, we simply do not take the time to look at our friends. Eye contact is so important. Can you say, "Yaaess, Brother Steve. I believe! I believe in eye contact"?

The first cannibal looks at the second and then he says, "Your wife sure does make good soup." How kind of that cannibal. Perhaps you have been laboring under the delusion that cannibals do not take the time for such niceties. You must remove such harmful thinking. Get it out of your head. Say to yourself, "Harmful thinking, I command you to come out of my head." Be sure to shout when you say, "Out!" It's that shout that really gets the harmful thinking thinking about coming out.

So, when we left our two cannibal friends, one had just told the other that his wife made good soup. The second cannibal looks at his friend for a moment, as if contemplating just what he should say. Finally, after what may have seemed agonizing minutes, when, in actuality it was probably only a few seconds, the second cannibal says, "Yes, she does. But, I'm going to miss her."

Do you get the point, friends? Do you see the reason I have taken my time to share this story? The second cannibal was more concerned with his own personal loss than he was with the feelings of his friend. Let me tell you, my friends...if someone compliments you, you should always say, "Thank you." That should be number one.

Before you start whining about how much you'll miss your wife, or whatever else is bothering you in life, before you start feeling sorry for yourself, you should always remember to say, "Thank you."

My daddy, God rest his soul, once told me, "Son (he always called me 'son'), if you want a friend, you have to be a friend." Do you understand that. If not, say it to yourself, but emphasize the word "be." That's what my daddy got me to do, because when he told me I didn't understand it at all. Go ahead try it. Can you say, "Yaaess, Brother Steve, you have opened my eyes to greater understanding'?

I hope so. I hope that you feel these few moments we have spent together, here at Inspirational Point have helped you to deal with whatever problems you may be facing in your personal life. And, if I have helped you in some small way, all I can say is that it sure would be nice for you to say, "Thank you, Brother Steve." And, friends, what better way to thank me than to send me a small love gift, if you will (and you should).

It doesn't matter how small. I will tell you I can't break a twenty, but send what you can. And, before I go, I just want to say to each and every one of you..."Thank YOU."

Wild Bore And Sushi

I went out to dinner the other night. I know that’s not really exciting information. But, I did…just my wife and I. We picked a nice, quiet, little sushi place. I was really more in an American seafood meal mood, but the seafood restaurant nearby has live music and rowdy guests and I didn’t want a lot of commotion.
We go in and much to my delight, there’s only one other couple, an older couple, dining in the restaurant. It may not have been to the delight of the restaurant owner, but it delighted me.
This other couple was rather nondescript, bland, if you will, and I would, if I were you. Even better, I thought. What didn’t register was that this bland couple was sitting at a table for about ten to twelve persons. You know what? There was a reason for that.
They were expecting company. Right after my wife and I ordered, about a dozen of the noisiest, most obnoxious people storm in. Apparently one woman in the noisy group knew the couple. But, nobody else knew each other. So, the next thing you know everyone is introducing everyone else. They’re all milling around, actually breathing right over my miso soup. I don’t like people breathing over my food. I don’t even breathe over my food.
At the onset of this attack, I didn’t realize that my wife and I were in the presence of greatness. In fact, it probably took about five minutes before I became fully aware of just who was in this party sitting right next to us.
I don’t know the guy’s name, but undoubtedly, he has to be the crown prince of obnoxious. This guy, about 45 or so started loudly telling everyone, including my wife and me indirectly, about his many wonderful trips and excursions. He flew here, he flew there. He bought boats. He has houses all over, and, I’m sure he also has the world’s largest hemorrhoids. He didn’t mention that last part, but I’m pretty sure I’m right about that.
Now, I could have started loudly telling my wife about my fabulous trip to China last fall. But, did I? Nope. I’m too refined, too humble, too classy. This guy wasn’t refined, humble or classy. He was a bore with a capital “B.”
What do you want to bet he’s not married?” I ask my wife. No sooner had I said it, than the guy made some derogatory comment about his ex-wife. “I knew it!” I shouted. I must have shouted a little loudly, for just for a moment, the guy got quiet and everyone looked over at my table. The guy just glared. I had interrupted a tale of a voyage to Tobago or someplace that sounds like that.
I swear, if droning on endlessly about oneself is a crime, the SWAT team would have surrounded this restaurant and started hurling tear gas. I finally got so tired of it, I started, rather loudly, telling my wife about all the acclaim and honor I’m getting from these blogs. And, yes, I loudly proclaimed, it’s paying a pretty good penny.
I don’t think my wife was overly impressed. Sometimes talking about how great you are to someone who knows how great you ain’t isn’t all that impressive. But, I’m sure at least some of the revelers at the other table were becoming aware of my many accolades.
Finally, I gave the waitress my credit card and my wife and I prepared to leave. There was only one more thing that would make this night complete. Within minutes the waitress returned, and in a voice loud enough for all in the restaurant to hear, proclaimed that my card had been declined.
Have you ever slithered out of a restaurant on your belly? It ain’t easy.

The Daily News With S. Carter Cook

My thinking is that if I can use this space from time to time to rather eloquently present the daily news, perhaps CBS will give Katie the boot, and offer me the news anchor position. Admittedly, I may be mistaken in believing that this could happen. But, I'll not let that possibility dampen my ever-growing enthusiasm that I'm New York City bound. So, with that said, here is my look at the daily news:

The top story in most of the media this morning has to do with some speech President Bush gave last night. All I can say is "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." I wasn't paying that much attention. I think it had to do with illegal irrigation. Hey, who cares? Maybe some farm workers, but that's about all. So, let's deal with stories that you folks are really interested in. Moving forward...

Dateline The Netherlands - Excitement at a zoo in Amsterdam Sunday when several sloth bears chased down a monkey, mauled it and ate it in front of horrified visitors. Word out of Richmond's City Hall confirms that Mayor Governor Doug Wilder will be heading to Amsterdam shortly. Wilder is quoted as saying, "As God is my witness, I'll see to it that those bears get a fair trial." Wilder went on to say that while visitors may have been "tragedized by the tragedy," there is no reason to brand the bears as "wild animals."
When asked to comment on the rash of alligator attacks in Florida over the past week, Wilder stated that unlike bears, alligators are known to have a disposition towards serial killings. "They don't have my sympathy," the mayor-governor said.

The question out of Durham is did the stripper turned alleged rape victim really meet the Forker? Dave Forker Evans who became the third Duke lacrosse team player charged with rape says he is absolutely innocent. Evans, who attended a private academy where he excelled in the sport prior to going to Duke, says he is absolutely innocent of all charges. To prove that he must be innocent he points to the fact that he was polite to the police officers. His mother, Rae Evans, chairperson (shhh, make that chairwoman) of the LPGA board of directors says, "My son is a good boy, and besides that girl is bla...uh, never mind."

Presidential advisor, Karl Rove, said Monday that President Bush's job approval rating is low because of the Iraq war. How did he figure that one out? Gee, I just wish I could be that smart.

That big phone company, BellSouth, said Monday that despite claims to the contrary, it never gave any phone records to the National Security Agency in the NSA's efforts to combat terrorism. Of course the corporation has also stated publicly that it didn't overcharge me for a long distance call in November of 1982, and that a problem I was having must be in my phone and wasn't their responsiblity.

Accuweather chief forecaster, Joe Bastardi (I swear I'm not making that name up) said Monday that three major hurricanes would hit the United States in 2006. Bastardi refused to say exactly when and where the hurricanes would hit. If you ask me, he's not as cooperative as Dave Forker Evans. Maybe someone should check his DNA.

A major shopping mall for Eastern Henrico? Apparently so. Henrico County supervisor, James Donati, made the announcement yesterday. Donati said the huge Short-Pump-Town-Center-like mall would be anchored by a major check cashing service, along with a TV rental giant, and a big-name hair-straightening parlor.

And that's the news. Katie, bar the door because New York, here I come.

Who Is J.D. Power and Why Is He Saying All Those Nice Things About Me?

Do you remember the story of the Emperor's New Clothes? That has got to be the truest of all stories. Daily, there are examples upon examples of so-called brilliant individuals who fall victim to the Emperor's New Clothes Syndrome.
One of the biggest examples is in regards to what I consider to be an almost mafia-like shakedown operation known as J.D. Power. Before these huge corporations pay huge amounts of money to J.D.Power to tell them what their customer service is like, and how customers feel about them, why don't these brilliant people at the corporations find out if their customers care a flying flip about J.D. Power surveys.
I know I don't. Especially since I know the J.D. Power Company is dependent on the continued good-will of the companies they're rating in order to stay in business themselves. Is J.D. Power going to shoot itself in the foot in order to give an unbiased report? I don't think so.
Why don't these companies read the S.C. Cook Company report on the J.D. Power Company before they pay huge sums of money to the J.D. Power Company and then go around touting the "scientific survey" results of the J.D. Power Company?
According to the latest S.C. Cook report, the J.D. Power Company does an, at best, adequate job of evaluating customer service of the companies it serves (i.e. makes huge sums of money off of).
They rely on apparently semi-trained morons to report back to them on their findings. And, if you call them (go ahead and do it - 800 274-5372), you may well find that their phone answerers are not all that friendly, themselves. So, if they can't get good service out of their own employees, how can they help other companies get the results they want? Just a thought.
I wonder how much NAME WITHHELD NATIONAL HOMEBUILDER pays J.D. Power to call its customers and ask them if they were happy with their buying experience. If I'm going to buy a $500,000 home, it's not because of anything J.D. Power found out. I don't care what J.D. Power thinks. Unless he's going to help pay my mortgage. I'm smart enough (debatable) to figure out if I'm happy with the product and service being offered.
In fact, if I'd just bought a new home and someone called and identified themselves as being with J.D. Power, I'd be wondering how much that little phone call cost me. Cause, every expense is going into the cost of the house. I'd tell them to have NAME WITHHELD NATIONAL HOMEBUILDER call me if they want to know how happy I am. Gee, I can be a real pain in the neck sometimes. And, a lot of people have an even lower opinion of me than that.
My thinking is that if NAME WITHHELD NATIONAL HOMEBUILDER (or any other company using J.D. Power Company) doesn't know how to ensure that their customers get good service, they ought to stop selling homes until they figure it out. And, if they're going to pay J.D. Power to say nice things about them, just take the money they're giving J.D. Power and give it back to the customers. Nothing makes me say nice things about someone than their throwing a little money at me.
It's not just NAME WITHHELD NATIONAL HOMEBUILDER, of course. J.D. Power does autos and probably a bunch of other stuff. You can see my scientific survey relys more on intuition than science. But, my big question is (still), "Who cares what J.D. Power thinks."
What J.D. Power is really good at is convincing the emperor that everyone with a grain of sense can see the beautiful fabric they're using. And, if anyone can't see it, they're stupid. So, the powers that be at Centex are thinking, "Whew! That was close. I almost said 'I don't get it.'"
Not only does Centex pay big bucks to J.D. Power, they then spend big bucks to advertise for J.D. Power on their billboards. That J.D. Power must be one great salesman. If you notice, on the Centex billboards, the J.D. Power name stands out more than the Centex name. But, those guys at NAME WITHHELD NATIONAL HOMEBUILDER are marketing geniuses. They see it. They love it. They get it.
I still don't get it. I may be stupid, but I've never come to work naked.

Morning Drive

Overall, I think WRVA Radio's Jimmy Barrett is a great guy. He's very knowledgeable and does an excellent job with his morning news show. But, from my point of view, his loathing of the elderly is getting a bit tedious.
He's giddy with excitement this morning as he tells "yet another" story of an elderly driver who has run into a building. It happened "again" yesterday, when a 79-year old lady ran into the Tuckahoe YMCA. Now, admittedly, people should not be driving their cars into buildings, especially during business hours. And, I'll acknowledge that at a certain age it probably would be good to re-test elderly drivers annually.
But, Barrett would have you believe that there's some sort of bird-brain pandemic of old, confused, senile drivers. He says there's been "another" case of this. And then he goes on to say that this is the second such occurrence in recent months in Richmond. Big whoop.
Two whole cases. During that same time period, how many younger (below 65, let's say) drivers caused accidents because of being drunk, fatigued, distracted, or just pain stupid? I'm willing to bet that there have been more than two. I'm also willing to bet if you segregated statistics to show the number of accidents caused by drivers in each age group, that those caused by drivers 75 and above would not be the highest.
One reason, obviously is that a good many of those drivers are already dead. Certainly a lot of the drunks are either too dead or too brain-fried to be be driving at that age. A lot of the really poor drivers have also weeded themselves out by dying on the highways. But, even with that, I am virtually certain that elderly drivers running into buildings is way down on the list of accidents.
Barrett was also rather cruel in his attack on the poor woman because she said she didn't remember what happened. He suggested she may be suffering for "autosheimers disease." I'm sure that those who have parents and mates with Alzheimers will find that especially humorous.
But, following an accident, how many of us truly remember all the events that caused the accident? The woman could have lied and said that her foot slipped, or that a bug frightened her, or that her gas peddle stuck, but, no, she tells the truth and for that gets branded as mentally incompetent to drive.
Barrett even suggested that without benefit of a trial, her license should be revoked. Maybe he could get the KGB to just go to her home and shoot her.
This morning on the way to work, a less-than-elderly woman driver stops right in the middle of Staples Mill Road, almost causing me to rear-end her. Why? She really wanted to make a left turn but the left turn lane was filled. So this moron just stops in the road. I imagine, given the time of day, the woman was on her way to work. I think all people who drive to work should be re-tested annually. Most of them must be too stupid to drive.
That would include me. I almost merged right into a car today getting on the Interstate. I just didn't see the guy. I don't remember why I didn't see him. I didn't have a crash, but still, that wasn't because of anything I did. So, take my license, hang me by the neck until my eyes pop out of my head, or worse yet, humiliate me on the radio. I deserve it.

That's No Lady, That's My Mom

To say that there are many stupid people out there is, of course, to state the obvious. But, despite my having knowledge of that stupidity, I’m still constantly amazed at just how stupid people truly can be.
Did you hear the one about the mother in Portland, Maine who helped her daughter and a couple of her friends bake Ex-lax-filled cookies to give to a school teacher who had given one of the girls a poor grade? That woman really needs to be given some sort of an award for reaching new heights of stupidity.
Now picture this. The kids are complaining about the teacher. One of the girls says, “Hey, I know what we should do. Let’s bake some Ex-lax cookies for Mrs. Frump.” Mom laughs with the girls at the ludicrous idea and then they all go about their daily business.
That would make sense. Even June Cleaver may have (off camera) laughed at the absurdity of doing such a thing. But, in this real-life situation, Mom says, “Great idea. That’s just what Mrs. Frump deserves.”
Mom then gets her Ex-lax, shows the girls how to crush the pills up and mix them in with the cookie dough. That’s a mom that I could certainly look up to as a role model…working diligently to train her daughter in the skills of homemaking and poisoning school teachers.
And, unfortunately, too many mothers are just too busy these days with their careers to take the time to teach their sons and daughters these basic, rudimentary skills. I bet most middle-schoolers have no idea how to bake Ex-lax cookies, or how to build incendiary devices when a cookie just won’t do.
Now, evidently the police up there in Maine feel that poisoning teachers (actually, the teacher gave the cookies to some students, creating a moving experience for several) is against the law. So what did they go and do to the mother of the year? They arrested her. The poor gal appeared before the judge handcuffed and in prison garb. If this mom does hard time who is going to be home when the kids get off the school bus? Who is going to be there to show them how to carve guns out of bars of soap, or where to hide drugs or those other important things that kids are simply not going to learn in school.
Nobody, that’s who? The kids are going to have to learn such things from their friends…from the streets, so to speak. And that worries me.
But, I have to admit it’s mom’s own fault. She really should never have gotten involved. Why couldn’t she be like all those other moms you hear about. You know, those moms who are content to join the PTA and keep themselves busy baking pies and embezzling funds?