Head Line News

The next time I complain about the quality of medical care in this country, and I’m sure I will, if for no other reason than that I love to complain, please remind me that, at least, I’m not in Venezuela. I just read an interesting news story that makes me just a wee bit doubtful of the medical care one might receive there.
The story concerns 33-year-old Carlos Camejo. Seems Camejo was pronounced dead following an auto accident and his body was taken to the morgue for an autopsy. The only problem is was that his body wasn’t exactly dead.
The story goes that when the medical examiner cut into Camejo’s face, he began to bleed. The examiner, according to the news report, immediately knew something was amiss. I wonder how many years of training it took so that he could immediately recognize a warning sign when the corpse begins to bleed. Anyway, apparently, the medical examiner continued to do the autopsy. I mean one bleeding face does not a live person make, does it?
The examiner didn’t actually stop cutting until the corpse began to complain about the excruciating pain in his face. A scalpel can do that. It was reassuring to read that as soon as Camejo began to complain, the medical examiner stitched him up. And, it appears that Camejo is still living, which is rather surprising, considering he’s still in Venezuela.
I wonder what the criteria is down there for being declared dead. Evidently, you can still be breathing, because Camejo had to do some breathing to stay alive. At least that’s my non-medically trained opinion. I wonder if the doctor who declared him dead ever thought to check for a heartbeat, because, I’m guessing the guy’s heart was still beating as well.
But you know the most important thing about this story is the moral. Yes, there’s something to be learned here. And that is that sometimes there are worse things than waking up with an excruciating pain in your face.
In a semi-related story from England (related in the sense that sometimes things turn out much better than it would appear on the surface), a young boy underwent brain surgery to remove fluid caused by a rare strain of meningitis. The doctors held out little hope for the boy’s survival. However he did survive, but lost his ability to read and write. Anyway, after several weeks recovering in the hospital, here’s the amazing thing: The boy, whose mother is a music teacher, is reportedly playing the piano and trumpet much better than he had previously.
Some people have all the luck. I know that if I’d been killed in an auto accident, I’d have never awakened in the morgue. And, as far as improving my musical abilities, forget it. I had hernia surgery several years ago and I still can’t play a musical instrument. Heck, I can’t even read music. What kind of doctors must I have had…Venezuelans?
But, here’s something even more amazing about this kid in Britain. Before the surgery, he had a thick Yorkshire accent, now, the story says, “He speaks like the queen.” Hmm, he plays the piano and speaks like the Queen. I wonder if boy has become Elton John. Just a thought.
Anyway, the boy’s parents say that when he began speaking several weeks after the surgery, “He sounded really posh.” I’d like to sound posh. Even if I never played the piano, it would be cool to sound posh. I wonder if I started poking around in my head if I could lose my southern accent. I’m going to go find a scalpel. I’ll let you know what happens.

Now You'll Know the Rest of the Story

Call me naive if you will, but this thing with O.J. Simpson has really blown me away. Just when I thought this young man had begun to pick up the pieces and get on with his life, here he is in trouble with the law again. This poor guy might well be the unluckiest human on earth.
First he's framed for his wife's murder. I still remember that that glove didn't fit. When I saw that powerful demonstration, that poor guy struggling to slip a glove on his allegedly blood-stained hand, it wrapped the case up for me. And now he simply goes to retrieve his rightful belongings and wham - out of the blue - he gets arrested.
So what if he brought along some heat, as we say on the streets. Sometimes the man needs a little back up (picture my fist raised in the air at this point).
Anyway, O.J. is back in the big house, although technically, I guess at this point he's in the little house in back of the big house, since he hasn't been sentenced.
I guess I really shouldn't be all that worried. His lawyer has publicly said he's innocent and, well, I guess that pretty much settles that. But still, justice can be so blind sometimes and, often color blind as well, if you get my drift.
I do have a theory I'd like to run by you, and before you quickly dismiss this as the ramblings of an amateur, let me remind you that I have sat through 80% of several Law and Order marathons on the USA Network. Now that I have your attention, here goes:
You know they said there's an unidentified fourth suspect (or maybe fifth, I'm not keeping score here)? Well, do you suppose that this unidentified guy could possibly be Fred Goldman? Now, play along with me here. Fred stands a lot to gain over this whole deal. It seems a little too convenient that the very day Fred's new book, written by O.J. comes out, O.J. goes and pulls a stunt like this.
I mean, let's think about it. O.J. Simpson was a great athlete, but he's no rocket scientist. He not even a Fred Goldman. I've seen Fred on TV. He's smart. He's clever. Even if he wasn't in the hotel room with O.J., I'm pretty willing to bet he put the bug in O.J.'s ear to go get his stuff.
Sales of O.J.'s make-believe confession are through the roof and every penny goes to the Goldmans. So who really stands the most to gain by putting O.J. back on TV? O.J.? I don't think so. Even if he'd pulled the heist off, all he would have gotten were things he owned in the first place.
But now that Fox TV has predictably fallen in love with this new O.J. story, it's like a 24 hour infomercial for the book...Fred's book, if you will. While I'm on this subject, let me just say that it's a good thing another terrorist attack didn't occur this weekend, because if you're tuned into Fox News, you'd have never known about it. Greta is so stunned over O.J.'s arrest, she even came in to work Sunday night. That's how big this whole thing is on an international level.
But back to the subject at hand...when will this evil man be stopped? Fred Goldman, I mean. Hasn't he done enough damage to the Simpson family. He wasn't satisfied that a jury of 12 intelligent, impartial men and women found O.J. not guilty. No. He had to run out and buy a civil judgement against Simpson.
Now, he's using this poor murderer as a pawn in his evil scheme aimed solely at self aggrandizement. If you ask me, it's Fred Goldman who should be behind bars.
Oh yeah, that's right. You didn't ask me, did you? Okay, well, let me wrap things up. This is just an opinion. Maybe you agree. Then again, there's a slight chance you disagree with me. And, when you think about it...isn't that what makes this country so great...this, and the fact that we have a 24-hour-a-day network devoted exclusively to O.J. Simpson.

An Open Letter of Apology to All Miss Virginia Contestants (sort of)

Well, I did it again. I knew it was going to happen. And, probably, truth be told, I wanted to irritate someone. So, pat yourself on the back, Steve. You did. All I really did was innocently write a column about the Miss Virginia pageant in our September/October issues of West End's Best and Chesterfield Living Magazines. And, you know me, I'm one of the nicest guys around. I just sort of expressed my dismay at the horrible quality of the pageant's annual television show. That shouldn't make anyone mad, should it?
The reason I say I knew it was going to happen, is that this is the second time I've written such a column. I had seen a previous telecast, about two years ago. It was so bad, I just had to express my opinion. But that was two years ago. I didn't catch last year's blockbuster presentation. So when I stumbled across the show a few months back, I decided to watch. You know what? It was worse than the one I'd seen before. It may have been the worse one I'd ever seen. But, read my colulmn to learn more.
The original piece I had done, back in 05, had resulted in an irate phone call from some woman connected with the pageant. I politely listened and even offered to do a rebuttal article in which the caller could point out how wrong I was. That offer was never accepted.
Today, i get a phone call from one of the local directors of the pageant. She has seen my most recent article, and she was even unhappier than the first gal who had called.
"Hey," I said, "it's just a humor column. Don't take it so seriously."
"That was a humor column?" she asked."
"Well, it was supposed to be," I said.
"I work for Style Weekly," she said, "and I know humor columns. That wasn't one."
Okay, we're even. I hate the pageant and she hates me. I can live with that.
I was going to offer this lady the opportunity to respond to my "humor," but she was so humorless that I decided to just humor her (get the pun? now that's funny) and listen, which I did. I was determined to just keep my mouth shut, which I didn't.
She got on my nerves blabbing on and on about how wonderful these contestants are. "These are the sorts of girls you'd want your son to marry," she raved.
"I wouldn't go that far," I responded. And I meant it. If I had a son, I wouldn't want him marrying anyone vain enough to get involved in a "beauty" contest. I'd rather he married an Amway saleswoman. Well, maybe not. But, really, would you like a beauty contestant sitting at your dinner table? I can see myself going beserk as I ate my fried chicken and mashed potatoes, finally shrieking, "Shut up and sit down. I hate opera, and I don't care what you would do if you were elected President. "
Anyway, back to my phone conversation. I finally had enough of this pompous director. She told me how I'd done so much damage. "We depend on corporate donations," she wailed. "No one will want to donate after they read your column."
I wish I had that much power. After listening to her drone on and on, I finally said, "How can you complain about my criticizing the Miss Virginia pageant when Style Weekly has destroyed the businesses of local restaurant owners with their unfair criticism?" Now, to be honest, I don't know of any case where Style Weekly has done that. But I do think their food critic is an obnoxious bore.
"Let me tell you about our restaurant reviews," Miss Highhorse says. (Goody, I've touched a nerve) "When we go to a restaurant and have a bad experience, we go three times to make sure they're really bad before we write a negative review."
"Well thanks," I tell her. "You've made me feel better. I've watched more than three Miss Virginia telecasts and they're all bad. So, I guess based on Style's procedures, I was alright with what I wrote."
Funny stuff! I'm zinging one after another and the lady doesn't laugh at a one. She just keeps on telling me how marvelous these gals are.
"They do look good in swimsuits," I say, thinking maybe she'll look at me with a new-found admiration.
"Good-bye," she says.
So, bottom line. If any of you were planning on making a sizeable donation to the Miss Virginia pageant, don't let me stop you. But, if you have any funds left over, how much would you give me if I came over and sang an aria or two?"

I'd Tell You How I Did It, If I'd Done It, But I Haven't Done It. Really.

I have figured out a great way to make a pile of money, but I don't know how to go about actually doing it. I've been reading about Ron Goldman's family getting the rights to O.J. Simpson's book. Seems they stand to make quite a killing (no pun intended) on this deal. Now, part of me thinks it's pretty horrible to make money from a book that describes how your son was murdered and how the murderer got away with it. But, maybe I'm just too old fashioned.
After all, money is money. Right? I mean O.J.'s money is just as green as anyone else's. Right? I mean, except for the bloodstains, it's just money. Right?
So, I'm thinking that maybe I could write a book about how I killed someone or did something equally horrendous. The only problem is, I'm scared to death of getting in trouble with the police. I've been racking my brain to see if I can come up with something terrible that I've done that people would pay good money to read about. I remember, years ago, I was on a long trip, and I had to go to the bathroom, see, but I just kept driving and driving and couldn't find a rest stop, or even a McDonald's, so finally, I just pulled over and, well, you can kinda figure out what I did.
I guess that's another problem. If I'm too embarrassed to even talk about the time I, well, you know what I did, beside my car (out of view of anyone else, of course), then how could I go into any detail about killing someone. And, of course, there's that small business about actually having to kill someone first, so I could then write about how I did it.
I did go in this restaurant once and no one was in the front of the restaurant. It was just a little mom and pop grill. But, anyway, no one was out front and the cash register drawer was open and I thought to myself, "Hey, I could reach over and grab a dollar and no one would ever know." But, of course, I didn't do that. Although I could have. But, that experience probably wouldn't make a good tell-all either, especially since the only thing I could tell would be what I momentarily thought about doing.
I guess I could take a lesson from O.J. on this thing though. He didn't really say he killed anyone, he just said that if he was going to kill them, this is how he would have done it. And people are buying his book, aren't they? So, I could talk about how I could have reached over and grabbed a dollar and run from the restaurant like a scared rabbit.
Somehow, I just don't think that makes for good reading. Gee, I wish I could think of something to reveal that would really have 'em standing in the aisles to buy my book.
Once, when I was about six years old, my mother told me to drink my milk before I left the breakfast table. She then went upstairs leaving me to cry over unspilt milk. I hated milk, I might add. Anyway, I sat there about five minutes and stared at the glass of milk. Then I noticed the kitchen sink just sitting there. Here was my escape. I quickly picked up the glass and poured the milk down the drain and then rinsed the sink out real good, getting rid of all evidence. I was pretty smart, considering that this was well before they had such shows as CSI on TV.
When I went upstairs, my mother asked me if I had finished my milk. "Yes Mam," I lied. Although, truth be told, I had finished it. Anyway, later that day, in school, I got to thinking about what I'd done. I was going to this little Brethern Church back in those days. They were really big advocates for hell, and I think I thought I might be heading straight there for telling my mother I'd finished my milk. So, as soon as I got home, I confessed my sin. My mother didn't seem all that upset, so I'm not sure the story would make a good book, but I could elaborate a little.
Now that I'm thinking out loud on this, I think I've come up with a better idea. Maybe I could write about something someone else did. Do you have any old skeletons in your closet which you wouldn't mind revealing? I could write about how you did it. That would shift the spotlight off of me, and yet, I'd still get rich. And, being the generous guy I am, I'd even cut you in for a percentage. It would have to be small, though, because I really want to get rich myself on this.
Anyway, if you have some really good juicy story, let me know about it. I'd love to make money off of you. Unless you minded, of course.

Marketing One Oh Dumb

I may be going out on somewhat of a limb here, but, in my honest opinion, all marketing people are idiots. Now, admittedly, I know that there is a real possibility that I'm just too old to dig the latest marketing jargon, but I saw a sign in a cell phone store at the mall the other day that left me scratching my head. The huge sign had a picture of a cell phone and beside the picture was this caption: "Hot enough to melt chocolate."
That baffles me on so many different levels. First of all, are there people out there looking for a cell phone to melt chocolate? And, if so, how does the cell phone do that? Do you place the phone on top of the chocolate, or do you flip open the phone and put the chocolate on the screen area? And, once the chocolate is melted, can you still use the phone for other things, such as making phone calls?
I didn't know there was such a need to melt chocolate in the first place, but whenever I do have such a need, I've always found an oven does a great job. Of course, unless we're talking M&Ms, just holding the chocolate tightly in your fist will often cause a meltdown. I got to thinking that maybe there are a bunch of folks who want to melt chocolate while in the car, but really, placing said chocolate on a hot radiator would probably melt it a lost faster than even the hottest cell phone would.
You can see my dilemma. I'm also wondering if the phone gets that hot, wouldn't that cause a degree of discomfort if you were trying to hold the phone to your ear. True, sometimes when I'm talking to my wife, the great conversationalist, the phone gets a little warm. But, I don't think even she has the ability to melt chocolate, via the cell phone anyway.
Maybe "hot enough to melt chocolate" is some sort of double entendre, and my brain is too single-entendred to catch on. Hmmm, I wonder what sort of euphamism, "hot enough to melt chocolate," is. So, back to my original point...the point about marketing people being idiots. Who could have come up with that slogan? Did a bunch of advertising execs, sitting around a big conference table, think that such a line was clever? Did they say, "Hey, we're selling cell phones here. A line about the phone melting chocolate is just what we need to put this campaign over the top."?
Probably so...because they're idiots. Really, when you think about it, only an idiot could think that was clever.
And, it's not just the big marketing campaigns that bring out the morons of marketing. I was in Walgreen's the other day and they had a printed sign (in other words, they didn't just get the 18-year-old stock clerk to scribble something down), which read: "Candy bars - $1.00 each or 3 candy bars for $3.00!"
Wow. Who could pass up a deal like that? Wouldn't it seem to you that even if no one caught the idiocy of that sign when they were laying it out or printing it, that someone would have somewhere along the lines have thought, hey, we're going to look like idiots if we put up a sign this stupid.
I'll tell you why no one ever suspected they would look like idiots. It's a very simple answer. Because they are idiots. Idiots don't recognize they're idiots. In fact, most idiots I know, and I know a bunch, think they're intelligent. In fact, most think they're very intelligent...geniuses even.
The sad thing about that is that when a true genius comes along...someone such as myself...the idiots don't even recognize it. And that's the pathetic story of my life.

TO ER IS HUMAN

I spent the whole day, yesterday, in the emergency room at Henrico Doctor's. My daughter broke and dislocated several bones in her ankle. I'd have to say that the staff in the ER (I like to use these medical terms whenever I can) was very kind and professional. However the ER physician may be in the wrong line of work.
He's a great doctor, I'm sure. It's just that he tends to panic a bit. When he looked at my daughter's ankle, he shreiked, "What took you so long to get in here?" You know how on those Looney Tunes cartoons, the character's eyes spring out of his head? I've seen Daffy Duck do that a million times. Well, it was kinda like that when the doctor looked at my daughter's ankle.
I called my wife to let her know what was going on and as I was telling her that my daughter had broken a bone, the doctor comes rushing back into her room (this time doing a great Road Runner impersonation). He hears me and shouts, "No! It's worse than that." It's that sort of reaction from your doctor that helps to keep you calm in stressful times.
The doctor informs us that he's going to put my daughter to sleep. I start to panic. I had a dog when I was a kid and my parents had to put him to sleep. I didn't think my daughter's broken ankle warranted her being put down. But, he went on to explain that they were going to knock her out while he pushed and shoved and twisted her ankle to get it back in place. Which is what he did, except for two things. He forgot to knock her out and he failed to get it back into place.
When the nurse called us back into the room, the doctor calmly informed me of the results, "I was unbelieveably unsuccessful," he wailed." There I was standing in the examining room with my daughter crying because her bones had just been twisted and manipulated without anesthesia, and the doctor crying because of his unparalleled failure. I did the only thing I could think of to do. I started crying with them.
Later, an orthopedic specialist was brought in to do the manipulating and all went well. The only problem is that by the time my daughter got to the operating room, the anesthesiologist had to come in and tell her that, while it was unlikely, she could die during the procedure. She was then asked to sign a form that basically the hospital can use if a patient dies. It kind of says, "Hey, they told me I could be dead, and look, I am."
Speaking of dying...how about that BB gun thief in Richmond's Southside. The guy goes into a Baskin-Robbins and tries to hold them up using a BB gun. Now, that's stupid. If I was going to use a gun in a holdup attempt, I'd get something that could do the job. This guy didn't and now he's dead. The owner of the store asks the guy, "One bullet or two?" and then shot him in the head.
Now, here's the amazing part: The shootee...the thief, ran two blocks before he keeled over and eventuallly died. I can't run two blocks with zero bullets in me. The guy must have been in pretty good shape, especially for a dead man. I wonder if they have any sort of special olympics for people who have been mortally wounded.
Speaking of criminals, while my daughter was in the ER yesterday, they bring a guy into the next room and he's wearing handcuffs. He's being escorted by a police officer, and he's telling the police officer what great shape he's in. "I played soccer for nine years," he tells the officer. "I could have outrun you if I had wanted to."
Now this guy, we come to learn from eavesdropping, has hepatitis and a bad liver, and he's bragging about what great shape he's in. I don't know what he was in the emergency room for, but evidently, even with the hepatits, he's also in better shape than I am.
I just realized I don't have any clever ending to this. I hate to start a story I can't finish. But, I guess I can live with that. One thing for sure...I can't run, but I can ramble.

BACK AND BIGGER AND BETTER THAN EVER

Gee, this is like getting back on a bicycle for the first time in years. It's been so long since I've done one of these blogs, I may have forgotten how. Of course, many of you may be thinking that I never really did know how to do it. And, of course, if that's true, then it just makes my job even easier. It's kind of like being a school guidance counselor...no known skills are required.
I would try to make some elaborate excuse for not having written in months, but I'll just come right out and tell you the truth. My iron lung was in the shop. Anyway, I'm back and raring to go.
There are so many opinions I've been wanting to share, I don't know where to begin. I could talk about why the word "chipotle" is pronounced like it is. I don't like asking for "chee pote lee." I think it should be called "chi pottle," but maybe we'll discuss that further another day.
I also have an opinion on families benefiting monetarily from the loss of loved ones. I'm not talking about when the breadwinner dies, but if your child dies, such as in the Virginia Tech tragedy, why should there be a payoff...beyond any insurance the family had? I am really ticked by the Goldman family crawling in bed with O.J. Simpson on that "I Did It" book. But, I'll save that one for another day too.
I think the burning issue of the day right now is that Idaho Senator, Larry Craig, who was caught, allegedly, in a Minneapolis airport men's room playing footsie with an undercover cop. That whole story is rather ridiculous. It has helped me though in sorting some things out in my head. Suppose, I keep wondering, I was in his foot-under-the-stall shoes and I was innocent. What would I do? More importantly, what shouldn't I do? That's helped me come up with my top ten things NOT TO DO if you're really not gay but folks think you are.

10. Don't stand around in a men's room staring at an occupied stall
9. Don't ever touch your next-stall-neighbor's foot with your foot.
8. In fact, don't let any part of your body touch anybody else's body when you're in a men's room.
7. Don't stick your hand into your neighbor's stall - not even to wave a simple, "Hello."
6. Don't pick up a piece of toilet paper lying on the stall floor. This is good advice whether gayness is an issue or not. In
fact, don't pick up anything on a restroom stall floor. I dropped a cell phone in a men's room once. I really miss that cell
phone, too.
5. Don't go on TV and say, "I am not gay and I never have been."
4. Don't sing show tunes, especially while you're in the men's room at an airport.
3. If the police frisk you, don't giggle.
2. Don't go by the name of "Larry."
And, the number one thing not to do if you're not gay and people think you are.....Don't do anything gay.

As you can see, even though it's been months, I have not lost my public spiritedness. I hope you will find the above tips helpful and if it keeps any of you out of jail, a simple thanks is all I ask.

I BET YOU CAN'T WORK JERRY FALWELL AND AL SHARPTON INTO THE SAME BLOG. CAN TOO. BET YOU CAN'T.

Did you hear Jerry Falwell died? I’m still reeling. There are some people, I guess, that you just kind of think will always be there, and then, voila, they’re not.
Anyway, Jerry’s gone. Well, according to all the talk coming out of Lynchburg, he’s not really gone, he’s just away. Or, did he only go beyond the curtain? I’m not quite sure.
I heard an interesting quote from this gal who arrived at the site of his funeral ten hours early to make sure she got a good seat. Makes sense, when you think about it. So, think about it. When you go to a funeral, you really don’t want the cheap seats. Of course, you don’t want the most expensive seat in the house either, if you get my drift.
Anyway, this lady made a fascinating experience about having had the opportunity to attend Jerry Falwell’s funeral. Here’s what she said, and I promise, I’m not making this up. I don’t believe I could.
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Really, she said that. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. You know, she’s right. I have a feeling Jerry won’t be dying again…not anytime soon, anyway. It’s nice the pastor could accommodate this woman.
She went on to talk about her experiences growing up…how her mamma just loved Jerry so much, and how her family would sit around the radio and listen to the honey just drip out of his mouth. She didn’t exactly say that, but that’s the gist, or at least as I understood it. She spoke with such a thick accent that I couldn’t understand everything she said. It just made me realized how much we need to protect our borders. West Virginians are slipping into the state every day and we HAVE to do something about that.
But, back to Jerry Falwell. Did you hear about the 19-year-old Liberty University student who was arrested yesterday? Evidently this kid somehow missed out on the “Vengeance is Mine” lecture. He had put together some bombs because he was worried about the possibility of protesters at the funeral. Nothing says “let the man be buried in peace,” quite like a homemade bomb.
Speaking of bombs, I’m really getting sick and tired of those Hannity and Combes type of TV talk shows. Is this representative of thoughtful debate for the 2000s? The typical “debate” goes something like this:
HANNITY: We have Al Sharpton and the producer of Don Imus’ radio program, Bernard McGuirk, here to discuss the recent firing of Imus for inappropriate comments. Bernard, we’ll let you go first.
MCGUIRK: Reverend Sharpton is an idiot.
SHARPTON: Oh yeah? You’re the idiot.
MCGUIRK: Am not!
SHARPTON: Are too!
MCGUIRK: You’re momma!
SHARPTON: You see, there you go hurling racial slurs. You’re momma!
MCGUIRK: You’re a liar.
SHARPTON: No. You’re the liar.
MCGUIRK: Am not.
SHARPTON: Are too.
MCGUIRK: Stop talking about yourself.
SHARPTON: Me? You’re talking about yourself…calling yourself a liar.
MCGUIRK: You’re an idiot.
SHARPTON: You already called me an idiot.
MCGUIRK: Did not.
SHARPTON: Did too.
MCGUIRK: Well, you’re a double idiot.
SHARPTON: I’m rubber. You’re glue. What you say bounces off me and sticks to you.
MCGUIRK: Does not.
SHARPTON: Does too.
MCGUIRK: You’re dumb.
SHARPTON: Well, you’re bald.
MCGUIRK: Well, you’re a nap….
HANNITY: Ooops, time’s up. We thank both of you for being courageous enough to come on the program and debate this weighty issue.

Speaking of weighty, did you see Nancy Grace on Law and Order SVU last night? Hasn’t she blimped up? Star Jones was on as well. She looks like she’s lost some weight, but I’m pretty sure Nancy Grace has found every pound that Jones has lost.
Anyway, I’m going to wrap this up. My mother always said if you can’t say something nice about someone, say something bad, and I hope I’ve lived up to that today.

Did I Ever Tell You How Much I Really Care About You?

This may well be my last column. My days of hacking away at these pathetic excuses for blogs are done. I am about to embark on a bold, new, dynamic career move. It's a heady move, but, I like to think I'm somewhat of a heady guy. Before you start patting me on the back and offering your congratulations, at least let me tell you what I'm going to do.
Are you ready? I'm guessing some of you are thinking male model. Not quite. I'm going to become a life coach. And why not? I've read about these life coaches. It's a pretty cushy job. The money is good, the hours are short, and there's no heavy lifting. You go around telling people how pathetic they are and giving them some ideas to become less pathetic. The beauty of this is that the people who hire you are pretty much accustomed to failure. They've never made the right decision in their lives, so if (when) I don't work out, hey, it's what they expected all along. That means I'll never disappoint them. And to make things even better, if I don't help them, they're pretty much conditioned to blame themselves anyway.
Now all I have to do is find out how to get in front of these folks and let them know I'm open for business. I'm thinking about advertising on the back of match book covers. I always was a sucker myself for match book cover ads. I used to submit pictures of Blinky almost every week. The fact that I never got admitted to the Acme Artist's School is not the point. What is the point is that matchbook advertising works. In fact, as a life coach, I going to recommend that all of my clients spend some major dollars on matchbook covers.
Of course, I have lots of advice to give. I think my ability to give advice, often times on subjects about which I know absolutely nothing, is one of my stronger points. A good life coach has to act like he/she knows what he/she is talking about, even when he/she knows nothing.
Another thing working in my favor...an ability that has been pointing me towards a career in life coaching for many years, is my ability to come up with cliches at the drop of a hat. Hey, that's a cliche right there. I think you get my drift...you see where the compass is pointing, as it were. Really, a life coach is nothing if he doesn't have his cliches, and I have a satchel full.
I'm not exactly sure what a life coach does beyond that. He probably has some sort of spreadsheet to show people to prove how smart he is. And maybe some pictures of him standing with past clients, hugging them as if to say, "I'm so proud that I helped you." He also probably knows a lot about IRAs and annuities and roll-overs. I'm hoping that's not the case, because I don't know a thing about those subjects. In fact, truth be told, I find all that stuff rather boring.
But, as for the rest of the day to day duties...the meat and potatoes of the operation, so to speak, I'm pretty much going to have to improvise and learn as I go along. I rather imagine that my first few clients will bear a lot of the brunt of my inabilities. But, a man has to learn somewhere, doesn't he?
And even those first clients are going to be made to feel as if their success is the most important thing in my life. And therein lies my greatest strength...my ability to make people think I care. It's not that I don't care. It's just that I could never care as much as they might think I should considering how much of their money I'm going to be earning.
Well, I gotta run. I want to make up some ads to put on the match books. If you're in need for a good life coach, I'd appreciate you giving me a call. I think I could really help you...if for no other reason than that I care about you so very much. Look at me. You can tell I care...can't you? Alright. Why not give me a call today and tomorrow can be the first day of the rest of your life.

You Don't Like Me. You Really Don't Like Me!

Well, the Queen came to town and I didn't get to see her. But, and here's the exciting part, I was driving on I-64 at the same time she was riding on I-64. That'll be something to tell the grandkids about one day. Hey, actually I'm at that point in life where I can tell the grandkid.
True, he's only 11 months, but he is the smartest kid you'd ever want to meet. And cute! He so reminds me of myself at that age. Except, to be honest, I never had the sparkling disposition this kid has.
The fact is I have always had a somewhat rotten disposition. My grandfather used to ask my mother, every time he'd catch a glimpse of my sour puss, "Is that kid ever happy?"
My mother's reply was that, "He's only happy when he has something to complain about." Fortunately, I'm still that way. So, as you can well imagine, I'm a happy guy.
That's the great thing about living in this rotten world...there's plenty of stuff about which to complain. I try and stir things up when I see a situation developing. I hate it when there's real potential for turmoil and it dies down before it really gets a head of steam up.
For instance, I was in my doctor's office a few weeks ago for a follow up visit. When I had been there the week previously, I was asked to hand over my insurance card so the receptionist could make a photocopy of it. I started to ask her then why I had to show my card since they had copied it a few months before that. But, I felt too sick to stir things up.
But, anyway, when I went in for the follow up visit, and the woman asked me for my insurance card, I politely asked her why I had to show it again inasmuch as I had given it to her less than a week previously.
I was nice about it. I was pleasant. I think those of you who know me know that I'm always pleasant.
So I was blindsided when this arrogant excuse for a receptionist pointed to the sign by the window and shouted, "Because that sign says you have to."
There's nothing that gets my blood boiling more than a stupid answer, so I (again politely) say, "That's a stupid answer." I then ask the girl, "If the sign said 'Stick Your Finger Up Your Nose' should I do that simply because there's a sign that tells me to?"
Now, I knew that asking that question would only escalate matters, but, hey, I have a column to write. Am I supposed to just sit around passively and wait for people to treat me like bird droppings? No! I have to force people to do that sometimes.
The rest of the story is not all that interesting. I'd like to tell you the girl was fired on the spot, but, alas, she wasn't.
I do have a knack for irritating others. I think it's what has helped me get to where I am today. I had to tell an archaeologist off recently. He had written an article for our magazine...worst writing I'd ever seen, to be honest.
But, because I hate to hurt someone, rather than tell him that he had the writing skills of a six-year-old, I simply did a little editing and sent it back to him. He called me up, screaming about how I had ruined his masterpiece. "Everyone tells me I'm an excellent writer," he screams. "I conduct tours and people say I write like I talk."
"Maybe that's your problem," I tell him.
"You're just a little man," he tells me.
"And, you're the worst writer I've ever encountered," I tell him.
All in all it was a pleasant conversation. We simply agreed to loathe each other.
I have somewhat mixed feelings about my encounter with him. I hate for it to be said that 100% of all archaeologists with whom I've ever had any interaction, hate me. But, on the other hand, how many of you out there can say you've had the pleasure of screaming at an archaeologist?
I can also say that I've had a bit of a run in with everyone who works for Queen Elizabeth. I had mentioned that I had requested press credentials to see the Queen. Some one from her office phoned me and told me that I was too late. I told them that if I couldn't see the Queen, then our magazine would do an article on Elton John. This person from the Queen's office didnt' find that amusing.
He did tell me I could go to the state capitol and watch her on a giant jumbo screen. Now that makes sense. In other words, I can go get in all that crowd just to watch the Queen on TV. My thinking is that I could kinda do the same thing at home.
The gist of his reply had to do with suggesting I do just that.
So, there you have it. I'm proud to say that a direct representative of Queen Elizabeth likes me as much as my doctor's receptionist, and, oh yes, this archaeologist fellow.

Wait Problems

I got up early this morning and watched my DVR’d latest episode of 24. The show is pretty good, but Jack Bauer really does live in an alternate universe. In the real world, nothing happens that quickly. For instance, in the latest hour episode, Jack saves his ex-girlfriend, Audrey. Audrey is totally whacked out due to Chinese drug-induced brainwashing techniques. But, within five minutes, Jack has brought her back to reality, at least close enough to help the good guys.
So many things have happened in this one day of the current season’s shows. Jack has been shot or shot at on at least four or five occasions. His brother has been murdered by his father; he’s cut off innumerable fingers (not his, those of friends and enemies), and he still goes on. Wow! I’m impressed.
What I’d like to see Jack accomplish within a matter of hours, though, are such mundane things as getting his driving record straightened out at DMV. At least three hours of programming would have to be devoted to him sitting in his little kindergarten chair watching numbers flash on the screens, while DMV workers visit with one another, drink coffee, and occasionally scowl at the people who pay their salaries.
In Jack Bauer’s world, he can capture a Middle Eastern terrorist, a Russian spy, and an American traitor in less time than I can get my cell phone customer service rep to correct an error on my bill. And, in less time than it takes me to stop fuming over poor service from that rep, Jack has recovered from having spent the past year being tortured by those rascally Chinese.
Now, Jack Bauer could probably get better service at DMV than I because I’m willing to bet that if his number wasn’t called within the first three minutes, he’d be removing fingers from an insolent clerk. Of course, if he had to stop at Food Lion and pick up a makeshift finger remover (maybe a garlic press), then he’d never even make it to DMV within that hour’s episode.
Food Lion management has some sort of policy about constantly moving items. On one visit, the garlic presses might be with other kitchen utensils, but on the next, it could easily have been moved over to diapers and baby food. And, while I’m talking about baby food, have you noticed how Food Lion keeps baby formula under lock and key. I went in the other night, spent about 30 minutes perusing the baby stuff aisle and finally gave up. When I asked where the baby formula might be, the assistant manager told me that it was up front. When I got up front and asked about the formula, a sales clerk got out a wad of keys and started unlocking this cabinet. I don’t think the Hope Diamond is any more closely guarded. After I made my selection, the clerk wouldn’t hand me the formula. I had to walk around to the check out area and pay for the formula before I was allowed to hold it. Let Jack Bauer deal with stuff like that.
Once he found his garlic press, he would then have to get in line. And, if he got behind the folks I get behind, there goes another hour episode. Here's a warning. If you're standing in line at the checkout in a grocery store, and the person in front of you is holding coupons, leave the store. You'll never get served...at least not until the clerk has had to double check each coupon against the receipt to ensure that the coupon user got full credit. Then the coupon user will want to take the coupons back and closely inspect each one to make sure he isn't somehow being cheated. There are no coupon users on 24. And in Jack Bauer's world there are no price checks at counter twelve. Everything goes smoothly, even major obstacles are cleared away within minutes. I mean look how quickly Powers Booth recovered from learning that his girl friend was sleeping with the enemy. Why can't things go that easily in my world?
Truth be told, a real-life Jack Bauer, as good as he might be at diving out of windows and torturing the bad guys, would never make it in the real world. Sadly enough, we can’t go around punching people in the gut because they don’t give us the answers we seek immediately. How easy it would be, if,after waiting a half hour at DMV, to just dive right through the plate glass window and leave. But we, the real heroes of the world, have to sit there and be ignored until our number is called.
Jack Bauer is a wimp, when you think about it. He can’t do anything unless he has a gun. And, if he doesn’t have one, he’ll knock someone out, or do as he did this week, put the ol’ Johnny Weaver sleeper hold on Ricky Shroeder. And, if you don’t know who Johnny Weaver is, you’re either too young or too intellectual to be reading my column.
How nice it would be to be able to save the world, save our loved one, resolve personal issues, help a friend overcome alcoholism, disarm a bomb, cut off an ear, and kick a few folks in the groin, all within 24 hours...and never even get our hair mussed. But, in real life, it just ain’t that way. Every hour of Jack Bauer’s life is filled with daring exploits. Sometimes it takes me that long just to find my car keys.

I Have Met the British and They Are Me

I've been reading your comments posted pertaining to my last column on the Queen. I get the impression that there are many Americans who have some sort of inherent affinity for HM (I abbreviate to show my knowledge of all things British). Of course, I know there's at least one Limey in the crowd out there. He's the one who talks such funny English you can't even understand him if you can't watch his lips moving.
That's one of the irritating things about those English folk...they really don't speak English all that well. Oh, I suppose they muddle through well enough that most of us can make some semblence of what they're trying to say, but for the most part, they tend to mumble. I guess it's that stiff upper lip and all. And yet, they act as if they owned the language.
Speaking of stiff upper lips, what about the so-called British sense of humor. The British are so staid and yet nothing gives them the jollies so much as watching a man dress up like a woman.There's something about that, which really seems to strike a chord.
Something else about the British that bothers me is their sorry excuse for food. Think about it. How often have you said, "Gee honey, I'm really in the mood for a British restaurant tonight."? Maybe the last time you dressed in drag, but other than that...?
Not since Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips restaurants closed down has there really been a great British restaurant.
And think about what they eat. Shepherd's Pie? Is that something akin to a cow patty? Sounds like it.
It's not that British food tastes bad. It's more that it doesn't taste at all. I believe if I were British I would probably not be so fat because the desire to eat would be almost nil. Of course the down side to being British, is that I'd be...well, I'd be British.
In some ways, the British are rather bland. I hope none of you Brits take that as offensive. I mean it in the nicest possible way. I have family from Scotland, not exactly Britain, but maybe it is. I never was good at Geography. Anyway most of these Scotish relatives are, to be painfully honest, very boring.
I don't know why they can't be as clever and delightful as I am, but, truth be told, they're just not. I guess that's the reason my family only holds reunions about once every fifty years. Everyone just goes to wherever the reunion is being held and just sits there looking at each other. Except for dearly departed Uncle John. He used to take his false teeth out for us kids. It was especially funny when he was dressed up in a bridal gown.
Once Uncle John died, I think the rest of the family kinda figured what's the use. We're just too boring to get together.
Other than their language, their humor, their food, and their personalities, I love the British. I would love to visit London someday. I hear the biggest attraction there is fog. Sounds like a lot of fun. Must be the British in me speaking. Wonder why I have such a burning desire to slip into something lacey?

The British Are Coming! The British Are Coming!

I’m baaaacccckkkk! I apologize for my absence, but I’ve been busy with wedding plans. For those of you who don’t know…Rosie O’Donnell and I are soon to be wed. I know. It’s very exciting. I had actually hoped I could quit work, but in view (get it) of her somewhat surprise announcement this week, it looks like I have to go back to doing what I do best.
So, here I am. And I have a fresh bunch of stuff to gripe about. But, first, I want to talk about something really exciting. The Queen is coming to town. No, I’m not referring to another Elton John concert…the real queen…Elizabeth II, the non-virgin queen is coming to Virginia.
It’s such a big deal that Virginia governor, Eddie Munster, has created a special website, http://queensvisit.governor.virginia.gov/. My only concern is that it looks like something from the Clampetts. In other words, this website smacks of a bunch of hillbillies who all got together to say a special Howdy-do to the queen.
For instance, and you may want to go to the site and see what I’m talking about, but for starters, press the About the Queen button. Here’s what you find: On the throne for 55 years (so far), Queen Elizabeth II has played an important part in the life of Great Britain, the Commonwealth, and on the world stage, including Virginia.”
Huh? Great sentence structure there. And, do you really need “so far” in there? I mean, I’m not expecting a queenometer timer to give me the exact hours, minutes, and seconds the gal’s been on the throne (speaking of thrones, did you notice how fast the state moved to get a new reststop built between Richmond and Williamsburg? Do they really think the Queen is going to need to skip to our loo. I’m willing to bet her limo has a wc built in.) But back to my initial ranting – We kinda know that if you say the queen has been on the throne for 55 years, that you mean “so far.”
Next, click on the etiquette hyperlink. There, under protocal, we are informed by Jethro Bodine, “When the Queen enters a room, everyone stands (with the exception of her late mother when she was alive).”
Now, that really is a stupid line. If you want to state that the Queen Mother doesn’t stand for the queen, just say it. But, again, we can kind of figure out that upon her death, she had little further involvement in her daughter’s affairs. Technically, the wording is really saying that now that she’s dead, the Queen Mom should stand for the Queen. I have a feeling that was not the writer’s intention.
Further down on the page we are told “Bowing is not required of U.S. citizens.” That’s reassuring. I can just picture one of them smiley-face guards poking the barrel of a rifle in my ribs trying to make me bow.
Although, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind bowing to the queen. It’s something I don’t get to do all that often, not since I was in China, in fact, when I spent hours trading bows with everyone I met. Those Chinese really are into bowing.
The website goes on to say that women don’t need to curtsey, but it does give a nice description as to how you curtsey. In all my years of curtseying, I never knew I was supposed to put my right foot behind my left heel. Gee, I’m embarrassed.
There’s another interesting line on the website regarding the Queen. It says, “And if HM The Queen Elizabeth II lives until Dec. 21, 2007, she will become the oldest reigning monarch in the history of both British and the Commonwealth Realms.”
Now don’t get nervous Elizabeth, the writer’s not suggesting anything. Sure you’re past 80, so you might not want to buy any green bananas. Why not just say, “On December 21, 2007, she will become….”? Maybe the site should say, “If the old gal can hang on until December 21….”
I wrote the PR person responsible for the site and asked her if this site was a joke, or just terribly written. For some reason, I didn’t get a reply, although someone from the Queen’s office called to tell me they were out of press credentials and I can’t see the Queen. Here I am, trying to make her feel better, and at the same time getting rejected.
I should be disheartened, but hey, I have my Rosie to keep me warm.

Sticks and Stones Can Break Your Bones, But Words Can Kill You

From reports I’m hearing, it appears that Osama Bin Laden, who has been suspected of being dead, is set to make a reappearance this afternoon. The terrorist leader has called a press conference to present his views on this whole Don Imus deal.
I’m not sure when I’m going to hold my press conference on the issue. I hope the networks can pencil me in between Al Roker’s press conference and Pee Wee Herman’s.
This is just another example as to how a non-story becomes the big issue of the day. It’s also an example of how quick everyone is to become a victim.
Now, don’t’ get me wrong. I think Don Imus was very stupid to have said what he said. However, the man has made a fortune saying stupid, and often shocking things, for several decades now. He’s belittled any number of persons, some more deserving of his tirades than others.
Obviously, the Rutgers women’s basketball team is not made up of a bunch of nappy-headed hos. Is “hos” the plural of “ho”? I don’t think an apostrophe should go there, should it? You can see the issues that puzzle me. But, since these women are, in all likelihood, fine, young ladies, why is there such a big hubbub? Really, how could a thoughtless statement from a washed up old man like Don Imus ruin your moment in the sun?
No one took Don Imus seriously. He might be a jerk, but if the news channels, and even the major networks, filled their schedules with covering every stupid thing that every stupid jerk says or does, there wouldn’t be enough time to cover the really important issues such as the paternity of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby.
And, do you fire someone for saying something stupid? If so, then I can think of lots of folks who’ve said far more incendiary things than what Don Imus said. Take the unforgiving Al Sharpton, for example. On many occasions in the past, his comments have done quite a bit of harm, including getting people killed, and yet, I’m betting he’s been rather forgiving of himself for those slip-ups.
I thought it was interesting that, according to a “news” story, a preacher somewhere included in his Easter Sunday sermon, his tirade against Don Imus. The preacher evidently said the man should not be forgiven. Pretty tough words, especially on a day that's supposedly honoring a man who gave his life in order to obtain forgiveness for a lot of people who had done worse than name-calling.
The "Reverend" Jesse Jackson has been quite vocal regarding Don Imus. And yet, it seems he was rather quick to forgive himself for some past indiscretions. Hmmm...Adultery…name-calling. Name calling…adultery. When I weigh them out, I’d think adultery would be a little heavier in the “oops, I’ve sinned” department. But, that’s just me.
Here’s my advice to the Rutgers' ladies…show your grace, your maturity, your dignity. Forgive Don Imus. You’re the ones he offended. You’re the ones who can forgive, or not. If you don’t forgive him, what will you do? Go through life whining about the time someone said something stupid that was offensive? That would certainly be productive. If you really want to make Don Imus feel bad, forgive and forget.
The problem is, when people take a minor indiscretion and blow it up to a national issue, one tends to feel sorry for the offender. Listen ladies…have you ever said anything negative, anything that wasn’t true, anything just plain stupid about someone else? If so, then why not just let this whole thing drop. And, if you have never done that, then you’re perfect, so I’m sure you’ve already forgiven him.
The point is that I’m just sick and tired of hearing about this. I’m sick and tired of everyone who can think of any reason to be offended to be going on TV and wearing that hurt like a shiny badge of which to be proud. It's things like this that give Gary Coleman a chance to make a comeback. If for no other reason than that, this whole thing has to be nipped in the blossoming bud now.
Please just drop the whole mess. I don't really have a pony in this show, but I do want to find out what’s going to happen to Dannielynn.

A Bad Case of Clap For Everything

THERE ARE NO OBSCENITIES IN THIS COLUMN, BUT I DO USE THE ROUGHEST LANGUAGE I HAVE EVER USED.

I’m not a political sort of guy. I know virtually nothing about politics. The difference between Conservatives and Liberals is lost on me, although the best I can figure out from listening to Rush Limbaugh and others, is the Liberals believe in killing unborn babies, and Conservatives would rather wait until they’re born and have ‘em killed via tobacco, or firearms, or even a bit of capital punishment if need be. If there are any other differences, I’m unaware of them.
I say all that to say this…I do think a large segment of society has become Jerry-Springerized into mental oblivion. What do I mean by that? Well, think about it. In the good old days of television, the studio audience would applaud someone famous, or someone who had acted heroically, or someone who did had entertained them. Today, studio audiences applaud everything. And that’s thanks to Jerry Springer and that ilk.
For instance, I’ve seen the foulest talking, filthiest acting, most body-pierced, tattooed, scum of the earth types come on stage and start slapping their girlfriend’s secret lover, who also happens to be their own father, or mother, or brother, or sister, or milkman, and the audience goes wild.
The more trash talking, the more applause. In other words, these idiots in the audience have been conditioned, probably with applause signs, to put their hands together for the trashiest people that the producers of the shows can scrape out of a dumpster and bring on their shows.
I keep thinking that one day Oprah will do an entire show about “Audiences Who Clap at Crap.” Pardon my French.
So now we’ve come to the point that people like Rosie O’Donnell will go on TV and say, “Yep, we Americans are the terrorists and we’re torturing those poor, innocent Islamic captives,” and the audience will applaud wildly. Explain that to me. I get the impression that the audience is saying “Hooray! We stink. We’re horrible people.”
If Rosie’s audience really believes her…if they truly believe that Americans are torturing Islamic prisoners…if they really believe that George Bush orchestrated 9-11 for political purposes, is applause really the correct response?
In my day, you didn’t demonstrate shame or guilt or remorse by applauding wildly. It’d be like a judge pronouncing a death sentence and the prisoner would pump his fist in the air and exclaim, “Alright! I’m doomed!”
Again, this is not a political issue I’m talking about here. It’s simply pure logic. Why should we applaud our badness? What has happened is that the dregs of society have become celebrities via the Jerry Springers of TV land. The message is the badder you are the more famous you are.
Think about what the TV show COPS did for sleeveless t-shirts, or wife-beaters as they’ve come to be called. Because of the misplaced (aka non-existent) values of so many, it became cool to wear a wife-beater. Take that fact one step further and beating women becomes cool. Then turn on Maury or Jerry or whomever, and you’ll see the audiences applauding wife-beaters. You think I’m making this up?
We’ve become so conditioned to glorifying bad that people equate fame with badness. In other words, it makes sense when Rosie says the President of the United States is behind the killings of thousands of Americans because he’s famous, hence he’s bad. Let’s all applaud.
This rule is applied even in the elementary schools, where the good girls, the ones who believe virginity is still something to cherish, are teased and humiliated. Who become the role models when that happens? You don’t need me to tell you.
And so the bad girls grow up to be celebrities. When I was in school being known as a slut would be horrifying. Now, the cable news networks devote special programs to sluts, such as Anna Nicole Smith.
Remember Deborah Jean Palfrey, the Washington “madame” who was threatening to sell her phone records showing which D.C. notables had used her escort service? When whores hold press conferences and the major networks televise them, you know something is wrong. Except for those who’ve been Springerized, this all seems perfectly normal.
I sure am glad TV wasn’t like this fifty years ago. I don’t think I could have handled a Leave It To Beaver episode where June and Lumpy were an item, or, worse yet, Ward was caught in bed with Eddie Haskell.
And, if you think I exaggerate, watch just about any of today’s situation comedies. On second thought, maybe you’d be better served by turning the TV off. That would be something worthy of applause.

Pet Peeves

I haven’t given out any Total Idiot of the Week Awards in quite some time. That’s not because there are no idiots out there. Just the opposite. There are so many they tend to blend together. Unfortunately for me, there hasn’t been any really good, new, unique stupidity lately. That is until Elaine Larable came along. Thank you Elaine. You have restored my faith in mankind.
I guess I should feel sorry for the poor gal. She’s sick. She’s vomiting and foaming at the mouth. How you do that at the same time, I’m not sure, but Elaine evidently has figured it out.
Elaine, a resident of Ottawa (that’s in Canada, for all of you who attend Richmond Public Schools), became ill after eating dog food. Now, when I first heard this story, I immediately began to feel sorry for Elaine. As you know, I have a heart as big as all indoors. I assumed she was some destitute old lady who had been reduced to eating dog food because she couldn’t afford human food, although, have you seen the price of dog food lately?
I wept a tear or two, then I continued to read the story. Elaine was not eating dog food because she couldn’t afford better. She was eating dog food in order to encourage her own doggie to eat it.
I’m picturing Elaine sitting in the kitchen with Fido in the high chair. “Open wide,” she’s telling her pet. “Here comes the chow chow choo-choo.” And, since the little fellow was a bit finicky, Elaine had to show him how tasty the food was. I guess Elaine was thinking that if it works for babies, it’ll work for dogs. After all, what is a dog, but a stinky, shedding, ugly baby.
Yes, you see Elaine’s real sickness is what I have diagnosed as Anthropomoronism. I’ve always been a bit put off by folks who treat their animals as if they are humans. I’ve seen mothers blame their kids for being bitten by the dog. They’ll send the kid to the room and give the dog a little treat to compensate for the trauma that Junior has put the animal though.
I’ve seen individuals who appear to be relatively normal in virtually every respect, but who put sweaters and pants on their pets and parade them through the mall. And, while I’m on the subject, what’s with these malls letting people bring their pets shopping with them. My foot is already a manure magnet. I just hate to have to worry about possibly stepping in something while trying on a $95.00 shirt at Brooks Brothers.
I’ve worked with people who give their dogs and cats Christmas presents, and, who actually get Christmas presents from their animals. Don’t ask me how that is done. I do wonder if dogs ever complain about Christmas becoming too commercial. Do you think the manger story has the same significance to a dog as to a human? I mean wouldn’t the dog be thinking, “Cool, he was born in a really swanky place.”?
I thought I’d seen every sort of pet idiocy imaginable. But Elaine Larable takes the cake, or the can of dog food. Can you imagine a woman so delusional that she really belives that by eating dog food she can be a source of encouragement to her dog? I would think eating dog food would be almost as bad as eating potted meat, or, even worse, Spam.
As is so often the case, my tender side has gotten the best of me. So, Elaine Larable, if you are well enough to be reading this, I truly am sorry, not only that you’re sick, but also for all the nasty things I’ve said about you. If you’re still feeling sick, may I suggest a sure-fire remedy. It’s a little health food item they call wheat gluten.

Phlegm Flam Man

I've been sick. I'm not saying that to upset you. But simply to explain why I have been derelict in my duties. Even if I had not been sick, saying "I've been sick," is such a simple way to get by with stuff. But, I really have been sick. I won't go into details, but if phlegm were as valuable as, let's say, oil, I'd be a rich man today.
I finally went to the doctor. He said I had asthmatic bronchitis. I guess what that means is that I had bronchitis and my bronchitis had asthma.
Anyway, I was sick. I have spent a lot of time lying in bed, watching TV and reading. My wife has this book on natural remedies for every illness imaginable. I've always thought such books were written for hypochondriacs, but, after spending the past couple of weeks reading the book, I now realize that I suffer from a lot more than asthmatic bronchitis.
This book lists each disease or disorder and then gives the symptoms. I have almost everything. For instance, it's obvious I have diverticulitis. Since I was a boy, I've been telling anyone who would listen that I have a very redundant sigmoid colon, but no one believed.
I also think I have mercury poisoning. The symptoms were not that clearly spelled out, but it just sounds like the sort of thing that makes me feel so poorly. You know, that blah feeling that so many of us get from time to time? Mercury poisoning.
It would also appear, from reading the symptoms, that I have bulimia. I guess I just keep forgetting to purge.
I think it's pretty clear that I am also a LLS sufferer. Yes, I have Listless Leg Syndrome. Sometimes my legs just go to sleep while I'm walking. And, I can't count the number of times I've been sitting and watching TV and knew I had to get up to use the restroom, but my legs just didn't have it in them to take me there. Let me tell you something I've learned about those bathroom urges. They don't go away. The problem doesn't just resolve itself. I've discovered that even if you don't get up to go to the bathroom, you still go to the bathroom, if you know what I'm trying to say. I think my fellow LLS sufferers can relate to this better than the rest of you.
Now, by this point, you're probably becoming quite alarmed. "How does this young man even find the strength to write?" you're probably asking yourself.
Don't worry. I'm like a cat. I always land on my feet. Although with my fallen arches, sometimes that can be quite painful. But, I do go on.
The great thing about all this is that now, after reading this masterfully-written book, I know that I really am sick. For years, my family has suspected that I'm making all this stuff up. They've thought I tended to be just a bit neurotic. But, I guess I'm getting the last laugh here.
Actually, despite my reputation, truth be known, I'm in excellent health, considering how sick I am. I guess I'm just a trooper, or something like that.
Anyway, I think my bronchitis is gone. I've improved to the point that I'm now feeling no worse than if I simply had a very bad cold. And, actually I'm feeling better today than I have in weeks. Let me just check my pulse and my blood sugar level and I'm ready to go to work.

No Small Fete

Someone pointed out to me yesterday that I've now written two blogs (acronym for Brilliantly Literate Online Gems) on shoelaces. So? What's your point? I could write a column every day on shoelaces, or at least on feet related material. When it comes to feet, I have lots of thoughts. For starters, and some of you already know this about me, I suffer from toe phobia. I've been told it's acute. I cannot stand anyone to touch my toes.
If I was ever interrogated by the police, all they would need to do is start pulling my toes. I'd cave in an instant. I think I also have a police interrogation phobia. I'm always worrying about how easy it would be for the police to get me to confess to anything.
I've seen these Court TV stories about someone who confesses to killing fifty people and leads the police to all those dead bodies and then his lawyer gets in court and tells the judge that the guy made the confession under duress and that he never killed anyone, and there the guy just sits there smiling as if to say, "Silly me."
I used to think that no one would confess unless they had actually done the crime, but, now that my mind is on my toes, I can see how someone might confess to being a serial killer if the police were pulling his toes. I just hope that before the police get a hold of my feet that the Democrats do something to pass some sort of anti-torture law.
Speaking of torture, I'd been reading about how some people are upset at the show 24 because Jack Bauer uses too much torture. I am not a lover of violence, but I thought I'd check the show out. i'd never watched it before this year. It is a pretty well written show, but the fact that everything happens in a 24 hour period dampens some of the impact.
For instance, one of the characters, a recovering alcoholic, fell off the wagon, compromised national security, recovered again, and went on to perform his job beautifully, all within a period of a couple of hours. Hey, if all my problems could be over and done with in one day, I'd have no problems.
Then, there's Jack's sister-in-law. Her husband, Jack's brother, is killed and within an hour or two she's hitting on Jack. I would think a grieving widow would need at least 36 hours to really get over the loss of her mate, but then what do I know about such things?
Also within the first twelve hours, Jack has escaped death about fifteen times. At about nine in the morning, he said, "I can't go on doing this." But, by three in the afternoon, he's recovered and has renewed his determination to go on torturing in the name of either national security or just good TV drama.
So, do you see what I just accomplished? I've cleverly woven my feet into Jack Bauer's life. Now let me segue back. I do enjoy 24, but if they ever start torturing terrorists' toes, i'm tuning out. That would be disgusting.
By the way, did i ever tell you about the time I tried to kill a cab driver with my shoelace? I'll save that for another day.

Tied To Be Fit

I’m feeling positively radiant today. They say that we all need to stop and do something nice for ourselves once in awhile. And, I’m living testimony today that this is so true. In fact, if you were to look at me today, you’d probably say I was glowing.
I don’t usually splurge. I always look for the cheapest item. But yesterday, I said to myself, “Steve, you’re worth it.”
So, I went to Richmond’s top shoe store, Saxon Shoes. No more Shoe Barn for me, I thought. Plus, there wasn’t a Goodwill store anywhere nearby. So, I marched right in and after considerable deliberation, I bought myself a pair of shoe laces.
Yep, you heard me right...shoe laces from the very best shoe store in, perhaps, the entire world. True to form, I received excellent customer service, and I returned that by being an excellent customer. The young lady approached me at the shoe lace rack, and asked if she could be of assistance. I really thought I’d be able to make the decision myself, but, hey, why not let an expert help me out? I had told you previously that my last pair of shoe laces were purchased at Food Lion. I made some horrible mistakes that day. For one thing, I bought brown laces for black shoes. They don’t match. Who knew?
Then I bought laces that could have been used to hold a body cast together. They must have been 100 inches or so. Those days are behind me. From now on, all my shoe laces come from Saxon’s.
It really does pay to have professional assistance when it comes to such things. You see this woman didn’t just guess at what I needed. She examined my shoes. I was a little embarrassed, since they had come from Shoe Barn, via Goodwill. But she didn’t let on that my shoes looked hideous. She looked back up at me like I was a real customer.
Then she looked at the back of the shoe lace container. They actually had a little guide to help you pick the right length....27. I’ll remember that from now on. I need 27 inches of shoe lace. Really, to be technical, I need 54, since I’m buying for two feet.
Anyway, the woman selected a pair of those round shoe laces. I was holding flat in my hand at the time, but she looked at me as if I had made a rather gauche selection. That’s probably my insecurities talking there, because actually, she just looked at the laces and reached for the round ones.
“Those come undone too easily,” I told her. I figure since I’m the one with the buying power here, I may as well get what I want. She then looked through Saxon’s extensive shoe lace selection and picked out a pair of flat laces.
“Are these guaranteed not to ever come untied?” I asked her seriously. I don’t think she thought I was serious, though. She just smiled and kinda ignored that question.
Anyway, I’m standing there holding the pack of shoe laces. I do what even those who splurge occasionally must do. I turned the package over and looked at the price...$1.50.
I froze. Should I pay a buck, fifty for a pair of shoe laces. I’d only paid 99 cents at Food Lion. I started to put them back, but, I remembered what I’d told myself about being worth it. To give me the courage I needed, I looked at myself in the mirror and repeated that little speech. Of course, because I was in a shoe store, the mirror was only a foot off the floor, so I had to crawl over to the mirror and give the speech.
The nice lady waited patiently until I crawled back over to the shoe lace rack. “I’ll take them,” I said proudly.
She smiled. I’m figuring that if the gal’s on commission, that’s probably the easiest fifteen cents she’ll ever make.
I take my shoe laces to the counter and immediately hand the cashier my dollar bill and fifty-eight cents in exact change. Yep, the ol’ sales tax. Almost forgot about that, but I figure I’m worth it.
The lady put my laces in a nice golden Saxon’s bag. At a dollar fifty for a pair of laces, I’m thinking I deserve a golden bag. But, here’s the kicker. This morning I go to put my brand new shoe laces in my shoes, and, lo and behold, the package has two pair! Not two laces, two pair. I got a steal! I wonder if the folks at Saxon’s know about that. I can’t believe they could let four laces go for a buck, fifty. But, anyway, I put the other laces in my drawer. I’m figuring I got enough shoe laces to last me a lifetime...and top dollar laces at that. But, you know what? I’m worth it.

Imagine That

I saw a preview for a movie the other day and it really got me to thinking. It’s about this little girl who has this imaginary friend, except the imaginary friend isn’t really imaginary. Now, in this movie, the imaginary friend was evil, but what I got to thinking was suppose in real life imaginary friends aren’t really imaginary.
There are a lot of details I haven’t worked out yet…like, who these imaginary friends really are, and where they’re from, but just suppose, that they’re like some sort of invisible people who hang out with kids and then when the kids grow up, they move on to other kids.
You’re probably thinking I’ve flipped out, but I’m just saying, “Suppose this were true.” I’m not saying I believe it, but I do keep an open mind, so I got to thinking there’s one way to find out if imaginary friends are real. And that is to ask you if you have ever encountered my imaginary friends. I had two of them, but I haven’t seen them, or not seen them since I was about six years old. Their names were Gabbi and Ding Dong. Do those names ring a bell (no pun intended)?
I wonder if some of you have ever encountered those two wacky guys. Now Gabbi really wasn’t so wacky. He definitely was the wiser of the two, always there with good advice for me. Ding Dong on the other hand was just plain silly. For instance, it was Ding Dong who told me that the manhole in front of the apartment I lived in on Cary Street had a man living in it. “Why else would they call it a manhole?” Ding Dong once asked me. It made perfect sense to me. I used to spend several hours a day collecting cigarette butts to feed the man in the manhole. I think the butts idea was Ding Dong’s as well.
Gabbi was more of an older brother type…a protector if you will. I used to ride my red fire engine up and down the sidewalk all day and no one ever bothered me. I think that was because of Gabbi.
Gabbi was also the one who told me about Magic Alka Seltzer. Have you ever heard of it? It was good for all sorts of problems. For instance, if we were playing cops and robbers, and I got shot, I’d just pop a Magic Alka Seltzer in my mouth (imaginarily, that is) and my wounds would go away. In fact, Magic Alka Seltzer could even bring you back from the dead. Since my brothers were constantly killing me, in our games, that is, Magic Alka Seltzer was of real benefit. And believe you me; the Magic Alka Seltzer was very frustrating to them.
That’s been a half century ago and I have a feeling that Gabbi and Ding Dong are no longer working the Carytown beat. You don’t see kids out, by themselves, playing in the alleys and on the sidewalks, like you did when I was a kid. Parents lock the kids in the house, behind chains and deadbolts and the like. True, many of the old houses and apartments have been converted into stores, but there are still plenty of houses down that way. I don’t suppose the man is still in the manhole, although there are some folks roaming the street that look as if that may be where they’ve come from.
I have to admit, I haven’t heard anyone mention Gabbi and Ding Dong in many, many years. I think when my family moved to Roanoke when I was six, they came along. So, they might still be down that way. If you see ‘em, or, rather, don’t see ‘em, tell them I said “hello.”
By the time one reaches their mid-fifties, a large number of the non-imaginary people he or she has loved the most in life, are no longer around. I would think that’s the especially bad part about living to really old age…you see virtually everyone you have ever loved die.
I guess that’s a big part of the reason I’d like to meet up with Gabbi and Ding Dong again. I’d love to get my hands on some of that Magic Alka Seltzer.