I’ve been away. Or, didn’t you notice? I decided, several weeks ago, to solve the global warming problem. I’m not exactly sure I believe there is a global warming problem, but since perception is reality, it must be a big one…problem, that is. And, the Steve Cook motto is, “Where there’s a problem, Steve’s got a solution.” Or, something like that. I haven’t really given much thought to my motto.
Anyway, I put my mind to solving the problem. First, I studied the situation. It’s always good to study situations. So, that’s what I did. I did a lot of reading, mainly cereal boxes, but, hey, there’s some good stuff out there, especially on those organic cereal boxes.
I basically came to the conclusion, initially, that in some parts of the world it was cooler this year, and in some areas, it’s been warmer. What I think we are really experiencing today is what I call, “Global Staying Pretty Much the Same.” But, again, since so many people are so scared about global warming, I may as well solve it.
Personally, I say, “Bring it on.” I think it would be great to be able to take a vacation in the tropics and see the sights of Manhattan, all at the same time. I just hope global warming kicks in before I get too old to enjoy that.
But, anyway, I digress. Here’s the solution: Do you remember, back in the seventies, when everyone was whining about global cooling? I do. So, here’s what I did. I read some stuff, including a very well-written piece on Wikipedia, about global cooling. I read what the experts of thirty years ago thought was causing global cooling. And, I decided that the secret to ending global warming, is to do the things we were doing in the seventies to cause global cooling.
Pretty clever, eh? I thought so. For instance, it seems that aerosol cans were blamed on global cooling. So, for starters, if you’re really worried about your carbon footprint, and all that, everyone should go get themselves an aerosol can and spray it everyday. It doesn’t matter what it is. Maybe deodorant, or room freshener would do. And, if manufacturers took out those fleurocarbons, then Congress, or someone like that, should demand they be put back in. I firmly believe that if we all cooperated on this, we could end the threat of global warming almost overnight. I think we should all be encouraged to spray regularly. In fact, I’ve already come up with a great campaign slogan. Are you ready for this? “If you want to end global warming, let us spray.” Huh? Cool or what?
Now, there was something else that the scientific gurus were suggesting thirty years ago that might be causing global cooling. It had something to do with the earth’s tilt getting just slightly off kilter. I am not sure if that was caused by anything, or just one of those things that happens. But, anyway, if the earth tilts too much one way and it gets cooler, then logically if it tilts the other way, it’d get warmer. Even an idiot could figure that one out, as I proved. Now, what I haven’t been able to figure out, is how the earth’s tilting affects the whole earth. I’d think the people on one side would get cooler, while the folks on the other side got warmer, but that’s one of those issues I leave for those far wiser than I to figure out.
But, here is what I did figure out. If we simply set off some bombs or something, it should be an easy thing to cause the earth to tilt the right way. And, since we have plenty of bombs lying around, if we tilt too far one way, we can just set off some bombs on the other side of the earth and adjust it. It might take several detonations to tweak things just right, but obviously it’s an easy fix.
So, there you go. While the various political candidates do nothing but whine and complain, I look for solutions. As Bobby Kennedy said, “Some men look at things and say something or another, I look at things and say something else.” Hey, maybe that should be my motto.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
An Ox is an Ox, Of Course, Of Course
As publishers of several magazines in the Richmond area, we receive a lot of press releases from various organizations, including Colonial Williamsburg. Generally speaking, they’re doing some interesting things down there in Williamsburg, and we will often include their upcoming events on our events website – www.flavorcalendar.com.
However, I received a press release from there this morning that leaves me somewhat underwhelmed. I’m pasting the release into this blog, just so you’ll know I’m not making this up. Here goes:
The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation will host its first symposium on oxen and their crucial
role as beasts of burden through the centuries.
Now, let me stop right there. Are you fascinated? Do you know anyone who might be? I can picture the scene at the offices of the Colonial Williamsburg organization. Someone pipes up in a meeting, “Hey, let’s do a symposium on oxen.” Heads start bobbing up and down.
“Yeah!”
“Oh my yes”
“Bully for you, ol chap.”
Well anyway, once they got through congratulating themselves on the idea, they actually came up with a name for the symposium. The release continues:
“Oxen in the Old and New Worlds,” consisting of lectures, demonstrations and
panel discussions by oxen experts from America and Great Britain.
Lectures! Wow! Hope they’ll be serving lots of coffee. Demonstrations? What will they consist of? Will the bigger guys take turns riding the little guys around on their back. Or maybe they’ll just bring in some long sticks and take turns goading one another. That might be fun.
Of course, I hope I’m not too winded from the goading to prevent me from getting to the panel discussion. I hope they take questions from the audience. I have a few I’d like to ask, such as “Why are you doing this?” And, “Like, really, why are you doing this?”
Something else in that release enthralls me. I really, truly want to meet some oxen experts from America and Great Britain. I have long wanted to know more about oxen. For instance, was Babe the blue ox, really blue? Was she as big as people say she was? And, this Paul Bunyan guy, what was he really like, you know, in everyday life?
I Googled “oxen experts” just to see what might come up. Apparently this oxen thing is big right now. They’re having panel discussions all around the world on oxen. And to think I almost slept right through it.
As I continue to read the press release, I’m becoming more and more fascinated. For instance, the release goes on to say:
Relied upon for strength and intelligence, as well as a food source, oxen were
man’s main beasts of burden until the late 19th century, when horses and mules
replaced them.
Now, if the oxen were so intelligent, how did they let horses and mules replace them? Hold on there. I get it. They were so intelligent, that they played dumb so that the horses and mules did all the dirty work. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t recall seeing any oxen plowing the fields these days. I bet they’re all in some resort, somewhere, playing oxen games, drinking milk cocktails, and flicking fruit flies with their tales.
I wonder if any of the more intelligent oxen will be invited to participate in the panel discussion. This might not be so bad after all.
However, I received a press release from there this morning that leaves me somewhat underwhelmed. I’m pasting the release into this blog, just so you’ll know I’m not making this up. Here goes:
The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation will host its first symposium on oxen and their crucial
role as beasts of burden through the centuries.
Now, let me stop right there. Are you fascinated? Do you know anyone who might be? I can picture the scene at the offices of the Colonial Williamsburg organization. Someone pipes up in a meeting, “Hey, let’s do a symposium on oxen.” Heads start bobbing up and down.
“Yeah!”
“Oh my yes”
“Bully for you, ol chap.”
Well anyway, once they got through congratulating themselves on the idea, they actually came up with a name for the symposium. The release continues:
“Oxen in the Old and New Worlds,” consisting of lectures, demonstrations and
panel discussions by oxen experts from America and Great Britain.
Lectures! Wow! Hope they’ll be serving lots of coffee. Demonstrations? What will they consist of? Will the bigger guys take turns riding the little guys around on their back. Or maybe they’ll just bring in some long sticks and take turns goading one another. That might be fun.
Of course, I hope I’m not too winded from the goading to prevent me from getting to the panel discussion. I hope they take questions from the audience. I have a few I’d like to ask, such as “Why are you doing this?” And, “Like, really, why are you doing this?”
Something else in that release enthralls me. I really, truly want to meet some oxen experts from America and Great Britain. I have long wanted to know more about oxen. For instance, was Babe the blue ox, really blue? Was she as big as people say she was? And, this Paul Bunyan guy, what was he really like, you know, in everyday life?
I Googled “oxen experts” just to see what might come up. Apparently this oxen thing is big right now. They’re having panel discussions all around the world on oxen. And to think I almost slept right through it.
As I continue to read the press release, I’m becoming more and more fascinated. For instance, the release goes on to say:
Relied upon for strength and intelligence, as well as a food source, oxen were
man’s main beasts of burden until the late 19th century, when horses and mules
replaced them.
Now, if the oxen were so intelligent, how did they let horses and mules replace them? Hold on there. I get it. They were so intelligent, that they played dumb so that the horses and mules did all the dirty work. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t recall seeing any oxen plowing the fields these days. I bet they’re all in some resort, somewhere, playing oxen games, drinking milk cocktails, and flicking fruit flies with their tales.
I wonder if any of the more intelligent oxen will be invited to participate in the panel discussion. This might not be so bad after all.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Stupid Is as Stupid Says
You know, there are some really dumb people out there. Not you and I, of course. But, virtually everyone else. Especially is this so among the media elite.
For instance, just this morning a national broadcaster on CBS Television made the comment that he would be interviewing the son of Martin Luther King, Jr. later in the show. He identified the late civil rights leader's son as Martin Luther King, Jr., the third. I'm thinking that's kinda dumb.
And, while I enjoy the Fox News Network talk shows, have you ever stopped to analyze just how dumb most of the people who appear on those shows really are? Here's what I mean. Have you ever heard two people arguing on that show, persons who have very different viewpoints. Have you ever heard one say to the other, "You know, you're right. You've convinced me."?
In real life, people listen to one another. They learn from one another. They grow from their disagreements with others.
On TV that never happens. One guy says, "Your candidate is a total idiot. Here's his I.Q. test. It shows he's a moron."
Now, if someone were to say that to me, at least I'd want to look at his proof. But on Fox, that never happens. The second guy will shout back, "Well, your mother is an idiot."
There's no reasoning. There's no acknowledgment of anything the other guy said. It's just yelling.
So, guy two just called guy one's mother an idiot. What does guy one say? He retorts, "Oh yeah. Well, what about Reverend Wright?"
So, does guy two stop to reflect on Reverend Wright? Nope. He snaps back, "Yeah, and I guess Hillary has never lied." By this time these two guys have about four different arguments going and the only losers are the viewers. Whatever happened to intellectual, thoughtful discussion? It simply doesn't exist on television, or probably anywhere else nowadays.
But, no discussion of media idiots would be complete without taking a moment to honor one of the great idiots of all times. Of course, I'm speaking of Ted Turner. Sure this guy is a billionaire, but he adds new meaning to the term, "Southern hick." He sounds like one. He acts like one. He really must be one...a rich one, but a hick, nonetheless.
Did you hear the latest from Turner? He's talking about global warming with Charlie Rose, on Rose's TV talk show and he says that because we're not concerned with global warming it's going to be 8 degrees warmer. Turner, you can tell, is just making this stuff up. He starts to say (with authority) that it'll be 8 degrees warmer in ten years. But, you can see, he catches himself, as any good liar can do, and kinda tells himself, "Hey, that's too soon. Let me make up another number." He then says, "Not ten, but thirty years." He says it as if to say, "Hey, who really cares. Ten, thirty, they're all the same when you're just making this stuff up.
But Turner can be even more stupid than that. He continues. "Basically," he says, "(Due to those 8 degrees) none of the crops will grow." Now I have to wonder about that. For instance, sometimes in the summer, it can get ten to twenty degrees warmer on some days. The crops don't die. And, what about folks in Florida? Can they not grow anything? I bet summers in Southern Florida are always eight degrees warmer than here. And, when you think about it, aren't the rain forests, which are lush with growth, in even warmer climates? Of course, Ted Turner is a horticultural genius, so who am I to question.
But, Turner gets even stupider, which is the correct term for when you're too stupid to be "more stupid." He says, "Most people will die." Now, I'm getting scared. I could still be around in 30 years, and, for all we know, it might just be ten years if Turner really gets his way. Most people on earth will be dead in thirty years. That's pretty bleak. But, wait. It gets the stupidest at this point. Ted Turner isn't content to just predicting a global warming so severe that most people will die. He goes on to predict that, "The rest of us will be cannibals."
Now that's the scary part. I'm not so scared about mass cannibalism in thirty years. I'm afraid to be anywhere near Ted Turner today. His solution to deal with global warming, for "the rest of us - note, he includes himself - is cannibalism. So, what happens if Ted Turner wakes up hungry in the middle of the night and the hotel restaurant is closed. Who does he eat?
Or, let's say he's sitting at one of his ranches and he suddenly gets a pang of hunger. His cupboard is bare, and the nearest Food Lion is twenty miles away. And, as luck would have it, you have a flat tire in front of his house. My guess is that Ted Turner is gonna see you out there, lugging a lug wrench, and think, "Tasty!"
What may be even more stupid about this whole thing is that Charlie Rose is just sitting there nodding as if he's engaged in some deep, intellectual discussion. He's looking at Ted Turner as if he might be the next Stephen Hawking. Which, when you think about it, if Turner really is a closet cannibal, might not be such a bad idea. I know. I guess I'm rather stupid, myself.
For instance, just this morning a national broadcaster on CBS Television made the comment that he would be interviewing the son of Martin Luther King, Jr. later in the show. He identified the late civil rights leader's son as Martin Luther King, Jr., the third. I'm thinking that's kinda dumb.
And, while I enjoy the Fox News Network talk shows, have you ever stopped to analyze just how dumb most of the people who appear on those shows really are? Here's what I mean. Have you ever heard two people arguing on that show, persons who have very different viewpoints. Have you ever heard one say to the other, "You know, you're right. You've convinced me."?
In real life, people listen to one another. They learn from one another. They grow from their disagreements with others.
On TV that never happens. One guy says, "Your candidate is a total idiot. Here's his I.Q. test. It shows he's a moron."
Now, if someone were to say that to me, at least I'd want to look at his proof. But on Fox, that never happens. The second guy will shout back, "Well, your mother is an idiot."
There's no reasoning. There's no acknowledgment of anything the other guy said. It's just yelling.
So, guy two just called guy one's mother an idiot. What does guy one say? He retorts, "Oh yeah. Well, what about Reverend Wright?"
So, does guy two stop to reflect on Reverend Wright? Nope. He snaps back, "Yeah, and I guess Hillary has never lied." By this time these two guys have about four different arguments going and the only losers are the viewers. Whatever happened to intellectual, thoughtful discussion? It simply doesn't exist on television, or probably anywhere else nowadays.
But, no discussion of media idiots would be complete without taking a moment to honor one of the great idiots of all times. Of course, I'm speaking of Ted Turner. Sure this guy is a billionaire, but he adds new meaning to the term, "Southern hick." He sounds like one. He acts like one. He really must be one...a rich one, but a hick, nonetheless.
Did you hear the latest from Turner? He's talking about global warming with Charlie Rose, on Rose's TV talk show and he says that because we're not concerned with global warming it's going to be 8 degrees warmer. Turner, you can tell, is just making this stuff up. He starts to say (with authority) that it'll be 8 degrees warmer in ten years. But, you can see, he catches himself, as any good liar can do, and kinda tells himself, "Hey, that's too soon. Let me make up another number." He then says, "Not ten, but thirty years." He says it as if to say, "Hey, who really cares. Ten, thirty, they're all the same when you're just making this stuff up.
But Turner can be even more stupid than that. He continues. "Basically," he says, "(Due to those 8 degrees) none of the crops will grow." Now I have to wonder about that. For instance, sometimes in the summer, it can get ten to twenty degrees warmer on some days. The crops don't die. And, what about folks in Florida? Can they not grow anything? I bet summers in Southern Florida are always eight degrees warmer than here. And, when you think about it, aren't the rain forests, which are lush with growth, in even warmer climates? Of course, Ted Turner is a horticultural genius, so who am I to question.
But, Turner gets even stupider, which is the correct term for when you're too stupid to be "more stupid." He says, "Most people will die." Now, I'm getting scared. I could still be around in 30 years, and, for all we know, it might just be ten years if Turner really gets his way. Most people on earth will be dead in thirty years. That's pretty bleak. But, wait. It gets the stupidest at this point. Ted Turner isn't content to just predicting a global warming so severe that most people will die. He goes on to predict that, "The rest of us will be cannibals."
Now that's the scary part. I'm not so scared about mass cannibalism in thirty years. I'm afraid to be anywhere near Ted Turner today. His solution to deal with global warming, for "the rest of us - note, he includes himself - is cannibalism. So, what happens if Ted Turner wakes up hungry in the middle of the night and the hotel restaurant is closed. Who does he eat?
Or, let's say he's sitting at one of his ranches and he suddenly gets a pang of hunger. His cupboard is bare, and the nearest Food Lion is twenty miles away. And, as luck would have it, you have a flat tire in front of his house. My guess is that Ted Turner is gonna see you out there, lugging a lug wrench, and think, "Tasty!"
What may be even more stupid about this whole thing is that Charlie Rose is just sitting there nodding as if he's engaged in some deep, intellectual discussion. He's looking at Ted Turner as if he might be the next Stephen Hawking. Which, when you think about it, if Turner really is a closet cannibal, might not be such a bad idea. I know. I guess I'm rather stupid, myself.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
A Few Corrections From Things I've Said Previously
I'm not a political sort of guy at all. However, as a lifelong observer of human nature, I have learned a few things by following the goings on among the presidential contenders...especially from Mrs. Clinton. I've seen her sniper fire comments backfire spraying political shrapnel all over the place. I don't want to have anything I may have inadvertently said in the past, come back to haunt me. So. I'm here to clear the air.
Remember a year or so back, when I wrote about having gone into my bank, and gotten caught up in a bank robbery? "Bullets were flying over my head," I wrote at the time. I misspoke. What I had meant to say is that I went to the bank and I got there right after the bank had closed. And I looked at the teller through the glass door and pointed to my watch to say, "Excuse me, ma'm, but it's two minutes til closing time." And she had mouthed back to me, "Sorry." That's what actually happened. Close, but not exactly the way I had described it. But, let's be honest. Don't we all, from time to time, when we're under pressure, or we're trying to hide our personal failures and foibles, tend to totally lie about a matter? I'm not trying to justify anything, but, tell me, that if you weren't trying to find some excuse for something you'd done, you wouldn't just embellish the story a bit to make yourself look better. With that said, let's move on.
A couple of years ago, I told you about having a driver run me off the road, then get out of his car, come back to my car, open my door, yank me out, and beat me about the arms and face. Do you remember that? I misspoke. Although, that is what the guy had intended to do, had he gotten the opportunity, in truth, he only flipped the proverbial bird at me. I have an excuse for misspeaking on that one, though. Mrs. Clinton inspired me. I, too, was suffering from sleep depravation when I wrote that column.
And, while I'm not political, let me digress for just a moment. Mrs. Clinton said that the reason she said she had come under sniper fire when she hadn't, was that she was suffering from sleep deprivation at the time. Huh? Wasn't she the one who produced the TV spot about the phone ringing in the White House at three in the morning? Suppose the call comes in when she's sleepy. I hope she doesn't decide to nuke California because she gets a call that the Governor has criticized her. You know sleep depravation can do that. All of a sudden, through no fault of their own, the people of California are wiped off the map. Hmm, maybe sleep depravation is not all bad.
Anyway, I'm not here to talk about Hillary Clinton. This is all about me, baby. I'm trying to get a few things off my chest. One of those things is more a personal note to my family. Do y'all remember how I told you that when Uncle Eddie had that seizure I had called 911 and they never responded? Do you remember how at Uncle Eddie's funeral, I had railed against the local 911 people for their lack of professionalism? Do you remember how I had threatened to sue someone?
Well, I misspoke. Now, to be totally fair to myself, I had meant to call 911. Actually, I dialed 411. Then when the operator asked me what number I was looking for, I asked her to give me the local 911 number. She muttered something under her breath and hung up. That made me so mad that I took off in my car to do down to the phone company and give them a piece of my mind. I honestly forgot all about Uncle Eddie until the next morning. But, hey, nobody's human. We all make mistakes.
And sometimes my mistake is that i misspeak. I think it all stems from that time when I was a kid and was kidnapped and held hostage in an underground bunker for three weeks. That can scar a kid sometimes, you know.
Remember a year or so back, when I wrote about having gone into my bank, and gotten caught up in a bank robbery? "Bullets were flying over my head," I wrote at the time. I misspoke. What I had meant to say is that I went to the bank and I got there right after the bank had closed. And I looked at the teller through the glass door and pointed to my watch to say, "Excuse me, ma'm, but it's two minutes til closing time." And she had mouthed back to me, "Sorry." That's what actually happened. Close, but not exactly the way I had described it. But, let's be honest. Don't we all, from time to time, when we're under pressure, or we're trying to hide our personal failures and foibles, tend to totally lie about a matter? I'm not trying to justify anything, but, tell me, that if you weren't trying to find some excuse for something you'd done, you wouldn't just embellish the story a bit to make yourself look better. With that said, let's move on.
A couple of years ago, I told you about having a driver run me off the road, then get out of his car, come back to my car, open my door, yank me out, and beat me about the arms and face. Do you remember that? I misspoke. Although, that is what the guy had intended to do, had he gotten the opportunity, in truth, he only flipped the proverbial bird at me. I have an excuse for misspeaking on that one, though. Mrs. Clinton inspired me. I, too, was suffering from sleep depravation when I wrote that column.
And, while I'm not political, let me digress for just a moment. Mrs. Clinton said that the reason she said she had come under sniper fire when she hadn't, was that she was suffering from sleep deprivation at the time. Huh? Wasn't she the one who produced the TV spot about the phone ringing in the White House at three in the morning? Suppose the call comes in when she's sleepy. I hope she doesn't decide to nuke California because she gets a call that the Governor has criticized her. You know sleep depravation can do that. All of a sudden, through no fault of their own, the people of California are wiped off the map. Hmm, maybe sleep depravation is not all bad.
Anyway, I'm not here to talk about Hillary Clinton. This is all about me, baby. I'm trying to get a few things off my chest. One of those things is more a personal note to my family. Do y'all remember how I told you that when Uncle Eddie had that seizure I had called 911 and they never responded? Do you remember how at Uncle Eddie's funeral, I had railed against the local 911 people for their lack of professionalism? Do you remember how I had threatened to sue someone?
Well, I misspoke. Now, to be totally fair to myself, I had meant to call 911. Actually, I dialed 411. Then when the operator asked me what number I was looking for, I asked her to give me the local 911 number. She muttered something under her breath and hung up. That made me so mad that I took off in my car to do down to the phone company and give them a piece of my mind. I honestly forgot all about Uncle Eddie until the next morning. But, hey, nobody's human. We all make mistakes.
And sometimes my mistake is that i misspeak. I think it all stems from that time when I was a kid and was kidnapped and held hostage in an underground bunker for three weeks. That can scar a kid sometimes, you know.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
I Haven't the Remotest
As much as i bend over backwards to avoid hurting others' feelings or irritating anyone, I have a suspicion that I will make some folks unhappy today, especially women. But, I think it's time someone stepped up to the plate and told the truth. And, it looks like I'm the designated truth teller here.
The subject at hand is the TV remote. Now, men have been getting a bad rap (or is that "wrap") for years when it comes to their flippant (get it, a pun) attitude towards the remote. Men are accused of running non-stop through the channels and not ever staying on one channel long enough to know what's going on. I've come to the conclusion, however, that either women are worse than men, or else my wife is really a guy. I'm hoping it's the former.
My wife, bless her heart, has to have the remote in her hand if she's anywhere near the TV. Even if she's not watching, she wants to control the remote. And, if we're lying in bed watching television late at night, her last act before she falls asleep is to roll over and wedge the remote between her body and the bed, so that even after she's sawing logs, there's still no way I can control the remote.
My wife, bless her heart, has a really weird, woman-like way of using the remote, too. For instance, let's say she's flipping through the channels. Now, admittedly, she doesn't go as quickly as I do through them, but here is what she will do. She'll flip to a program. And leave that program on just long enough for me to get involved. And just as the detective says, "I have figured out who murdered Colonel Mustard. It has to be..." FLIP. I'm not lying. She does it every time.
And I'll tell you something else. Remember, now, we have this pact, you and me...we don't mention these columns to my wife. Okay? She never reads 'em, unless someone says, "Oh, you'll never guess what Steve said about you." Anyway, here's my little secret. I think she knows full well what she's doing. I think it's a form of torture.
It's particularly bad when I'm trying to watch a baseball game. I love baseball. If I'm watching, she'll come in the room and tenderly take my hand, and after she's pried my fingers open, she'll take the remote. She'll hold it...tauntingly, as if to say, "I have it. Don't make me use it."
After a few minutes, I'll relax, as much as a man can relax when he's watching TV and his wife is holding the remote. I'll get involved in the game. And, just as the Braves are about to stage a fantastic comeback, with the bases loaded and Chipper Jones at the plate, with a count of 3 and 2, and here comes the pitch. FLIP.
I kid you not. Now don't tell me she doesn't understand baseball. She understands just fine, thank you.
She also does the FLIP when I'm watching the news. You know how the news guys love to tease us. She's in on it. The newscaster will say, "You'll never guess who was assassinated tonight. Full details when we come back." Then we'll watch the fifteen commercials and then the news will finally come back on and the guy says, "A horrible tragedy tonight." FLIP. If I had been married in 1963, I probably still wouldn't know that Kennedy was dead.
But it's not just her flipping. It's what she'll choose to flip to. She has an uncanny ability to flip to a channel that's as uninteresting as the previous channel was interesting. Last night, for instance, my wife, bless her heart, decided, while I was trying to watch David Letterman, to switch to Arthur. Now, I'm not talking about the Dudley Moore movie. I'm talking about the animated adventures of Arthur the Aardvark, which has to be the cutest, sweetest, most boring show on TV. I never knew my wife was so enthralled with Arthur. She lay there watching it for fifteen minutes, while I keep reminding her that Letterman is on. At least I thought she was watching it until I heard her snoring.
Of course, by that time, the remote was nestled safely under her body. So there I was, just me and Arthur. The show was pretty good. You see, Emily really wanted this sparkly ball that D.W. found, so she tells a little white lie about how Marie-Helene actually gave it to her. No harm done, right? But then Emily has to tell even bigger lies to cover her story! Have you seen that one?
The subject at hand is the TV remote. Now, men have been getting a bad rap (or is that "wrap") for years when it comes to their flippant (get it, a pun) attitude towards the remote. Men are accused of running non-stop through the channels and not ever staying on one channel long enough to know what's going on. I've come to the conclusion, however, that either women are worse than men, or else my wife is really a guy. I'm hoping it's the former.
My wife, bless her heart, has to have the remote in her hand if she's anywhere near the TV. Even if she's not watching, she wants to control the remote. And, if we're lying in bed watching television late at night, her last act before she falls asleep is to roll over and wedge the remote between her body and the bed, so that even after she's sawing logs, there's still no way I can control the remote.
My wife, bless her heart, has a really weird, woman-like way of using the remote, too. For instance, let's say she's flipping through the channels. Now, admittedly, she doesn't go as quickly as I do through them, but here is what she will do. She'll flip to a program. And leave that program on just long enough for me to get involved. And just as the detective says, "I have figured out who murdered Colonel Mustard. It has to be..." FLIP. I'm not lying. She does it every time.
And I'll tell you something else. Remember, now, we have this pact, you and me...we don't mention these columns to my wife. Okay? She never reads 'em, unless someone says, "Oh, you'll never guess what Steve said about you." Anyway, here's my little secret. I think she knows full well what she's doing. I think it's a form of torture.
It's particularly bad when I'm trying to watch a baseball game. I love baseball. If I'm watching, she'll come in the room and tenderly take my hand, and after she's pried my fingers open, she'll take the remote. She'll hold it...tauntingly, as if to say, "I have it. Don't make me use it."
After a few minutes, I'll relax, as much as a man can relax when he's watching TV and his wife is holding the remote. I'll get involved in the game. And, just as the Braves are about to stage a fantastic comeback, with the bases loaded and Chipper Jones at the plate, with a count of 3 and 2, and here comes the pitch. FLIP.
I kid you not. Now don't tell me she doesn't understand baseball. She understands just fine, thank you.
She also does the FLIP when I'm watching the news. You know how the news guys love to tease us. She's in on it. The newscaster will say, "You'll never guess who was assassinated tonight. Full details when we come back." Then we'll watch the fifteen commercials and then the news will finally come back on and the guy says, "A horrible tragedy tonight." FLIP. If I had been married in 1963, I probably still wouldn't know that Kennedy was dead.
But it's not just her flipping. It's what she'll choose to flip to. She has an uncanny ability to flip to a channel that's as uninteresting as the previous channel was interesting. Last night, for instance, my wife, bless her heart, decided, while I was trying to watch David Letterman, to switch to Arthur. Now, I'm not talking about the Dudley Moore movie. I'm talking about the animated adventures of Arthur the Aardvark, which has to be the cutest, sweetest, most boring show on TV. I never knew my wife was so enthralled with Arthur. She lay there watching it for fifteen minutes, while I keep reminding her that Letterman is on. At least I thought she was watching it until I heard her snoring.
Of course, by that time, the remote was nestled safely under her body. So there I was, just me and Arthur. The show was pretty good. You see, Emily really wanted this sparkly ball that D.W. found, so she tells a little white lie about how Marie-Helene actually gave it to her. No harm done, right? But then Emily has to tell even bigger lies to cover her story! Have you seen that one?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Something Spooky in Gloucester
I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. I have just moved to Gloucester Courthouse. Have you ever been there? It’s a quaint little town about an hour east of Richmond. On my first visit there, and even on subsequent visits, I thought it somewhat reminded me of Mayberry.
However, since I’ve moved there, I’m thinking it’s more like one of those small towns you see in the horror movies. In fact, with its rustic charm and backwoodsy feel, I’m going to call my story, “Return to the Village of the Dag-Nabbited.” I don’t like to use the word, “damned.” You know, with the Jeremiah Wright thing so much in everyone’s minds.
Anyway, the more I get to know Gloucester, the more frightened I become. For instance, sometimes I’ll drive through the town square at about 8:00 in the evening. Now, for a small town, by this time you’d expect everyone to be home, in bed. But, in Gloucester, there are cars, many cars, parked along the curb. Nothing so bad in itself, but, there are men walking in somewhat of a zombie-like stupor through town. Maybe there’s some sort of town meeting going on, but I think it’s much more sinister. I truly believe that some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like alien force is at work here.
My wife and I went in a little sandwich shop the other night. There was an acoustic duo playing and the place was fairly crowded. When we walked in, the duo stopped playing and everyone turned to look at us. But wait! It gets even more frightening. We stand at the counter to order a sandwich and the woman smiles at us with a blank-eyed stare and says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“But, it’s not closing time,” I start to say. My wife hushes me up. She is afraid I’ll make a scene. Or, could it be that some human-transforming pod has already overtaken her body? I’m not sure. Anyway, we leave.
Then there’s the newspaper, the Glo-Quips. Now with a name like Glo-Quips itself, I think there is plenty of reason to believe that some alien force is in play here, but since I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I’ll present more evidence and let you decide.
Glo-Quips has to be either a) the worst newspaper in the world; b) an Onion-like satire on newspapers; or c) a devious, cleverly-encrypted collection of coded messages designed to destroy one’s brain cells. I’m picking selection “c” here.
I had written a column on Glo-Quips a couple of years ago. I thought it was just funny the first time I read it, that a newspaper could be written as poorly as this publication. But, I picked up another copy the other day. And, seriously folks, it’s pretty scary.
For one thing, there’s a rant and rave section, where readers can phone in their complaints. These people complain about everything and they don’t mince words. In the latest issue, someone is accusing a post office employee of being a convicted forger. Another caller is suggesting that virtually everyone in the county administration is involved in, or covering up child abuse. One complaint comes from someone who is afraid of a man who walks along Route 17 and talks to people in the Walmart Shopping Center. Hmm, maybe there’s some validity to that one.
But, there’s even more about Glo-Quips that frightens me. For instance, what would you think about a newspaper in a small Virginia town that has a columnist who writes about what a great guy Hitler was? I’m not making this stuff up. I’ll show you the paper if you want. Or, a front page story that is merely about a county employee who showed up for work three sheets to the wind? The biting investigative piece in this issue asked the burning question, "Have you ever eaten green eggs and ham?"
I tell you something is happening in Gloucester...something very, very weird. Scoff if you will. Ridicule me. But, if I suddenly show up missing one day, I hope you’ll remember this. And go get help. My wife is still there, or, at least, that alien pod that looks like her.
However, since I’ve moved there, I’m thinking it’s more like one of those small towns you see in the horror movies. In fact, with its rustic charm and backwoodsy feel, I’m going to call my story, “Return to the Village of the Dag-Nabbited.” I don’t like to use the word, “damned.” You know, with the Jeremiah Wright thing so much in everyone’s minds.
Anyway, the more I get to know Gloucester, the more frightened I become. For instance, sometimes I’ll drive through the town square at about 8:00 in the evening. Now, for a small town, by this time you’d expect everyone to be home, in bed. But, in Gloucester, there are cars, many cars, parked along the curb. Nothing so bad in itself, but, there are men walking in somewhat of a zombie-like stupor through town. Maybe there’s some sort of town meeting going on, but I think it’s much more sinister. I truly believe that some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like alien force is at work here.
My wife and I went in a little sandwich shop the other night. There was an acoustic duo playing and the place was fairly crowded. When we walked in, the duo stopped playing and everyone turned to look at us. But wait! It gets even more frightening. We stand at the counter to order a sandwich and the woman smiles at us with a blank-eyed stare and says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“But, it’s not closing time,” I start to say. My wife hushes me up. She is afraid I’ll make a scene. Or, could it be that some human-transforming pod has already overtaken her body? I’m not sure. Anyway, we leave.
Then there’s the newspaper, the Glo-Quips. Now with a name like Glo-Quips itself, I think there is plenty of reason to believe that some alien force is in play here, but since I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I’ll present more evidence and let you decide.
Glo-Quips has to be either a) the worst newspaper in the world; b) an Onion-like satire on newspapers; or c) a devious, cleverly-encrypted collection of coded messages designed to destroy one’s brain cells. I’m picking selection “c” here.
I had written a column on Glo-Quips a couple of years ago. I thought it was just funny the first time I read it, that a newspaper could be written as poorly as this publication. But, I picked up another copy the other day. And, seriously folks, it’s pretty scary.
For one thing, there’s a rant and rave section, where readers can phone in their complaints. These people complain about everything and they don’t mince words. In the latest issue, someone is accusing a post office employee of being a convicted forger. Another caller is suggesting that virtually everyone in the county administration is involved in, or covering up child abuse. One complaint comes from someone who is afraid of a man who walks along Route 17 and talks to people in the Walmart Shopping Center. Hmm, maybe there’s some validity to that one.
But, there’s even more about Glo-Quips that frightens me. For instance, what would you think about a newspaper in a small Virginia town that has a columnist who writes about what a great guy Hitler was? I’m not making this stuff up. I’ll show you the paper if you want. Or, a front page story that is merely about a county employee who showed up for work three sheets to the wind? The biting investigative piece in this issue asked the burning question, "Have you ever eaten green eggs and ham?"
I tell you something is happening in Gloucester...something very, very weird. Scoff if you will. Ridicule me. But, if I suddenly show up missing one day, I hope you’ll remember this. And go get help. My wife is still there, or, at least, that alien pod that looks like her.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A Moving Experience
I just moved to a new house. And, it's been a rather eye-opening experience. For one thing, having lived in this house for about a week without television (the cable people haven't gotten around to hooking me up), I think I've come to have some sort of mind meld with our forefathers...you know the rugged, pioneer, Little-House-on-the-Prairie-Michael-Landon types,
I think I can feel their pain, their anguish. I also think I know why our ancestors died so young. They were bored to death.
This sitting around the house talking to one another thing gets old rather quickly. I can just imagine past generations sitting around the house and thinking, there's bound to be something better to do than this.
I've also learned something about the construction workers of today. They stink. I think the young men and women of today's work-force have spent so much time watching television, they've never taken the time to learn to do a job well. For instance, I have a brand-new home (not bragging, just stating fact), with no door knobs. It seems that these guys forgot about the door knobs. Now, I am exaggerating. Many of the doors have them. It's only a few doors that they overlooked.
For instance, there's a door going to the laundry area, and it has a knob. The only problem is, I really won't ever need the knob because the door won't go past the washer and dryer. You know, it seems like someone would have gotten a tape measure out and figured those things out. And speaking of the washer and dryer, these nincompoops put in the vents and plumbing so that the washer and dryer are forced to be positioned in a way that the doors open into each other. If they had positioned them the opposite way, there would have been an open space between the two, which would make for an easy transfer from washer to dryer. It may seem like a little thing, but really, can't someone just use a little forethought?
Also, there are no light bulbs in the house. I guess the workers figure that their workmanship looks a lot better in the dark. And, once I put a bulb in, I discovered that the light switch in the walk-in closet is positioned behind the door, so you have to open the door and walk around it in the dark in order to get to the light switch. And, there are no drawers in the bathroom. Where do they think I'm going to put my toothbrush? No towel racks either.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit of a whiner, but this is the first home I've ever lived in that wasn't sitting on wheels, or, at least, cinderblocks, and I want it to be just right. But, I guess I should be thankful for what I have. Actually, since I've gone without TV for several days, I discovered I have a wife. Who knew?
Forget everything i just saId. Everything is fine. I'm perfectly happy. And, if I get too bored, I can always pull up a stool and watch my underwear spinning in the washer. And, actually, that's more entertaining than a lot of today's TV programming. But maybe I'm biased.
I think I can feel their pain, their anguish. I also think I know why our ancestors died so young. They were bored to death.
This sitting around the house talking to one another thing gets old rather quickly. I can just imagine past generations sitting around the house and thinking, there's bound to be something better to do than this.
I've also learned something about the construction workers of today. They stink. I think the young men and women of today's work-force have spent so much time watching television, they've never taken the time to learn to do a job well. For instance, I have a brand-new home (not bragging, just stating fact), with no door knobs. It seems that these guys forgot about the door knobs. Now, I am exaggerating. Many of the doors have them. It's only a few doors that they overlooked.
For instance, there's a door going to the laundry area, and it has a knob. The only problem is, I really won't ever need the knob because the door won't go past the washer and dryer. You know, it seems like someone would have gotten a tape measure out and figured those things out. And speaking of the washer and dryer, these nincompoops put in the vents and plumbing so that the washer and dryer are forced to be positioned in a way that the doors open into each other. If they had positioned them the opposite way, there would have been an open space between the two, which would make for an easy transfer from washer to dryer. It may seem like a little thing, but really, can't someone just use a little forethought?
Also, there are no light bulbs in the house. I guess the workers figure that their workmanship looks a lot better in the dark. And, once I put a bulb in, I discovered that the light switch in the walk-in closet is positioned behind the door, so you have to open the door and walk around it in the dark in order to get to the light switch. And, there are no drawers in the bathroom. Where do they think I'm going to put my toothbrush? No towel racks either.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit of a whiner, but this is the first home I've ever lived in that wasn't sitting on wheels, or, at least, cinderblocks, and I want it to be just right. But, I guess I should be thankful for what I have. Actually, since I've gone without TV for several days, I discovered I have a wife. Who knew?
Forget everything i just saId. Everything is fine. I'm perfectly happy. And, if I get too bored, I can always pull up a stool and watch my underwear spinning in the washer. And, actually, that's more entertaining than a lot of today's TV programming. But maybe I'm biased.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Great Ukrop's Beer Scare of 2008
Wow! What about that beer scare at Ukrop's? "Fortunately," says a Ukrop's spokesman, "it turned out to be nothing more serious than a bomb." The spokesman, Harv Pinkle, went on to say,"Considering the type of world in which we live today, you never know. It could have been a six-pack."
Quickly Pinkle asked, "That is how theose heathen stores sell beer, isn't it? In six-packs?"
Pinkle and the entire Ukrop's team have every right to be alarmed. Beer is prevalent everywhere these days. You can buy it on the open market. And, so, I'm told, there are sights on the Internet that even give detailed instructions on making your own beer.
So, when someone from Ukrop's found an abandoned bag outside one of their West End groceries recently, he immediately suspected beer. Ukrop's called in their own beer squad, replete with beer-sniffing dogs, and within a couple hours, to the relief of all Ukrop's employees, the suspicious-looking bag was found to be just a bomb.
The Ukrop's family has toiled tirelessly through the years to ensure that lips that touch alcohol never touch them...or something like that. Smokes? No problem. The Ukrop's make a pretty hefty profit on cigarettes, but when it comes to beer and wine, it's nosiree bob.
Which leaves me scratching my head. Well, I'm not literally scratching my head, except on those occasions when it itches. But I do wonder where the Ukrop's got their abomination for alcohol. I know, I know, it's a religious thing.
From what I've been told, the Ukrop's have a doctored picture of the Last Supper. All of the wine has been painted over. And, or so I'm told, the picture shows Jesus lighting Peter's cigarette.
Now, I couldn't make this sort of stuff up, folks. Oh, wait, hold on. I guess I could make it up. But, even if I were, and I along with the governor of New York, am not admitting anything right now, but, even if I were making it up, you have to admit that,somehow, it seems rather hypocritical to refuse to sell wine, the drink of prophets, and sell cigarettes, the carcinogen of profits.
If you want to shun all alcohol, I say more power to you. There's nothing in the Bible that condemns the moderate use of alcohol, but there's nothing in there that says you have to drink either.
But, how, with all the statistics, and with the horrendous odor, and with those ugly yellow teeth, so prevalent in the mouths of many Ukrop's employees and shoppers,how do you condemn alcohol and promote tobacco?
But, I shan't worry my pretty little head over it. I'll keep shopping at Ukrop's because, truth be told, they are nice to deal with. And, if I ever want a drink, I'll go to Food Lion, which, truth be told, by the time I leave a Food Lion, I need a drink.
Quickly Pinkle asked, "That is how theose heathen stores sell beer, isn't it? In six-packs?"
Pinkle and the entire Ukrop's team have every right to be alarmed. Beer is prevalent everywhere these days. You can buy it on the open market. And, so, I'm told, there are sights on the Internet that even give detailed instructions on making your own beer.
So, when someone from Ukrop's found an abandoned bag outside one of their West End groceries recently, he immediately suspected beer. Ukrop's called in their own beer squad, replete with beer-sniffing dogs, and within a couple hours, to the relief of all Ukrop's employees, the suspicious-looking bag was found to be just a bomb.
The Ukrop's family has toiled tirelessly through the years to ensure that lips that touch alcohol never touch them...or something like that. Smokes? No problem. The Ukrop's make a pretty hefty profit on cigarettes, but when it comes to beer and wine, it's nosiree bob.
Which leaves me scratching my head. Well, I'm not literally scratching my head, except on those occasions when it itches. But I do wonder where the Ukrop's got their abomination for alcohol. I know, I know, it's a religious thing.
From what I've been told, the Ukrop's have a doctored picture of the Last Supper. All of the wine has been painted over. And, or so I'm told, the picture shows Jesus lighting Peter's cigarette.
Now, I couldn't make this sort of stuff up, folks. Oh, wait, hold on. I guess I could make it up. But, even if I were, and I along with the governor of New York, am not admitting anything right now, but, even if I were making it up, you have to admit that,somehow, it seems rather hypocritical to refuse to sell wine, the drink of prophets, and sell cigarettes, the carcinogen of profits.
If you want to shun all alcohol, I say more power to you. There's nothing in the Bible that condemns the moderate use of alcohol, but there's nothing in there that says you have to drink either.
But, how, with all the statistics, and with the horrendous odor, and with those ugly yellow teeth, so prevalent in the mouths of many Ukrop's employees and shoppers,how do you condemn alcohol and promote tobacco?
But, I shan't worry my pretty little head over it. I'll keep shopping at Ukrop's because, truth be told, they are nice to deal with. And, if I ever want a drink, I'll go to Food Lion, which, truth be told, by the time I leave a Food Lion, I need a drink.
Friday, February 08, 2008
Help Me Make It Through The Write
A letter poured in the other day from little Jimmy Melmer in Mechanicsville. Jimmy writes:
Steve, you have to be in your mid-thirties by now. And yet, your writing is better than ever. How do you do it?
Just to interrupt for a moment, at this point in the letter I was beaming with pride. But, Jimmy continued…
Are you using any performance enhancing substances?
Now my first reaction was to deny it. But, taking a page from the Roger Clemens playbook, I have decided to come clean. I guess I owe my gratitude to little Jimmy in Mechanicsville. I have been using performance enhancing substances, and, I think I’ll feel much better after I confess it all to you. The way I look at it, it's either you or Congress. And I'll pick you. So, here goes:
First, I’m using coffee. This caffeine thing is absolutely mind boggling. Sometimes I come in to work and I’m mad at the world. Nothing seems right. Then I have a cup of coffee and all of a sudden it’s a new day. The sun is shining, and I’m positively radiant.
You may have wondered what gives me that bright Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm attitude. It’s coffee.
But, I haven’t limited myself to coffee. There are other little “tricks” that I use to enhance my performance. There is one substance, which, interestingly is available over the counter at Walgreens. It’s powerful, so if you choose to use, I’d advise you to proceed with caution. I’ll admit, my years of using this substance have played havoc with my health and well-being, but emotionally and mentally, it has made me the man I am today.
Yes, I feel a little awkward going public with all this, but little Jimmy Melmer, and his child-like innocence, has helped me find, deep within my personal recesses, the strength to admit my substance abuse.
Anyway, I have, for several years, been addicted to a little treat that I discovered several years ago. Harmful? Yes, I suppose. Mind-altering? Definitely! I hope you won’t think less of me when you hear my full confession, but here goes.
I’m hooked on Peeps. I don’t care whether they’re heart-shaped and pink, or little yellow bunny rabbits. Give me a Peep and I’ll ingest it. I had gotten up to three packs a day, but because I was destroying my health, I have slowed down.
I would like to think that often I’ve done my best work while under the influence of Peeps. I know that, like caffeine, when I’m down and out,
When I’m on the street,
When evening falls so hard
Peeps will comfort me.
When darkness comes
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
You see? Do you see how Peeps inspire me? As I say, I do my best work with a Peep in me.
So, there you have it. Yes, little Jimmy Melmer, you nosy little brat, you got it out of me. Are you happy? Here, let me have a sip of coffee. Good. I hope you’re happy, li’l fellow, because I sure am. Thanks for your kind letter. Now, let me get back to the ol’ typewriter.
Steve, you have to be in your mid-thirties by now. And yet, your writing is better than ever. How do you do it?
Just to interrupt for a moment, at this point in the letter I was beaming with pride. But, Jimmy continued…
Are you using any performance enhancing substances?
Now my first reaction was to deny it. But, taking a page from the Roger Clemens playbook, I have decided to come clean. I guess I owe my gratitude to little Jimmy in Mechanicsville. I have been using performance enhancing substances, and, I think I’ll feel much better after I confess it all to you. The way I look at it, it's either you or Congress. And I'll pick you. So, here goes:
First, I’m using coffee. This caffeine thing is absolutely mind boggling. Sometimes I come in to work and I’m mad at the world. Nothing seems right. Then I have a cup of coffee and all of a sudden it’s a new day. The sun is shining, and I’m positively radiant.
You may have wondered what gives me that bright Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm attitude. It’s coffee.
But, I haven’t limited myself to coffee. There are other little “tricks” that I use to enhance my performance. There is one substance, which, interestingly is available over the counter at Walgreens. It’s powerful, so if you choose to use, I’d advise you to proceed with caution. I’ll admit, my years of using this substance have played havoc with my health and well-being, but emotionally and mentally, it has made me the man I am today.
Yes, I feel a little awkward going public with all this, but little Jimmy Melmer, and his child-like innocence, has helped me find, deep within my personal recesses, the strength to admit my substance abuse.
Anyway, I have, for several years, been addicted to a little treat that I discovered several years ago. Harmful? Yes, I suppose. Mind-altering? Definitely! I hope you won’t think less of me when you hear my full confession, but here goes.
I’m hooked on Peeps. I don’t care whether they’re heart-shaped and pink, or little yellow bunny rabbits. Give me a Peep and I’ll ingest it. I had gotten up to three packs a day, but because I was destroying my health, I have slowed down.
I would like to think that often I’ve done my best work while under the influence of Peeps. I know that, like caffeine, when I’m down and out,
When I’m on the street,
When evening falls so hard
Peeps will comfort me.
When darkness comes
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
You see? Do you see how Peeps inspire me? As I say, I do my best work with a Peep in me.
So, there you have it. Yes, little Jimmy Melmer, you nosy little brat, you got it out of me. Are you happy? Here, let me have a sip of coffee. Good. I hope you’re happy, li’l fellow, because I sure am. Thanks for your kind letter. Now, let me get back to the ol’ typewriter.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Gwinnett County, Georgia - The Land of the Free and the Home of the Braves
Do you remember where you were and what you were doing when you learned the R-Braves were leaving R? I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was in my car. I think I was on the cell phone at the time. I've only recently begun using the cell phone while driving. But since I heard that drivers who use cell phones drive more slowly than drivers who don't, and they also don't change lanes as often, it seems like using the cell phone while driving is the safe thing to do.
Anyway, I digress. So the Braves are leaving town. Wow! I feel like I've been blindsided. No, wait! It was Richmond city officials who were blindsided. They didn't see this coming. Huh? My Uncle Earl could have seen this coming and he's been dead for 25 years.
I'll tell you who I feel the most sorry for. Charlie Diradour. He's a Richmond real estate investor, who was quoted in the Richmond Times Dispatch as saying, "What do I tell my 6-year-old who says, 'I want to go to a baseball game.'? I have to say, 'Honey, there are no baseball games.'"
Oh the humanity! I can't imagine any parent having to endure something like that. I'm glad my daughter is grown.
But, anyway, the Braves are leaving town. There are some positives to that, you know. For one thing, now that Mayor Governor Wilder doesn't have to worry his pretty little head about such things as building new ball parks, the entire city government along with the entire Braves organization can get back to the real National Pastime...pointing fingers.
I don't really blame Mayor Governor Wilder. He can't go around building ball parks for every minor league franchise that's been playing ball in the city for over four decades. Who do the Braves think he is...Daddy Warbucks?
And, I also have to say that Bruce Baldwin, GM for the local team, can be one of the most abrasive, arrogant individuals I've ever had the pleasure to meet. That's one of the good things about the Braves leaving...saying, "Bye-bye Bruce."
But, there are some negatives to this whole thing, even from the perspective of someone as positive as myself. I remember 1965. That was the last year with no baseball in the city. I was just a kid at the time and a huge baseball fan. The Yankees had their Triple-A farm team, the Virginians, who called Parker Field, "home." But after the 1964 season, the Yanks yanked the Virginians and moved them to Toledo. Shortly after that, the Milwaukee Braves announced that they were moving to Atlanta and that their farm team, the Atlanta Crackers would be relocated here. In 1966, the Atlanta Crackers became the Richmond Braves. But, 1965 was a very bad year for pimply-faced, fat teenage boys who didn't date, but who spent every Summer evening either at the ball park, or with their respective ears glued to the game on the radio.
So, I guess the real victims here are today's youngsters, pimply-faced and otherwise. I don't follow the Braves as faithfully as I did in 1966 and for many years thereafter, but I've always been glad they were a part of the city. I loved Parker Field, even when I did sit behind one of those poles that blocked my view. I love the Diamond, even when the concrete rains upon my head. But, most of all, I love baseball. There's something very special about sitting at the park with your friends and family, drinking a big orange soda, eating a five dollar hot dog, and whooping it up for the home team.
It's hard to imagine the Diamond going dark in 2009. The Mayor says we will have baseball. At least, I think that was the Mayor I heard on the soundbite on the radio. It sounded more like Weezie Jefferson, but Paul Bottoms assured us it was Mayor Wilder.
Maybe we will have baseball, but I think the chances are pretty good we won't. I'd be greatly surprised if we ever get Triple-A baseball back in the city. It really doesn't matter who is at fault here. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. What matters is that come 2009 a bunch of strangers in Gwinnett County, Georgia will be sitting in some fancy ball park rooting for our Richmond Braves. Somehow that just doesn't seem right.
Oh yeah, I guess there is one more good thing that comes from all this. We won't have to listen to a bunch of local whiners asking, "What's Charlotte got that we don't?" From now on, we'll listen to them whining, "What's Gwinnett County got that we don't?" And, of course, the answer to that is simple...The Richmond Braves.
Anyway, I digress. So the Braves are leaving town. Wow! I feel like I've been blindsided. No, wait! It was Richmond city officials who were blindsided. They didn't see this coming. Huh? My Uncle Earl could have seen this coming and he's been dead for 25 years.
I'll tell you who I feel the most sorry for. Charlie Diradour. He's a Richmond real estate investor, who was quoted in the Richmond Times Dispatch as saying, "What do I tell my 6-year-old who says, 'I want to go to a baseball game.'? I have to say, 'Honey, there are no baseball games.'"
Oh the humanity! I can't imagine any parent having to endure something like that. I'm glad my daughter is grown.
But, anyway, the Braves are leaving town. There are some positives to that, you know. For one thing, now that Mayor Governor Wilder doesn't have to worry his pretty little head about such things as building new ball parks, the entire city government along with the entire Braves organization can get back to the real National Pastime...pointing fingers.
I don't really blame Mayor Governor Wilder. He can't go around building ball parks for every minor league franchise that's been playing ball in the city for over four decades. Who do the Braves think he is...Daddy Warbucks?
And, I also have to say that Bruce Baldwin, GM for the local team, can be one of the most abrasive, arrogant individuals I've ever had the pleasure to meet. That's one of the good things about the Braves leaving...saying, "Bye-bye Bruce."
But, there are some negatives to this whole thing, even from the perspective of someone as positive as myself. I remember 1965. That was the last year with no baseball in the city. I was just a kid at the time and a huge baseball fan. The Yankees had their Triple-A farm team, the Virginians, who called Parker Field, "home." But after the 1964 season, the Yanks yanked the Virginians and moved them to Toledo. Shortly after that, the Milwaukee Braves announced that they were moving to Atlanta and that their farm team, the Atlanta Crackers would be relocated here. In 1966, the Atlanta Crackers became the Richmond Braves. But, 1965 was a very bad year for pimply-faced, fat teenage boys who didn't date, but who spent every Summer evening either at the ball park, or with their respective ears glued to the game on the radio.
So, I guess the real victims here are today's youngsters, pimply-faced and otherwise. I don't follow the Braves as faithfully as I did in 1966 and for many years thereafter, but I've always been glad they were a part of the city. I loved Parker Field, even when I did sit behind one of those poles that blocked my view. I love the Diamond, even when the concrete rains upon my head. But, most of all, I love baseball. There's something very special about sitting at the park with your friends and family, drinking a big orange soda, eating a five dollar hot dog, and whooping it up for the home team.
It's hard to imagine the Diamond going dark in 2009. The Mayor says we will have baseball. At least, I think that was the Mayor I heard on the soundbite on the radio. It sounded more like Weezie Jefferson, but Paul Bottoms assured us it was Mayor Wilder.
Maybe we will have baseball, but I think the chances are pretty good we won't. I'd be greatly surprised if we ever get Triple-A baseball back in the city. It really doesn't matter who is at fault here. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. What matters is that come 2009 a bunch of strangers in Gwinnett County, Georgia will be sitting in some fancy ball park rooting for our Richmond Braves. Somehow that just doesn't seem right.
Oh yeah, I guess there is one more good thing that comes from all this. We won't have to listen to a bunch of local whiners asking, "What's Charlotte got that we don't?" From now on, we'll listen to them whining, "What's Gwinnett County got that we don't?" And, of course, the answer to that is simple...The Richmond Braves.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Now That's Using the Old Noodle
You know, I'm really, really irritated. That's not an emotion I'm used to. Typically, I'm an easy-going, unruffled guy.
I tend to take life as it comes and not sweat the small stuff and all that other mumbo jumbo "let's take a positive view of life" philosophy. But, I'm irritated.
And I'll tell you why. It all has to do with Sesame Street. You've probably heard that the first couple of seasons of the popular kids TV show have been rated unacceptable for kids. Seems that Cookie Monster is too politically incorrect, as is Oscar the Grouch and a bunch of the other original characters.
Now, admittedly, that's asanine. But, that's not what irritates me. If these idiots who justify their jobs by making stupid rulings want to put an "Adults Only" rating on Sesame Street, who is it going to hurt? Not me. Not the producers of the show. In fact, the rating will probably make more people go out and buy the DVDs.
But, here's what gets me: If today's Sesame Street is so much more "acceptable," if it's so much more in-tune with people's feelings, if it's supposed to be a kinder, gentler Sesame Street, then why Mr. Noodle?
Have you seen Mr. Noodle? The original Noodle died of AIDS. And since I censor my own stuff, I won't comment on that. The new Noodle, actor/clown/mime, Bill Irwin is a good actor. But, as Mr. Noodle, he plays a mildly retarded guy. Really! I saw him trying to hold a violin. This brainiac couldn't tell the difference between his chin and his ear.
So, here's my question: Why is it politically correct, in the 21st century, to depict a retarded guy? Why is retarded okay when grouchy is taboo? I'll tell you why. It's because Mr. Noodle is an old white guy.
There, I said it. You see, in today's world, it's okay to make fun of old white guys. They deserve it. Old white guys have abused every non-old-white-guy group of people for centuries.
All of us old white guys used to own slaves, don't you know. At least, that seems to be the opinion of many. All of us old white guys belong to the Ku Klux Klan, mistreat women, abuse Hispanics, and, as a group, are responsible for global warming.
So, we deserve to be depicted as retarded. You couldn't show a young, black guy acting retardedly. Unless, of course, it was a movie produced, written, directed, and starring young black guys.
You couldn't show a retarded woman...no matter what color she happens to be. But when it comes to old white guys, piling on is allowed. And so, Sesame Street, when they want to do something that would probably be viewed as politically incorrect, just hauls out Mr. Noodle. Mr. Noodle can be as stupid as one would desire. He can prance around and point at his nose when asked where his chin is located. He can act downright foolishly. Because, of course, he's an old white guy.
I had considered the idea of starting an organization to be known as the NAAOWG. We were going to march and picket and demonstrate and protest and do all those cool things all the other groups do. Then it dawned on us that that would mean putting down the chips and dip, getting off the couch and going outside. Ouch. I guess Mr. Noodle isn't all that bad. He is kinda funny...even cute, if you will. So what if he can't identify the parts of his face. He's an old white guy. He doesn't have to. He can always hire a minority to do that for him.
I tend to take life as it comes and not sweat the small stuff and all that other mumbo jumbo "let's take a positive view of life" philosophy. But, I'm irritated.
And I'll tell you why. It all has to do with Sesame Street. You've probably heard that the first couple of seasons of the popular kids TV show have been rated unacceptable for kids. Seems that Cookie Monster is too politically incorrect, as is Oscar the Grouch and a bunch of the other original characters.
Now, admittedly, that's asanine. But, that's not what irritates me. If these idiots who justify their jobs by making stupid rulings want to put an "Adults Only" rating on Sesame Street, who is it going to hurt? Not me. Not the producers of the show. In fact, the rating will probably make more people go out and buy the DVDs.
But, here's what gets me: If today's Sesame Street is so much more "acceptable," if it's so much more in-tune with people's feelings, if it's supposed to be a kinder, gentler Sesame Street, then why Mr. Noodle?
Have you seen Mr. Noodle? The original Noodle died of AIDS. And since I censor my own stuff, I won't comment on that. The new Noodle, actor/clown/mime, Bill Irwin is a good actor. But, as Mr. Noodle, he plays a mildly retarded guy. Really! I saw him trying to hold a violin. This brainiac couldn't tell the difference between his chin and his ear.
So, here's my question: Why is it politically correct, in the 21st century, to depict a retarded guy? Why is retarded okay when grouchy is taboo? I'll tell you why. It's because Mr. Noodle is an old white guy.
There, I said it. You see, in today's world, it's okay to make fun of old white guys. They deserve it. Old white guys have abused every non-old-white-guy group of people for centuries.
All of us old white guys used to own slaves, don't you know. At least, that seems to be the opinion of many. All of us old white guys belong to the Ku Klux Klan, mistreat women, abuse Hispanics, and, as a group, are responsible for global warming.
So, we deserve to be depicted as retarded. You couldn't show a young, black guy acting retardedly. Unless, of course, it was a movie produced, written, directed, and starring young black guys.
You couldn't show a retarded woman...no matter what color she happens to be. But when it comes to old white guys, piling on is allowed. And so, Sesame Street, when they want to do something that would probably be viewed as politically incorrect, just hauls out Mr. Noodle. Mr. Noodle can be as stupid as one would desire. He can prance around and point at his nose when asked where his chin is located. He can act downright foolishly. Because, of course, he's an old white guy.
I had considered the idea of starting an organization to be known as the NAAOWG. We were going to march and picket and demonstrate and protest and do all those cool things all the other groups do. Then it dawned on us that that would mean putting down the chips and dip, getting off the couch and going outside. Ouch. I guess Mr. Noodle isn't all that bad. He is kinda funny...even cute, if you will. So what if he can't identify the parts of his face. He's an old white guy. He doesn't have to. He can always hire a minority to do that for him.
Monday, January 07, 2008
The New Improved Organic Steve
Well, let me begin by saying how great it is to be back. I've been away for the past month or so for some special schooling. The school is a division of Ohio State. It's called the Cincinnati Remedial Academic Program...better known as, well, that's not important. Anyway, I took part in an intensive 4-week course designed to help students better understand how to use the word, "Organic."
I have to admit, I'm still pretty confused, but not nearly as confused as I was a month ago when my wife brought home a special box of organic cereal she had bought at the health food store. Back then, in my unenlightened days, as I'm wont to call them, back then I have to admit I was a little upset that she spent $12.95 for a box of cereal.
Imagine my chagrin now. Now that I have a deeper appreciation for "organic," that is. Back in the old days, using my own limited understanding, the only thing "organic" meant to me is that it must have to do with one organ or another. Ha Ha. I laugh at myself...my old self, that is.
The new Steve is enlightened. I see things as a whole much more clearly. I guess you could say my thinking has become more organic. I now, seeing the whole picture, can understand why thirteen bucks for a box of cereal is a sweetheart of a deal. I can now enjoy that cereal much better knowing that before I ate it, it had been smothered in chicken manure. I think about that with every bite. I smack my lips and say, "thank you," to my wife. She's begun to call me "organic breath" as a term of endearment. So that school thing is a win-win all the way around.
And, I'm only beginning to reap the rewards of my education. Actually, you are just beginning to reap the rewards of my education. In the months to come, I think you'll be seeing me use the word, "organic" much more frequently. For instance, when reading a column I've written about architecture, I'll sneak the word in. "Huh?" you're probably saying right now. I don't blame you. But, let me make you feel better by telling you that your confusion only stems from the fact that you're still very ignorant. There, do you feel better now?
You see, organic can also mean (and I'm quoting here, from my textbook, which came free with the three thousand dollar course), noting or pertaining to any work of architecture regarded as analogous to plant or animal forms in having a structure and a plan that fulfill perfectly the functional requirements for the building and that form in themselves an intellectually lucid, integrated whole.
It's so clear now. How could I have been so unenlightened? I feel like a real boob. And, by that, I mean a stupid or foolish person, a dolt.
I could continue to regale you with ways in which my "organic" education will benefit you in weeks to come. For instance, in one of my upcoming columns on fine art, a subject I thought I was already somewhat of an expert on, I'll be using "organic." When I do so, of course, I'll mean, something pertaining to the shapes or forms in a work of art that are of irregular contour and seem to resemble or suggest forms found in nature. From now on, thanks to my education, if I see a big blob of paint on a canvas, I'll know it's organic. Because it almost has to resemble something in nature, if nothing more than a cloud. Because, you see, clouds are a part of nature. I want to make sure you understand that, because it took me about three days to really let that fact sink in. I'd have to say some in the class picked up on that much more rapidly.
For some reason, the only thing I could think of in nature was a monkey. I kept telling the professor, "but that doesn't look like a monkey," and he kept looking at me as if I were some sort of dolt, that is a dull stupid person, a blockhead, a boob, as it were.
Anyway, I come back to you a much wiser man than I was a month ago. I'm so wise now that I'll think nothing of spending twenty bucks on a box of organic cereal. In fact, I picked up a box this morning. It's delicious and, according to the box, it's lightly sweetened with pure chicken manure.
I have to admit, I'm still pretty confused, but not nearly as confused as I was a month ago when my wife brought home a special box of organic cereal she had bought at the health food store. Back then, in my unenlightened days, as I'm wont to call them, back then I have to admit I was a little upset that she spent $12.95 for a box of cereal.
Imagine my chagrin now. Now that I have a deeper appreciation for "organic," that is. Back in the old days, using my own limited understanding, the only thing "organic" meant to me is that it must have to do with one organ or another. Ha Ha. I laugh at myself...my old self, that is.
The new Steve is enlightened. I see things as a whole much more clearly. I guess you could say my thinking has become more organic. I now, seeing the whole picture, can understand why thirteen bucks for a box of cereal is a sweetheart of a deal. I can now enjoy that cereal much better knowing that before I ate it, it had been smothered in chicken manure. I think about that with every bite. I smack my lips and say, "thank you," to my wife. She's begun to call me "organic breath" as a term of endearment. So that school thing is a win-win all the way around.
And, I'm only beginning to reap the rewards of my education. Actually, you are just beginning to reap the rewards of my education. In the months to come, I think you'll be seeing me use the word, "organic" much more frequently. For instance, when reading a column I've written about architecture, I'll sneak the word in. "Huh?" you're probably saying right now. I don't blame you. But, let me make you feel better by telling you that your confusion only stems from the fact that you're still very ignorant. There, do you feel better now?
You see, organic can also mean (and I'm quoting here, from my textbook, which came free with the three thousand dollar course), noting or pertaining to any work of architecture regarded as analogous to plant or animal forms in having a structure and a plan that fulfill perfectly the functional requirements for the building and that form in themselves an intellectually lucid, integrated whole.
It's so clear now. How could I have been so unenlightened? I feel like a real boob. And, by that, I mean a stupid or foolish person, a dolt.
I could continue to regale you with ways in which my "organic" education will benefit you in weeks to come. For instance, in one of my upcoming columns on fine art, a subject I thought I was already somewhat of an expert on, I'll be using "organic." When I do so, of course, I'll mean, something pertaining to the shapes or forms in a work of art that are of irregular contour and seem to resemble or suggest forms found in nature. From now on, thanks to my education, if I see a big blob of paint on a canvas, I'll know it's organic. Because it almost has to resemble something in nature, if nothing more than a cloud. Because, you see, clouds are a part of nature. I want to make sure you understand that, because it took me about three days to really let that fact sink in. I'd have to say some in the class picked up on that much more rapidly.
For some reason, the only thing I could think of in nature was a monkey. I kept telling the professor, "but that doesn't look like a monkey," and he kept looking at me as if I were some sort of dolt, that is a dull stupid person, a blockhead, a boob, as it were.
Anyway, I come back to you a much wiser man than I was a month ago. I'm so wise now that I'll think nothing of spending twenty bucks on a box of organic cereal. In fact, I picked up a box this morning. It's delicious and, according to the box, it's lightly sweetened with pure chicken manure.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Let us Prey
It is with much shame and humiliation that I've come here today to admit that my computer is a faithless piece of trash. The cold, hard truth, with which I've been forced to come face to face, is that my computer is an atheist.
I have seen the light from the glow of my monitor, but that light only led me to the harsh truths I stand before ye today and speak of with such meekness. Can I get an amen here, please?
Thanks
You see, I was doing some research on my Darwinian PC. I wanted to know more about a news story that had appeared on the Fox News Network on Monday night, about this church in California where images of Jesus, Mary, and a host of other Biblical characters keep appearing on the walls. The holy pastor, Wynona something or other, admitted she was a little skeptical when she first was told of these miraculous images. But then when people started paying to come see 'em, she became a believer.
What a blessed woman, she. And, I know she must be telling the truth about these images. Think about it. If a lady of God says there are images appearing in the water stains and on the dirty vents of her church, who am I to be so lacking in faith to question her. I wanted to see. I wanted to have my life altered as have countless others who have seen one or more of these images. I've been hoping for a raise at work. Maybe catching sight of the image would be just what the doctor ordered to rustle me up a nice raise. And, I feel confident that with said raise, I'd be more willing to go out and help the poor.
But, no, not gonna happen. My PC, who I now refer to as Ol' Beelzebub, wouldn't show me even one miraculous image. Oh sure. I saw water stains. I did think that maybe I saw Alvin of the Chipmunks in one stain. And, he does sing that wonderful Christmas hymn about the hula hoop. So, maybe I'm being too hard on the monitor. But, hey, I wanted to see a real honest to goodness Jesus and Mary image.
The pastor lady says they've even had images of Moses and Peter show up from time to time. My problem there is that even if my computer hadn't renounced all belief in God, I probably couldn't tell which one was Peter and which one was Moses. In all of the photographs I've seen of the two gentlemen, they look so much alike.
But it's a mute point (that is a point no one can speak about). It's all academic now, because, as I say, the best image I got was of a rodent.
But that's not the worst of it. I thought well maybe my eyes are bad. Maybe these images were showing up but it was due to my eyes (or lack of faith) that I wasn't seeing Jesus. And, heaven knows, I really was hoping to see him.
But, again, I stand before ye brethern and tell you that it wasn't me. It was this heathen Dell computer.
You see, even though I couldn't see the images, I did see that this church has a website (bless their bytes)for people to go see more of the images. The website is miraclewall.org. So, I typed the url in to my address box and do you know what happened? Do you want to know what happened? YOu're not going to believe it. Nothing happened. No website even came up. I guess that's proof enough that my computer is of low moral character.
I know, I know...some of you doubt. You say, "Steve, it's all a hoax." But, I say, "A hoax? Would a church do something like that? And you say, "But Steve, would God really waste time playing pictionary with a bunch of nuts?" And I say, "You tell me."
Anyway, here I sit, weeping openly. All I asked for was a glimpse of miracle wall, and all I got was this error message. My computer must die! As soon as I can afford a new one.
Well, so much for the computer. I have better things to do. My neighbor has a chihuahua who can bark How Great Thou Art, and I don't want to miss tonight's performance. I may just get that raise after all.
I have seen the light from the glow of my monitor, but that light only led me to the harsh truths I stand before ye today and speak of with such meekness. Can I get an amen here, please?
Thanks
You see, I was doing some research on my Darwinian PC. I wanted to know more about a news story that had appeared on the Fox News Network on Monday night, about this church in California where images of Jesus, Mary, and a host of other Biblical characters keep appearing on the walls. The holy pastor, Wynona something or other, admitted she was a little skeptical when she first was told of these miraculous images. But then when people started paying to come see 'em, she became a believer.
What a blessed woman, she. And, I know she must be telling the truth about these images. Think about it. If a lady of God says there are images appearing in the water stains and on the dirty vents of her church, who am I to be so lacking in faith to question her. I wanted to see. I wanted to have my life altered as have countless others who have seen one or more of these images. I've been hoping for a raise at work. Maybe catching sight of the image would be just what the doctor ordered to rustle me up a nice raise. And, I feel confident that with said raise, I'd be more willing to go out and help the poor.
But, no, not gonna happen. My PC, who I now refer to as Ol' Beelzebub, wouldn't show me even one miraculous image. Oh sure. I saw water stains. I did think that maybe I saw Alvin of the Chipmunks in one stain. And, he does sing that wonderful Christmas hymn about the hula hoop. So, maybe I'm being too hard on the monitor. But, hey, I wanted to see a real honest to goodness Jesus and Mary image.
The pastor lady says they've even had images of Moses and Peter show up from time to time. My problem there is that even if my computer hadn't renounced all belief in God, I probably couldn't tell which one was Peter and which one was Moses. In all of the photographs I've seen of the two gentlemen, they look so much alike.
But it's a mute point (that is a point no one can speak about). It's all academic now, because, as I say, the best image I got was of a rodent.
But that's not the worst of it. I thought well maybe my eyes are bad. Maybe these images were showing up but it was due to my eyes (or lack of faith) that I wasn't seeing Jesus. And, heaven knows, I really was hoping to see him.
But, again, I stand before ye brethern and tell you that it wasn't me. It was this heathen Dell computer.
You see, even though I couldn't see the images, I did see that this church has a website (bless their bytes)for people to go see more of the images. The website is miraclewall.org. So, I typed the url in to my address box and do you know what happened? Do you want to know what happened? YOu're not going to believe it. Nothing happened. No website even came up. I guess that's proof enough that my computer is of low moral character.
I know, I know...some of you doubt. You say, "Steve, it's all a hoax." But, I say, "A hoax? Would a church do something like that? And you say, "But Steve, would God really waste time playing pictionary with a bunch of nuts?" And I say, "You tell me."
Anyway, here I sit, weeping openly. All I asked for was a glimpse of miracle wall, and all I got was this error message. My computer must die! As soon as I can afford a new one.
Well, so much for the computer. I have better things to do. My neighbor has a chihuahua who can bark How Great Thou Art, and I don't want to miss tonight's performance. I may just get that raise after all.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Random Thoughts, Once Again (Or, in other words, I haven't had an intelligent thought in days)
Well, in true rambling form, I just have a few random thoughts to share. First of all, did you watch the new show on NBC tonight? Clash of the Choirs? Talk about not living up to the hype. I was under the impression that this was some sort of WWF or WWE or whatever, RAW type of battle royal between local church groups.
I was looking forward to some hymnal hurling, robe ripping action, and all I got was horrible singers singing horribly. Maybe I didn't pay enough attention to the advertisements, but I was miserably disappointed.
Also, what's with all this stereoid hullabaloo. Hey, these guys are high paid ball players. I'd be surprised if they DIDN'T own stereos. I'm sure many even have I-Pods. So what's the big deal? These dedicated professionals give everything they have day in and day out during the long, grueling summer season. Sometimes, I feel sure, they go beyond what might be considered humanly possible, at least to you and me.
I think it's amazing to see such marvelous specimans of humanity...men, who even after they have passed the prime of life, continue to grow even stronger, and bulkier. So, if, in their off time, they want to chill to some stereo music, I say, let 'em chill.
I'm glad I don't walk around with an attitude like some people I know, including Bart Giomatti, or whoever that guy is who says he's like the big wig of baseball.
I say live and let live.
Speaking of which, so what if Barak Obama wanted to be president in kindergarten. I can't see how the Clintons could make a big deal about that. And, if, at the same time, he was dealing in drugs, I'm sure he's put that all behind him.
I hear some people saying Hillary is slipping in the polls. I find that hard to believe. I mean just look at the woman, she looks presidential. In fact, she looks very much like some of the nation's earliest presidents, although I'm not sure I could put names with faces.
Personally, I believe Mrs. Clinton has the nomination locked up, but a lot can happen between now and the Democratic Convention next summer. For instance, if there's some big scandal...like, for instance, if someone catches Bill Clinton having sex with Hillary, then I say all bets are off. But barring that, and I feel that it won't be a problem, I say Hillary is a shoe in. Unless of course, the nod goes to Obama or that pretty boy with the southern accent. I never can remember his name.
And, speaking of politics, I can't believe what the Republicans are doing to each other. I read somewhere that many of the candidates have come right out and called Mitt Romney a moron. Hey, when you're named after a glove, maybe you deserve a little ribbing, but a moron? Really! Some people.
Well, I gotta get back to watching the news. I try to stay up to date on world events so I can better help you, the little people out there, better understand what's going on. Don't thank me. I consider it an honor.
I was looking forward to some hymnal hurling, robe ripping action, and all I got was horrible singers singing horribly. Maybe I didn't pay enough attention to the advertisements, but I was miserably disappointed.
Also, what's with all this stereoid hullabaloo. Hey, these guys are high paid ball players. I'd be surprised if they DIDN'T own stereos. I'm sure many even have I-Pods. So what's the big deal? These dedicated professionals give everything they have day in and day out during the long, grueling summer season. Sometimes, I feel sure, they go beyond what might be considered humanly possible, at least to you and me.
I think it's amazing to see such marvelous specimans of humanity...men, who even after they have passed the prime of life, continue to grow even stronger, and bulkier. So, if, in their off time, they want to chill to some stereo music, I say, let 'em chill.
I'm glad I don't walk around with an attitude like some people I know, including Bart Giomatti, or whoever that guy is who says he's like the big wig of baseball.
I say live and let live.
Speaking of which, so what if Barak Obama wanted to be president in kindergarten. I can't see how the Clintons could make a big deal about that. And, if, at the same time, he was dealing in drugs, I'm sure he's put that all behind him.
I hear some people saying Hillary is slipping in the polls. I find that hard to believe. I mean just look at the woman, she looks presidential. In fact, she looks very much like some of the nation's earliest presidents, although I'm not sure I could put names with faces.
Personally, I believe Mrs. Clinton has the nomination locked up, but a lot can happen between now and the Democratic Convention next summer. For instance, if there's some big scandal...like, for instance, if someone catches Bill Clinton having sex with Hillary, then I say all bets are off. But barring that, and I feel that it won't be a problem, I say Hillary is a shoe in. Unless of course, the nod goes to Obama or that pretty boy with the southern accent. I never can remember his name.
And, speaking of politics, I can't believe what the Republicans are doing to each other. I read somewhere that many of the candidates have come right out and called Mitt Romney a moron. Hey, when you're named after a glove, maybe you deserve a little ribbing, but a moron? Really! Some people.
Well, I gotta get back to watching the news. I try to stay up to date on world events so I can better help you, the little people out there, better understand what's going on. Don't thank me. I consider it an honor.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Tis The Season, Tisn't It?
So, I'm minding my own business, just sitting at my desk, when the phone rings. You can probably guess who is was. Yep, Lochru the Druid, who for whatever reason only comes out this time of year. He's kind of like the groundhog in Pennsylvania only earlier. Anyway, I answer the phone, and he says, "Steve, can you help me out?"
"Sure," I say, because as everyone who knows me knows, I'm always looking for ways to help people out.
"Well," he continues, "you remember a few weeks ago when I played some of my Druid Carols?"
"Yeah, how could I forget?" I say.
"Well, anyway, I got some complaints."
"What sort of complaints?" I ask my favorite Druid.
"Oh a bunch of people wrote me," he continues, "and said since I'm living in America now, I need to act like Americans."
"And what did you say?" I asked him.
"I asked them if they meant I needed to speak Spanish."
"Quick thinking," I say.
"But that irritated them too," Lochru tells me. "They said that Druidism is yesterday and that I needed to have the Christmas spirit."
"So, what do you think?" I asked him.
"Well, I want to get along," he answers. "So, I did some studying up on Christmas. And, then this morning I was listening to Sid and Melissa on Q-94."
"You listen to Q-94?" I asked incredulously. "I bet you really skew the demographics. What are you, about 500 years old."
"You're too kind," he answers. "Anyway, I was listening to Sid and Melissa talk about a Christmas party they went to last night. And it really helped me to understand what Christmas is all about."
"Well, that's great," I say, "but you asked me for my help...?"
"Yes," Lochru says. "You see, after doing my research and listening to this morning's program, I sat down and wrote a Christmas song."
"I'm sure it's lovely," I say.
"Again, you're too kind," he says. "May I sing it to you so you can share it with your millions of readers?"
"Why not, after all, I am writing the column. I need something to finish it off."
"Okay, here goes," he says. "I call it The 21st Century Christmas Song, and it goes a little something like this..."
Employees puking in the garbage can
They’ve had just too much Christmas cheer.
Tiny tots listening to Q-94
Say, ‘Hey Jesus must really like his beer."
Co-workers hooking up in the ladies room
This Christmas party is really something swell
But if what Pat Robertson says is the truth
Then the Q-94 staff will burn in hell.
This Christmas thing is kinda weird
Is it about baby Jesus
Or this fat guy with a long white beard?
And all the revelers are going to try
To get really drunk but yet not die
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To all you party goers drinking the 100 proof fluid
Although it’s never been said
At any time or in any way
You’d all be better off if you were Druids
When Lochru finished his song, I wiped a tear from my eye and hung up.
"Sure," I say, because as everyone who knows me knows, I'm always looking for ways to help people out.
"Well," he continues, "you remember a few weeks ago when I played some of my Druid Carols?"
"Yeah, how could I forget?" I say.
"Well, anyway, I got some complaints."
"What sort of complaints?" I ask my favorite Druid.
"Oh a bunch of people wrote me," he continues, "and said since I'm living in America now, I need to act like Americans."
"And what did you say?" I asked him.
"I asked them if they meant I needed to speak Spanish."
"Quick thinking," I say.
"But that irritated them too," Lochru tells me. "They said that Druidism is yesterday and that I needed to have the Christmas spirit."
"So, what do you think?" I asked him.
"Well, I want to get along," he answers. "So, I did some studying up on Christmas. And, then this morning I was listening to Sid and Melissa on Q-94."
"You listen to Q-94?" I asked incredulously. "I bet you really skew the demographics. What are you, about 500 years old."
"You're too kind," he answers. "Anyway, I was listening to Sid and Melissa talk about a Christmas party they went to last night. And it really helped me to understand what Christmas is all about."
"Well, that's great," I say, "but you asked me for my help...?"
"Yes," Lochru says. "You see, after doing my research and listening to this morning's program, I sat down and wrote a Christmas song."
"I'm sure it's lovely," I say.
"Again, you're too kind," he says. "May I sing it to you so you can share it with your millions of readers?"
"Why not, after all, I am writing the column. I need something to finish it off."
"Okay, here goes," he says. "I call it The 21st Century Christmas Song, and it goes a little something like this..."
Employees puking in the garbage can
They’ve had just too much Christmas cheer.
Tiny tots listening to Q-94
Say, ‘Hey Jesus must really like his beer."
Co-workers hooking up in the ladies room
This Christmas party is really something swell
But if what Pat Robertson says is the truth
Then the Q-94 staff will burn in hell.
This Christmas thing is kinda weird
Is it about baby Jesus
Or this fat guy with a long white beard?
And all the revelers are going to try
To get really drunk but yet not die
And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To all you party goers drinking the 100 proof fluid
Although it’s never been said
At any time or in any way
You’d all be better off if you were Druids
When Lochru finished his song, I wiped a tear from my eye and hung up.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
My Dog Blog
I need to set the record straight on a particular issue. Let me go on record right now as saying that I am not a dog hater. I love all God's creatures, except for camelback crickets, of course. They're the meanest insect on earth. If you try to step on one, it will lunge for your throat. Believe me, they've come after me on more than one occasion.
But, back to the subject at hand...dogs. I don't hate them. True, it's not like I'm best friends with any of them, but I don't hate them. I'm just not crazy about them.
My wife loves her dogs and I think she secretly views me as an inferior life form because I don't share her emotions. She has two dogs, Toby (a male) and Tory (female). We've had the dogs since they were puppies. Someone had abandoned them, and my wife, bless her heart, took them in. They're about eight years old now.
I told my wife recently that while I liked Toby, I wasn't all that fond of Tory. Her voice is too shrill (Tory's, not my wife's) and she whines about everything (Tory, hmmm, oh yeah, I do mean Tory). "I wish we could find a loving home for Tory," I say (wink, wink, nod, nod)
"Well, Toby would miss her so much if I got rid of her," my wife says, agreeing with me that Tory can get on your nerves.
"So, let me get this straight," I say in reply. "You have Toby as your pet, and Toby has Tory as his pet. Is that the way it is?"
She didn't answer. I guess, bottom line, my wife really loves both dogs. I'm not saying, or even suggesting that she loves them more than she does me. But, on rare occasion, if she gets irritated with me and raises her voice, she immediately comforts the dogs. She never reads my columns, so, unless one of you has an exceptionally large mouth, this will be our little secret.
My wife doesn't insist I love the dogs, but she does want me to treat them nicely. It's not like I kick them, and I swear I am no supporter of Michael Vick, but I have a hard time talking baby/dog talk to the dogs.
When I come home and kiss my wife, she will say, "Speak to Tory."
"Hi, Tory," I'll say rather matter of factly.
"No," my wife will say. "Speak sweetly to her."
"How was your day, Tory?" I'll say, still devoid of any deep emotion.
"You can do better than that," my wife will scold me.
So, in the same way I speak to my infant grandson, I'll muster up the courage and say, "How is da wittle doggie doing today, huh Toreeeee?"
"Did you hear that?" my wife will say to Tory. "Daddy loves you."
And Tory, being exceptionally dumb, will believe my wife and get up and come over and try and lick my face. Yuck.
Like I say, I don't hate dogs, but I do hate being licked by a dog. Now, I know that dog's saliva is supposed to be as pure as Ivory soap, but I just don't want to be near it. But, Tory, who has no appreciation for human subtleties will immediately be convinced that I've suddenly converted to a dog lover just because I speak sweetly to her. She'll totally ignore the fact that only moments previously we were just two warm-blooded creatures who passed in the night.
Toby, isn't much better, but he does have a good disposition. Oh sure, he loves to kill a cat or a possum on occasion, but except for a little blood lust, he's not a bad dog. He's a big, black lab. I really don't mind him. I just know that if I speak nicely to me, he'll want to be up (all 100 pounds of him) on my lap.
I just want to explain my position. If you should ever hear that I hate dogs, don't believe it.
In fact, just this morning, I went into the dog's bedroom to dress. Yes, my closet is in the dog's room. When I cut on the light, at about 6:00 this morning, Tory looks up at me, like what the heck are you doing here?"
"Sorry, Tory," I say sincerely. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
Then it dawns on me. What difference does it make if I wake the dog up? It's not like Tory has a really hectic schedule today and could have used an extra hour's sleep. In fact, sleeping is what she'll pretty much spend the day doing.
And, it's not like Tory won't be able to get back to sleep because her mind will be racing with all that she has to get accomplished today. I can just imagine Tory lying in bed thinking..."Hmmm,what's on my schedule today. Oh yeah, first I have to lick my rear end, then I need to go to the window and bark at the neighbor's stupid cat. And, oh yeah, there's one of Steve's shoes I have to chew on for a little while. That'll serve him right. I know he hates me. I know he's just pretending when he speaks nicely to me. But, I also know how much he hates me licking him. What a stupid animal he is. But, it's not like I hate him or anything. I'm just not crazy about him."
But, back to the subject at hand...dogs. I don't hate them. True, it's not like I'm best friends with any of them, but I don't hate them. I'm just not crazy about them.
My wife loves her dogs and I think she secretly views me as an inferior life form because I don't share her emotions. She has two dogs, Toby (a male) and Tory (female). We've had the dogs since they were puppies. Someone had abandoned them, and my wife, bless her heart, took them in. They're about eight years old now.
I told my wife recently that while I liked Toby, I wasn't all that fond of Tory. Her voice is too shrill (Tory's, not my wife's) and she whines about everything (Tory, hmmm, oh yeah, I do mean Tory). "I wish we could find a loving home for Tory," I say (wink, wink, nod, nod)
"Well, Toby would miss her so much if I got rid of her," my wife says, agreeing with me that Tory can get on your nerves.
"So, let me get this straight," I say in reply. "You have Toby as your pet, and Toby has Tory as his pet. Is that the way it is?"
She didn't answer. I guess, bottom line, my wife really loves both dogs. I'm not saying, or even suggesting that she loves them more than she does me. But, on rare occasion, if she gets irritated with me and raises her voice, she immediately comforts the dogs. She never reads my columns, so, unless one of you has an exceptionally large mouth, this will be our little secret.
My wife doesn't insist I love the dogs, but she does want me to treat them nicely. It's not like I kick them, and I swear I am no supporter of Michael Vick, but I have a hard time talking baby/dog talk to the dogs.
When I come home and kiss my wife, she will say, "Speak to Tory."
"Hi, Tory," I'll say rather matter of factly.
"No," my wife will say. "Speak sweetly to her."
"How was your day, Tory?" I'll say, still devoid of any deep emotion.
"You can do better than that," my wife will scold me.
So, in the same way I speak to my infant grandson, I'll muster up the courage and say, "How is da wittle doggie doing today, huh Toreeeee?"
"Did you hear that?" my wife will say to Tory. "Daddy loves you."
And Tory, being exceptionally dumb, will believe my wife and get up and come over and try and lick my face. Yuck.
Like I say, I don't hate dogs, but I do hate being licked by a dog. Now, I know that dog's saliva is supposed to be as pure as Ivory soap, but I just don't want to be near it. But, Tory, who has no appreciation for human subtleties will immediately be convinced that I've suddenly converted to a dog lover just because I speak sweetly to her. She'll totally ignore the fact that only moments previously we were just two warm-blooded creatures who passed in the night.
Toby, isn't much better, but he does have a good disposition. Oh sure, he loves to kill a cat or a possum on occasion, but except for a little blood lust, he's not a bad dog. He's a big, black lab. I really don't mind him. I just know that if I speak nicely to me, he'll want to be up (all 100 pounds of him) on my lap.
I just want to explain my position. If you should ever hear that I hate dogs, don't believe it.
In fact, just this morning, I went into the dog's bedroom to dress. Yes, my closet is in the dog's room. When I cut on the light, at about 6:00 this morning, Tory looks up at me, like what the heck are you doing here?"
"Sorry, Tory," I say sincerely. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
Then it dawns on me. What difference does it make if I wake the dog up? It's not like Tory has a really hectic schedule today and could have used an extra hour's sleep. In fact, sleeping is what she'll pretty much spend the day doing.
And, it's not like Tory won't be able to get back to sleep because her mind will be racing with all that she has to get accomplished today. I can just imagine Tory lying in bed thinking..."Hmmm,what's on my schedule today. Oh yeah, first I have to lick my rear end, then I need to go to the window and bark at the neighbor's stupid cat. And, oh yeah, there's one of Steve's shoes I have to chew on for a little while. That'll serve him right. I know he hates me. I know he's just pretending when he speaks nicely to me. But, I also know how much he hates me licking him. What a stupid animal he is. But, it's not like I hate him or anything. I'm just not crazy about him."
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Finally Famous After All These Years
Wow! I must be famous. So this is what it feels like. Hmm, I wonder if Mayor Governor Wilder is going to give me the key to the city, or at least give me one of the city’s discarded artist renderings of some really neat place that never got built. That would be cool.
But, I guess I had better slow down and explain myself. How do I know I’m famous? You might be thinking someone asked for my autograph. Think again. The UPS guy did ask me to sign for a package of toner cartridges the other day, but that’s about the closest I’ve come to autographing anything.
Or, could it be I’ve been asked to judge a beauty contest? That might seem to be a logical conclusion inasmuch as all the famous people who get to do that aren’t really all that famous. At least, I’ve never heard of any of them. But, no. No one has asked me to judge anything.
I did get a call from someone with the Miss Virginia Pageant recently, but she only called to complain because I had innocently made the statement that the Miss Virginia Pageant has to be the most poorly produced programming in the history of pageantry. I think I may have said something about the semi-lovely ladies being completely devoid of talent. I hope I didn’t say that. I hope I only thought it. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. But, to reiterate, I have not become aware of my fame due to any requests to judge things.
Maybe, you’re thinking I’ve become so famous that I was asked to be in this year’s Ukrop’s Christmas Parade, maybe even to be the grand marshal. Nope. And, I’m not complaining either. I was told, by our Art Director, Vince Robertson, who watched on TV, that this year’s parade was so bad, Ukrop’s has asked that from now on it be called the Food Lion Christmas Parade. Vince tells me that the Henrico County float was downright embarrassing. Well, maybe he didn’t use that term, but he described the float, something to the effect that it was a tool shed on a truck. Way to go, Henrico! But anyway, I’m not famous because of any parade. Although, it would be cool to have a big balloon that looked like me flying above the buildings. Of course, some people think I look like a big balloon of me already.
So, back to my famousness. Is it because people come up to me and say, “Hey, Steve, we really enjoy your columns”? No, the truth is no one has ever, and I mean ever, recognized me in public, even when I’m wearing a badge that says, “Steve Cook.” In fact, it wasn’t so very long ago, I approached a big wig with the Chamber of Commerce, who, every time I encountered him at a meeting, would always say, “It’s good to meet you.” I spoke to this guy every month at a breakfast meeting, and invariably, every month, he would introduce himself to me, and I’d play along and introduce myself to him, and every month he would say, in the same totally insincere manner, “It’s good to meet you.”
So, at this one particular meeting, I approached him, before he could come up and introduce himself for the umpteenth time. As he was starting to re-introduce himself, I said (and keep in mind, I’m wearing a badge that identifies me as who I am – Steve, in case you’ve forgotten), “Joe, we’ve met before.”
“Yes, I remember,” he says, and continues, “It’s nice to see you again Dave.” DAVE! Hold on, you moron. I’m Steve Cook. I’m famous. I didn’t actually say that. But, I sure thought it, except for that part about being famous. I have never thought that.
But, I have thought about how great it would be to be famous. The biggest thing about being famous is all the free stuff. I imagine famous people are always being given stuff for free, you know, like cars and free hamburgers, and other neat stuff like that. Until now, I’m sorry to say fame has eluded me as successfully as has talent.
But, the day has arrived. And, if you’ve looked closely at this page, you’re one step ahead of me. Did you notice? Yes, I am famous. Because only famous people have impersonators impersonating them. And now, there’s a Steve Cook impersonator out there. Look at the picture. Surprise! That’s not me. It’s Chase Porter, who lives in Smithfield, Virginia, and fittingly, Chase is a real ham.
He does a perfect me, I think. Actually, it’s a perfect mini-me, which even adds to my fame. Don’t you think?
And, if you ever saw Chase do the impersonation on stage, you’d notice he even blinks like me. I’m one of the world’s great blinkers. Anyway, the next time he does one of his popular, “An Evening With Steve Cook (sort of) Concerts,” I’ll let you know. And, if you’re famous, I can probably get you a couple of tickets for free.
But, I guess I had better slow down and explain myself. How do I know I’m famous? You might be thinking someone asked for my autograph. Think again. The UPS guy did ask me to sign for a package of toner cartridges the other day, but that’s about the closest I’ve come to autographing anything.
Or, could it be I’ve been asked to judge a beauty contest? That might seem to be a logical conclusion inasmuch as all the famous people who get to do that aren’t really all that famous. At least, I’ve never heard of any of them. But, no. No one has asked me to judge anything.
I did get a call from someone with the Miss Virginia Pageant recently, but she only called to complain because I had innocently made the statement that the Miss Virginia Pageant has to be the most poorly produced programming in the history of pageantry. I think I may have said something about the semi-lovely ladies being completely devoid of talent. I hope I didn’t say that. I hope I only thought it. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. But, to reiterate, I have not become aware of my fame due to any requests to judge things.
Maybe, you’re thinking I’ve become so famous that I was asked to be in this year’s Ukrop’s Christmas Parade, maybe even to be the grand marshal. Nope. And, I’m not complaining either. I was told, by our Art Director, Vince Robertson, who watched on TV, that this year’s parade was so bad, Ukrop’s has asked that from now on it be called the Food Lion Christmas Parade. Vince tells me that the Henrico County float was downright embarrassing. Well, maybe he didn’t use that term, but he described the float, something to the effect that it was a tool shed on a truck. Way to go, Henrico! But anyway, I’m not famous because of any parade. Although, it would be cool to have a big balloon that looked like me flying above the buildings. Of course, some people think I look like a big balloon of me already.
So, back to my famousness. Is it because people come up to me and say, “Hey, Steve, we really enjoy your columns”? No, the truth is no one has ever, and I mean ever, recognized me in public, even when I’m wearing a badge that says, “Steve Cook.” In fact, it wasn’t so very long ago, I approached a big wig with the Chamber of Commerce, who, every time I encountered him at a meeting, would always say, “It’s good to meet you.” I spoke to this guy every month at a breakfast meeting, and invariably, every month, he would introduce himself to me, and I’d play along and introduce myself to him, and every month he would say, in the same totally insincere manner, “It’s good to meet you.”
So, at this one particular meeting, I approached him, before he could come up and introduce himself for the umpteenth time. As he was starting to re-introduce himself, I said (and keep in mind, I’m wearing a badge that identifies me as who I am – Steve, in case you’ve forgotten), “Joe, we’ve met before.”
“Yes, I remember,” he says, and continues, “It’s nice to see you again Dave.” DAVE! Hold on, you moron. I’m Steve Cook. I’m famous. I didn’t actually say that. But, I sure thought it, except for that part about being famous. I have never thought that.
But, I have thought about how great it would be to be famous. The biggest thing about being famous is all the free stuff. I imagine famous people are always being given stuff for free, you know, like cars and free hamburgers, and other neat stuff like that. Until now, I’m sorry to say fame has eluded me as successfully as has talent.
But, the day has arrived. And, if you’ve looked closely at this page, you’re one step ahead of me. Did you notice? Yes, I am famous. Because only famous people have impersonators impersonating them. And now, there’s a Steve Cook impersonator out there. Look at the picture. Surprise! That’s not me. It’s Chase Porter, who lives in Smithfield, Virginia, and fittingly, Chase is a real ham.
He does a perfect me, I think. Actually, it’s a perfect mini-me, which even adds to my fame. Don’t you think?
And, if you ever saw Chase do the impersonation on stage, you’d notice he even blinks like me. I’m one of the world’s great blinkers. Anyway, the next time he does one of his popular, “An Evening With Steve Cook (sort of) Concerts,” I’ll let you know. And, if you’re famous, I can probably get you a couple of tickets for free.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
If Hippocrates Were Alive Today He'd Be Spinning in His Grave
At the very least, the father of medicine may be considering putting his child up for adoption. Truth is, we know very little about what Hippocrates really believed, but, having grown up the son of a country doctor, I can tell you that the practice of medicine today ain't what it used to be.
I'm not talking about the marvelous breakthroughs. There are plenty. Rather, I'm focusing on one particular aspect of modern medical practice. And, as the public spirited guy I have proven to be on so many occasions, I've prepared a quiz to help you better appreciate my concern. There is one actual, factual answer provided to each of these multi-choice questions. Are you ready? Here goes:
1) I call a heart specialist, to whom I've been referred by my doctor. The receptionist is setting up my appointment. After a time is set, and directions to the building are provided, she says, "And, yes, please don't forget to..."
A) Bring photos of your family. We want to get to know you.
B) Bring a list of your medications.
C) Bring your insurance card.
2) There is a sign in my doctor's office which reads, "If you are unable to pay for today's visit, you must..."
A) Not worry about it. Your health is all that matters.
B) Sign an agreement accepting liability for today's charges.
C) Make arrangements to return and see your doctor at a time when you can make payment.
3) I call my doctor's office and the recording instructs me to push "ONE" as a priority caller if:
A) You're feeling really sick
B) You're a long-time patient
C) If (you're paying an additional charge and) you are a Priority Patient
4) There is another sign in my doctor's office addressed to the elderly. The sign reads, "As of September 1st,..."
A) We are starting a new program to provide special services to our elderly patients.
B) We will need to see your Medicare card at each visit.
C) We will no longer be honoring Medicare Insurance.
5) You go to a new doctor and are given four forms to fill out. Form one is a medical history, the other forms are...
A) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, and one page on insurance.
B) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, with two pages on insurance.
C) Nothing but insurance and "How in the world will you pay us" forms.
Okay, let's exchange papers and find out how we did.
Answer One is C. And, even if it's just because you know I'm an ornery old man, you've probably guessed two through four are also "C." Yep, that's the sad facts. But, I think you will agree that the time we have spent here, venting together, makes you feel somewhat better.
Do you agree? Good. That will be $25.00. Thanks for visiting.
I'm not talking about the marvelous breakthroughs. There are plenty. Rather, I'm focusing on one particular aspect of modern medical practice. And, as the public spirited guy I have proven to be on so many occasions, I've prepared a quiz to help you better appreciate my concern. There is one actual, factual answer provided to each of these multi-choice questions. Are you ready? Here goes:
1) I call a heart specialist, to whom I've been referred by my doctor. The receptionist is setting up my appointment. After a time is set, and directions to the building are provided, she says, "And, yes, please don't forget to..."
A) Bring photos of your family. We want to get to know you.
B) Bring a list of your medications.
C) Bring your insurance card.
2) There is a sign in my doctor's office which reads, "If you are unable to pay for today's visit, you must..."
A) Not worry about it. Your health is all that matters.
B) Sign an agreement accepting liability for today's charges.
C) Make arrangements to return and see your doctor at a time when you can make payment.
3) I call my doctor's office and the recording instructs me to push "ONE" as a priority caller if:
A) You're feeling really sick
B) You're a long-time patient
C) If (you're paying an additional charge and) you are a Priority Patient
4) There is another sign in my doctor's office addressed to the elderly. The sign reads, "As of September 1st,..."
A) We are starting a new program to provide special services to our elderly patients.
B) We will need to see your Medicare card at each visit.
C) We will no longer be honoring Medicare Insurance.
5) You go to a new doctor and are given four forms to fill out. Form one is a medical history, the other forms are...
A) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, and one page on insurance.
B) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, with two pages on insurance.
C) Nothing but insurance and "How in the world will you pay us" forms.
Okay, let's exchange papers and find out how we did.
Answer One is C. And, even if it's just because you know I'm an ornery old man, you've probably guessed two through four are also "C." Yep, that's the sad facts. But, I think you will agree that the time we have spent here, venting together, makes you feel somewhat better.
Do you agree? Good. That will be $25.00. Thanks for visiting.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
It's Beginning to Look Like The Most Miserable Time of the Year - Ding Dong Ding Dong
This has to be the absolutely most miserable time of year. It’s not just a matter of crowded streets and jam-packed stores. It’s not just the incessant bell ringing and the strong-armed tactics of the dozens of winos in Santa suits. No, it’s much more than that.
The real problem is that I’m being Burl Ived to death. I hate Burl Ives music. I don’t think he was a good singer. And, thankfully for about 11 months of the year, no radio station will dare play his music. But, starting Thanksgiving day, my favorite radio stations do 24 hour Christmas music. Why?
Even if you’re a big fan of Christmas music do you really want to listen to it non-stop? Now, Delilah is playing it. Why can’t she just go back to her sappy love songs? Someone calls her up and says they want to dedicate a special song to a loved one who has meant so much to them, and has helped them through the hard times, and has stuck by them, and can Delilah please play something very special, and she says, “I have just the perfect song,” and plays Frosty the Snowman.
Stop the insanity. Everybody is getting into the act. Just last night, I was sitting at my keyboard, when the phone rings. You’ll never guess who was phoning. Yes, it was my old friend Lochru, the Druid. I hadn’t heard from Lochru in quite some time. You may remember, he was found frozen at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir a couple of years back, and when he thawed out, he was as good as new. Anyway, he calls, and the conversation went something like this…
ME: Hello
LOCHRU: Hey, big fellow. It’s Lochru
ME: Well, Lochru, how are you? I haven’t heard from you lately. What’s happening?
LOCHRU: Well, I’ve been busy. I’ve started my own business.
ME: (wondering what sort of business a Druid would be starting) Well, you have me wondering. What sort of business would a Druid be starting?
LOCHRU: Amway, my friend. That’s why I’m calling. How would you like a six-figure income without ever leaving home?
ME: I’m not really interested.
LOCHRU: (Laughing) Whoa! Hold on. That’s what I said. But then I took a look, and these folks are amazing. I’m making money so quickly, I have several checks I haven’t even had time to cash yet.
ME: Let me stop you. I really am not interested...at all.
LOCHRU: I thought you’d say that. So, if I can’t interest you in becoming part of my down network…
ME: Down network? What, are you selling ducks now too?
LOCHRU: (Laughing) Steve, my friend, you always did have a keen sense of humor. But, let me continue. The real reason I’m calling is to see if you know anyone at Lite 98.
ME: Well, I have met Bill Bevins. Why?
LOCHRU: I’ve written a song of the season, and I was hoping they would play it.
ME: You’ve written a Christmas song?
LOCHRU: Heavens no. Christmas is so, so, well, it’s so commercialized. We Druids view this as a very sacred season. It’s Alban Arthuan, you know.
ME: No, I didn’t know.
LOCHRU: Well, it’s very special, and for eleven months a year I really miss my homeland, but this time of year, everyone becomes so Druidish, albeit a bit commercialized. Anyway, as I was window shopping at Short Pump Town Center the other day, I got the idea for a beautiful song. Would you like me to sing it to you?
ME: Yeah, go ahead.
LOCHRU: (demonstrating a very beautiful voice, I might add)
It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan,
Everywhere I go
Just when we thought it was dead and done, Here again comes the sun
And so we put up our mistletoe.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
The Father Sky God in every store
But the prettiest sight to see is the old yule log that will be
Burning brightly just inside my own front door
It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
Try and describe it and the words will fail ya
Nothing can be so gay, as when we give each other gifts that day
Oh how much I love the good ol’ Saturnalia.
Da Da Da De Da Da Da Da Da
ME: Are you done?
LOCHRU: It needs a little work, but all in all, what do you think?
ME: It’s lovely.
LOCHRU: Thanks. So, can you help me get it on the air?
ME: Sure, sure. I’ll try.
LOCHRU: You’re a pal. Let’s do lunch one day real soon. Byeee.
Anyway, the truth is, I don’t know Bill Bevins at all. So, I’m hoping you can help out. If you know him or someone else there, can you put me in touch? I’d be so grateful. You know how much I hate to disappoint Druids.
The real problem is that I’m being Burl Ived to death. I hate Burl Ives music. I don’t think he was a good singer. And, thankfully for about 11 months of the year, no radio station will dare play his music. But, starting Thanksgiving day, my favorite radio stations do 24 hour Christmas music. Why?
Even if you’re a big fan of Christmas music do you really want to listen to it non-stop? Now, Delilah is playing it. Why can’t she just go back to her sappy love songs? Someone calls her up and says they want to dedicate a special song to a loved one who has meant so much to them, and has helped them through the hard times, and has stuck by them, and can Delilah please play something very special, and she says, “I have just the perfect song,” and plays Frosty the Snowman.
Stop the insanity. Everybody is getting into the act. Just last night, I was sitting at my keyboard, when the phone rings. You’ll never guess who was phoning. Yes, it was my old friend Lochru, the Druid. I hadn’t heard from Lochru in quite some time. You may remember, he was found frozen at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir a couple of years back, and when he thawed out, he was as good as new. Anyway, he calls, and the conversation went something like this…
ME: Hello
LOCHRU: Hey, big fellow. It’s Lochru
ME: Well, Lochru, how are you? I haven’t heard from you lately. What’s happening?
LOCHRU: Well, I’ve been busy. I’ve started my own business.
ME: (wondering what sort of business a Druid would be starting) Well, you have me wondering. What sort of business would a Druid be starting?
LOCHRU: Amway, my friend. That’s why I’m calling. How would you like a six-figure income without ever leaving home?
ME: I’m not really interested.
LOCHRU: (Laughing) Whoa! Hold on. That’s what I said. But then I took a look, and these folks are amazing. I’m making money so quickly, I have several checks I haven’t even had time to cash yet.
ME: Let me stop you. I really am not interested...at all.
LOCHRU: I thought you’d say that. So, if I can’t interest you in becoming part of my down network…
ME: Down network? What, are you selling ducks now too?
LOCHRU: (Laughing) Steve, my friend, you always did have a keen sense of humor. But, let me continue. The real reason I’m calling is to see if you know anyone at Lite 98.
ME: Well, I have met Bill Bevins. Why?
LOCHRU: I’ve written a song of the season, and I was hoping they would play it.
ME: You’ve written a Christmas song?
LOCHRU: Heavens no. Christmas is so, so, well, it’s so commercialized. We Druids view this as a very sacred season. It’s Alban Arthuan, you know.
ME: No, I didn’t know.
LOCHRU: Well, it’s very special, and for eleven months a year I really miss my homeland, but this time of year, everyone becomes so Druidish, albeit a bit commercialized. Anyway, as I was window shopping at Short Pump Town Center the other day, I got the idea for a beautiful song. Would you like me to sing it to you?
ME: Yeah, go ahead.
LOCHRU: (demonstrating a very beautiful voice, I might add)
It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan,
Everywhere I go
Just when we thought it was dead and done, Here again comes the sun
And so we put up our mistletoe.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
The Father Sky God in every store
But the prettiest sight to see is the old yule log that will be
Burning brightly just inside my own front door
It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
Try and describe it and the words will fail ya
Nothing can be so gay, as when we give each other gifts that day
Oh how much I love the good ol’ Saturnalia.
Da Da Da De Da Da Da Da Da
ME: Are you done?
LOCHRU: It needs a little work, but all in all, what do you think?
ME: It’s lovely.
LOCHRU: Thanks. So, can you help me get it on the air?
ME: Sure, sure. I’ll try.
LOCHRU: You’re a pal. Let’s do lunch one day real soon. Byeee.
Anyway, the truth is, I don’t know Bill Bevins at all. So, I’m hoping you can help out. If you know him or someone else there, can you put me in touch? I’d be so grateful. You know how much I hate to disappoint Druids.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Patience Of Jobs
As I was standing in the checkout line at Food Lion the other night, a thought hit me. Now, before I go on, I ask, please that you not ridicule me for shopping at Food Lion. It’s almost as good as a grocery store, and it is convenient.
Anyway, I was standing in the checkout lane, and I noticed, standing nearby, a security guard. The guard was an older gentleman, but that didn’t bother me. I’m one of those myself, except, perhaps, for the gentleman part. But, what caught my eye about this guard was the pained look on his face. He was also standing very rigidly. Even that didn’t bother me too much. I didn’t feel his pain, and, since I’m often accused of having a pained look on my face when I’m perfectly fine, his face wasn’t the problem.
Here’s what did bother me…the security guard was bracing himself on a cane. Admittedly, it was one of those fancy modern metal canes, you know the kind that has four little feet instead of just one rubber tipped stick. But it was, still, a cane. Now, I’m sure that this guard is a fine man, probably even a loving great-grandfather. And, I’m sure that if the situation warranted it, he would vigorously hurl his cane in the direction of any intruder. I’m even somewhat impressed that a guy who needs a cane to get around had enough gumption to apply for a job as a security guard.
But, how did he ever get the job? Why did he think he could get hired as a security guard? It’d be like Stephen Hawking applying for a position as a swim coach. Perhaps if Food Lion ever hires swim coaches, there might be a place for Hawking.
But it’s not just crippled security guards that puzzle me. There seem to be any number of positions filled by individuals who are incredibly unqualified, or just downright unsuited for that position. Take the staff at my doctor’s office (please) for example. My doctor is a wonderful man…caring, compassionate, all those things you’d want in a doctor. And, since he’s just one doctor in a huge practice, I doubt he has much influence on personnel hiring. But his staff is composed of the most uncaring, obnoxious, arrogant women I’ve ever met. I’m not being sexist. All of the support staff with whom I’ve dealt are woman and 90% of them are routinely rude to the patients.
While I know my doctor to be a caring sort of guy, I don’t get the impression his staff shares his concerns. In fact, I feel confident that if I were to walk into the office with a gaping whole in my chest and my heart dangling by an artery, the first thing his front desk receptionist would ask is if I have my insurance card on me. Then, after a fifteen minute wait for her to photocopy my insurance card, for the fifteenth time this year, she would sigh and say, “Let me see if we can work you in, you great big imposition, you.”
Why would anyone apply for a job in a doctor’s office if patients are an intrusion to them? I believe these gals are convinced that their main duty is to sit around the office and gossip with their fellow ignorer of patients.
One of these women called me yesterday to tell me that, based on a recent EKG, I need to see a heart specialist. “I’m not dying, am I?” I asked in one of those half-joking, half-really-needing-assurance sort of ways.
“Well, we all have to go sometime,” she says, in one of those half-joking, half-yes-you-are-dying sort of ways. Do you see what I mean about being the right fit for the job?
This is not a new phenomenon. I can remember, even as a kid, wondering why some people had certain jobs. Take Smiley, the milkman, for example. Smiley was our milkman, when I was a child, living in Boones Mill. Smiley was not the guy’s real name, I don’t think. My brothers and I nicknamed him Smiley because he never smiled.
Can you imagine that? Here the guy had one of the greatest jobs of all times…delivering milk both plain and chocolate, right to people’s homes, in cool glass bottles. And, the guy never smiled. We’d yell down at him from our bedroom windows, “Hey Smiley!” He’d look up and grimace. What a horrible fit…Smiley and the dairy business.
Then there was Lonnie Amos. Lonnie was a big man. Not as big as Lonnie, Junior. Lonnie, Junior was about five years older than I. He was a humongous kid. But, word on the street was that he had some sort of metabolic disorder (I think that was the term we fourth graders were using back then) that made him fat. His mom and dad ran a little business right in town…Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop. Now, first of all, speaking of bad fits, a snack bar and a barber shop don’t really go together. When you ate a hamburger at Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop, you knew something was wrong if you didn’t find a hair in your food.
But what really made Lonnie Amos (the dad) a bad fit for the job was his nerve problem. Lonnie would cut our hair with a straight-edge razor. And, on virtually every occasion, he would tell me, “Hold real still today, my hands are shaky.” Lonnie, so they said around town, had nerve problems. Now that I’ve grown and look back on it, I’m thinking Lonnie’s nerves may have come out of a bottle. But, don’t quote me on that. I hate to speak ill of the dead. I’m not sure Lonnie is dead. But if he’s still living, he’d probably be about 105 by now.
Truth be told I’ve had some jobs for which I wasn’t the perfect fit. For about five years, I worked in customer service for Time Life. That was horrible. Every day for five years, I had to listen to other people complain all day long. And even worse than that…I had to be nice.
Anyway, I was standing in the checkout lane, and I noticed, standing nearby, a security guard. The guard was an older gentleman, but that didn’t bother me. I’m one of those myself, except, perhaps, for the gentleman part. But, what caught my eye about this guard was the pained look on his face. He was also standing very rigidly. Even that didn’t bother me too much. I didn’t feel his pain, and, since I’m often accused of having a pained look on my face when I’m perfectly fine, his face wasn’t the problem.
Here’s what did bother me…the security guard was bracing himself on a cane. Admittedly, it was one of those fancy modern metal canes, you know the kind that has four little feet instead of just one rubber tipped stick. But it was, still, a cane. Now, I’m sure that this guard is a fine man, probably even a loving great-grandfather. And, I’m sure that if the situation warranted it, he would vigorously hurl his cane in the direction of any intruder. I’m even somewhat impressed that a guy who needs a cane to get around had enough gumption to apply for a job as a security guard.
But, how did he ever get the job? Why did he think he could get hired as a security guard? It’d be like Stephen Hawking applying for a position as a swim coach. Perhaps if Food Lion ever hires swim coaches, there might be a place for Hawking.
But it’s not just crippled security guards that puzzle me. There seem to be any number of positions filled by individuals who are incredibly unqualified, or just downright unsuited for that position. Take the staff at my doctor’s office (please) for example. My doctor is a wonderful man…caring, compassionate, all those things you’d want in a doctor. And, since he’s just one doctor in a huge practice, I doubt he has much influence on personnel hiring. But his staff is composed of the most uncaring, obnoxious, arrogant women I’ve ever met. I’m not being sexist. All of the support staff with whom I’ve dealt are woman and 90% of them are routinely rude to the patients.
While I know my doctor to be a caring sort of guy, I don’t get the impression his staff shares his concerns. In fact, I feel confident that if I were to walk into the office with a gaping whole in my chest and my heart dangling by an artery, the first thing his front desk receptionist would ask is if I have my insurance card on me. Then, after a fifteen minute wait for her to photocopy my insurance card, for the fifteenth time this year, she would sigh and say, “Let me see if we can work you in, you great big imposition, you.”
Why would anyone apply for a job in a doctor’s office if patients are an intrusion to them? I believe these gals are convinced that their main duty is to sit around the office and gossip with their fellow ignorer of patients.
One of these women called me yesterday to tell me that, based on a recent EKG, I need to see a heart specialist. “I’m not dying, am I?” I asked in one of those half-joking, half-really-needing-assurance sort of ways.
“Well, we all have to go sometime,” she says, in one of those half-joking, half-yes-you-are-dying sort of ways. Do you see what I mean about being the right fit for the job?
This is not a new phenomenon. I can remember, even as a kid, wondering why some people had certain jobs. Take Smiley, the milkman, for example. Smiley was our milkman, when I was a child, living in Boones Mill. Smiley was not the guy’s real name, I don’t think. My brothers and I nicknamed him Smiley because he never smiled.
Can you imagine that? Here the guy had one of the greatest jobs of all times…delivering milk both plain and chocolate, right to people’s homes, in cool glass bottles. And, the guy never smiled. We’d yell down at him from our bedroom windows, “Hey Smiley!” He’d look up and grimace. What a horrible fit…Smiley and the dairy business.
Then there was Lonnie Amos. Lonnie was a big man. Not as big as Lonnie, Junior. Lonnie, Junior was about five years older than I. He was a humongous kid. But, word on the street was that he had some sort of metabolic disorder (I think that was the term we fourth graders were using back then) that made him fat. His mom and dad ran a little business right in town…Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop. Now, first of all, speaking of bad fits, a snack bar and a barber shop don’t really go together. When you ate a hamburger at Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop, you knew something was wrong if you didn’t find a hair in your food.
But what really made Lonnie Amos (the dad) a bad fit for the job was his nerve problem. Lonnie would cut our hair with a straight-edge razor. And, on virtually every occasion, he would tell me, “Hold real still today, my hands are shaky.” Lonnie, so they said around town, had nerve problems. Now that I’ve grown and look back on it, I’m thinking Lonnie’s nerves may have come out of a bottle. But, don’t quote me on that. I hate to speak ill of the dead. I’m not sure Lonnie is dead. But if he’s still living, he’d probably be about 105 by now.
Truth be told I’ve had some jobs for which I wasn’t the perfect fit. For about five years, I worked in customer service for Time Life. That was horrible. Every day for five years, I had to listen to other people complain all day long. And even worse than that…I had to be nice.
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