Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due

So, I’m sitting at my desk this morning, and, in all honesty, I’m coming up empty on something to write about. Then out of the blue, the phone rings. Although it’s early, I pick up the phone.

“Is this Mr. Steve Cook?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.

“Yes,” I reply honestly.

“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.

I get that instant throbbing feeling one gets as his head starts to swell. “Yes, but you can call me ‘The,’” I say.

“My name is Lochru,” he says. “And, I’m hoping you can help me out.”

“Lochru? “ I question. “Sounds rather Druidish.”

“Bingo,” he says.

“Bingo?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers. “I’m a Druid.”

“Sure you are,” I say with a certain degree of sarcasm.

“No, honestly,” he continues. “I’m Druid, actually half-Druid, half-Nordic…and half-Roman.” He laughs. “That’s an old Druid joke.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” I ask him. The Druids have been extinct for centuries.” I say. I’m not so sure that’s accurate, but I throw it out there.

“You’re basically correct,” he answers. “I was frozen for centuries at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir, and only just recently thawed out.”

Now I know he’s lying. “The Falling Creek Reservoir hardly ever freezes,” I say.

“Thin blood,” he answers.

I decide to play along.

“So, why are you just now thawing out?” I ask him.

“Global warming, I guess,” he says.

“Global warming?” I respond inquisitively. “There are many who don't believe in that.”

“Well, I guess I'm Al Gore's dream come true,” he retorts quickly.

“You seem to know quite a bit about current events for someone who’s been frozen for centuries,” I say, congratulating myself on my own quick retort.

“I read,” he says.

“So, you said you wanted my help,” I say, changing the subject.

“Yeah, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been following this ongoing debate about whether to call it a Christmas tree or a holiday tree, and whether to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’”

“So?” I ask him.

“Well,” he continues, “I heard this woman on TV say since it’s Christian, it ought to be called a Christmas tree. I have to admit, that gets my goat.”

“What do you mean, Mr….Is it Lochru,” I ask.

“Yeah, but you can call me what everyone else does, or did…back in the day,” he says.

“And, what’s that?”

“Sonny,” he answers.

“Okay, Sonny,” I say. “What do you mean it gets your goat?”

“Everybody’s talking about all these holiday festivities, but nobody ever stops to thank us Druids,” he says. He does sound sincerely upset.

“Could you explain?” I ask him.

“Hey,” he continues. “A lot of these things started with us Druids, although I admit, we stole some of ‘em from the Romans.”

“What kind of things?” I ask him.

“You know, the holly, the mistletoe, that sort of stuff.”

“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “We were big on the nature stuff. We specialized in the worship of trees and bushes and the like.”

“Tell me more.” I’m getting interested in what Sonny has to say.

“We even have a Holly King,” he explains. “He wears red, lives just one night a year, and drives a team of eight deer.”

“You’re kidding,” I say. “That sounds like…”

“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.

“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.

“Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You know, let’s give credit where credit is due,” he says. “Give us the credit for all these traditions you folks stole from us, and, in turn, I put something pretty in your stocking.”

“No thanks,” I say. “I'm not Druid.”

With that he hung up. I really don’t know whether I should even mention this or not.

My Very Special, Annual, End of the Year Report

 Well, here we are at the end of another year. Is it just me, or does it seem as if it were a mere 360-some days ago that we were welcoming in 2009? And, now, before you know it, comes the time we have to way so long, to 2009, that is.

I think 2009 could be known as the year just about everyone famous died. It could also be known as the year that global warming froze the rest of us nearly to death. It might be known as the year that Nebraska Senator, Ted Nelson, determined that the life of an unborn child is worth about 45 billion. (okay, that one is a little obscure, but worth noting) It definitely could be known as the first year in American history that we had a president whose last name ended in a non-silent vowel. Talk about your diversity, eh.

When you think about it, this whole New Year's thing is just a very well accepted excuse to drink more than you should, kiss people you shouldn't, and make promises that you obviously will not keep any more faithfully than the promises you made a year ago.

There's nothing especially special about January 1^st. It happens to be the beginning of a new month and the month begins a new year, but it's just a somewhat arbitrarily chosen date. The Jews began their new year in the spring. The Chinese celebrate the new year, well, gee, I can't remember when, but they do it in bed. No wait I'm mixing their New Year's up with their cookies.

And, if I were well versed on such things, I could probably go on and on about when other cultures celebrate New Year's. But, I'm not, well versed that is. So, I'll just shut up about this.

But think about all the hubbub that centers around New Year's. Think of the tons and tons of trash and garbage that's left behind when Times Square revelers stagger home in the wee hours of 2010. Think about how stupid it is to stand outside in freezing temperatures to watch some neon lit “apple” slowly slide down a pole.

Think about how you sit around the TV trying to figure out what in the world Dick Clark has just said. I bet that even after he's dead, Ryan Seacrest will be standing alongside Clark's casket in Times Square, counting down the seconds 'til the ball drops.

It's all pretty ridiculous, don't you think? You wake up January 1^st, many doing so with massive hangovers, and you look at the calendar and you say, “Yeah, it's January 1^st. And you go back to bed. Nothing really is any different. True, you won't really break any of your resolutions until you sober up, but, to be sure, you will break them.

After that, nothing much is any different. It could be 2009, or 2008, or 1978, except you look so much older than you did then. It's just a number. It's just another day. As the immortal Peggy Lee once asked, musically, “Is that all there is? Is that all there is?” Yeah, Peggy, that is pretty much all there is.

You know every year I write a column about this. And no one pays attention. No one says, “Steve, you know, you're right. I'm not going to make a big deal about New Year's.” It's all very frustrating. But, I know how to put an end to my frustration. I'm making a resolution that next year I won't write a column about the absuridity of New Year's. I sure hope I can stick with this.

The Best Story You'll Ever Read About Ukrop's

The story I'm about to tell you is true. The names have not been changed. I'm only writing it because I want to keep you up to date on Ukrop's Grocery Stores. You know how much I love 'em.

The rumor is, and this is strictly hush hush, that Ukrop's is about to sell out to an Ahold. In fact, it's a Royal Ahold. Ahold USA is the American arm of Netherland's based Royal Ahold, the largest grocery chain in the Netherlands.

I'm not surprised that Ukrops would sell to an Ahold. They've done some interesting things through the years. Now, I know this will tick many Richmonders off. Ukrop's is more of a shrine than a grocery store to many FFVs (fat, flatulent Virginians). They don't sell alcohol because of their Christian principles. Now, I've raised the question before, and I'll raise it again...now. In that picture of the Last Supper, I saw Jesus and his Apostles drinking wine, but which ones in the group are enjoying a good after-dinner smoke? I can't find 'em. I don't even see an honest-to-goodness ashtray in the picture.

Also Ukrop's has had a strict CLOSED ON SUNDAY policy. Again, it's their Christian values. However, word is that now that the local foodstore chain has hit on harder times, they're thinking about opening on Sunday. You see, according to the Bible, you're only supposed to observe the Sabbath when you're operating in the black. Bible principles are based on the bottom line, not on the rightness or wrongness of the action, itself. And, as an aside to you purists, truth is, Christians were never told to observe a Sabbath, and if they did, it would have been Saturday, in line with the Jews, to whom a Sabbath law was given. Why a Sunday sabbath, unless you just love them good ol' southern sun-worshipping Romans, who did know how to throw a good party, especially in December.

So, when you see such contradictory principles at work, I'd say the next logical step is to sell out to an Ahold. Now how will these Ahold folks be different? Well, when the Aholds bought Giant Food in the D.C area, they kept the Giant name. They updated the stores, but kept the name. Most Ukrop's are in pretty good shape. Although it is true that the restrooms in their Cary Street and Staples Mill Road locations only have one toilet, and no Ahold would sit for that.

So, the name we love, no make that the name we venerate, remains. The stores, if anything, get better, and, for sure, we can shop on Sunday and maybe even, if no one is looking, buy a bottle of wine or a can of beer. So, you decide, who is better, the Ukrops or the Aholds?

Sizzling Hot and Delicious

You probably thought, from the title of this post, that I was going to step forward and admit that I, too, have been involved with Tiger Wood.  Nope. Sorry to disappoint, but my lips are sealed on that matter.

What I do want to tell you about, as I wrap up my Door County blogs, is the good ol' fashioned Door County, Wisconsin Fish Boil. Now, for you boil novices, that term may sound like some nasty growth on your body, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Here's the scoop, which comes from reliable sources:  The fish boil began years ago as a quick, economical way to feet hungry lumberjacks. Before long, it had become so popular that church groups and other organizations were sponsoring them. And, as the fish boil became more and more of a tradition in this fantastic Wisconsin community, many of the restaurants began featuring the fish boils.

In the summer months, there are several local dining spots that hold the boils. However,   there are only a couple spots that I know of that continue them year round. Last Friday night, I had the pleasure of being on hand for one such said boil at the White Gull Inn in Fish Creek. 

The night was cold. Actually, it was downright frigid. The windchill was probably near zero. That's probably why most of the restaurants discontinue the boils during the winter. But the cold weather didn't seem to bother master boiler, Tom Christianson, who, when we first arrived, was outside preparing the boil in his shirt sleeves. As the night air grew colder, he did put on a light jacket.  As for me, well I was bundled up with every piece of clothing I had taken on the trip tied around some part or another of my body. Yes, my briefs around the ears were a little disconcerting to some. But that problem was taken care of when Jon Jarosh, the publicity coordinator, TV personality, and all-around good guy for the county's Visitor's Bureau, loaned me his Packers ear warmers, or whatever you call that piece of material I had wrapped around my head.

Back to the boil. Christianson has prepared the fire in the outdoor pit, just outside the restaurant. Whitefish steaks are in one pot on the fire, with potatoes below.  The boiler then adds his "pinch" of salt, which, I am told is about a pound of salt for every two gallons of water. The salt is not for taste. Rather, it raises the gravity of the water, or some other such Mr. Wizard nonsense. I'm just repeating what I've heard here. Anyway the salt causes the oils that are coming out of the fish, to rise to the top of the pot.  

After the fish are boiled and all the oils are out and floating on the top, the fun begins. Christianson has what looked, in the dark, to be a big ladle.  He scoops up some kerosene and tosses it, no, not into the pot, but onto the fire. The result is leaping flames that raise the fire temperature to over 400 degrees. This causes the oils in the pot to boil over onto the ground. With an end result, delicious, oil-free fish (but more about the fish in a moment)

The flames leap out towards the crowd. I'm thinking this must be some sort of Wisconsin bikini wax, because I smell my eyebrows burning. But, with the temperature and wind the way they were, I loved this split second of blast furnace heat.

Once the fish and potatoes are done, they're served buffet style in the restaurant. I have to tell you, as a fan of fresh fish, this was some of the best down home eating I've ever done. Along with the fish and the tasty tartar sauce, come the boiled potatoes, a creamy, slightly sweet coleslaw, and, for dessert, the best cherry pie a la mode you'd ever want to sink your teeth into.

The fish boils might not be true gourmet quality, but it sure was one fantastic meal.

Well, I guess I've told you 'bout all I know of Door County for now. But, hey, I'm going back next spring. If you want to come along let me know.

More About Door - Part 3

You've probably been waiting with bated, cheese breath to learn more about Door County. And I'm anxious to tell all. I truly am not one to gush. It can be disgusting, but I digress. However, if one were to choose to gush, Door County, Wisconsin would be worth gushing for.

I live near the Chesapeake Bay, which is beautiful, but, perhaps it's the fierceness of the weather (22 below chill factor while I was there), combined with the bay and the lake that makes Door County so appealing. Of course, it's not that way in the summer. Door County has any number of beaches and summer-style vacation amenities. It truly is a boater's paradise.

Because I've always been aesthetically-challenged when it comes to weight, I have never been big on bathing suits...big in bathing suits, maybe, but I was the type who would go to the beach and jump in the ocean before any other bathers arrived. And, so as to not show my physique, I'd just stay in the ocean until sundown.  It produced a lovely prune-like affect, and saved lots of embarrassment. 

Hence, I'm a fan of weather conditions that necessitate overcoats.  I've found that overcoats can hide quite a few pounds. Now, if they could just make an overcoat for one's chins. Anyway, I digress again. The point is I love winter and Door County has plenty. Green Bay is just starting to ice up. I'm told that within the next few weeks, it will virtually, completely iced over. 

Because the area gets 100 inches or snow annually, snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, and snowmobiling are popular activities. While there, my group actually had an opportunity to ride in a two-horse open sleigh. Try doing that without singing. We couldn't.

And, as for the local folk, these are some of the friendliest people I've ever met. Sometimes on travel writers press trips there will be business people who are forced to be friendly to us (and if you've ever been with a bunch of travel writers, you know that can be a challenge), but in Door County everyone went out of their way to show us hospitality.

And, no one could have been friendlier and more accommodating than Jon Jarosh, the publicity coordinator for the county's visitor's bureau. Even though he's a Packer fan, Jon is an okay guy in my book. And, when I mentioned in a previous blog that he walks with a bounce, I wasn't referring to any cute little gait.  Jon explained to us the beauty of cherry bounce. Ever heard of it? Well I hadn't.  Actually, I've learned since the trip that even Martha Washington enjoyed a little cherry bounce. It's a cordial, but, in Door County, it's their equivalent to our corn liquor.

Let's just say Jon described it so vividly that we could almost taste it. Heck, we could even spit the pits from the cherries in the drink, just from listening to his description. Jon definitely has a way of making a description come to life. And that's all I'm going to say on that subject.

I guess I've rambled on plenty for today. But, if you're looking for a vacation spot that is almost 100% free of your traditional chain restaurants and homogenous mall retailers, if you want a spot that provides plenty of amenities, but in a get-away-from-it-all atmosphere, then I'd would whole-heartedly recommend Door County, Wisconsin. 

There's one more thing I haven't told you about and that's the ol' fashioned fish boil. Who'd have thunk fish and kerosene go so well together. I'll save this story for my final Door County report. But if you want more info, go to http://www.doorcounty.com/.

 

Door County, Wisconsin - Part 2

When I was first invited to join a group of travel writers to visit Door County, Wisconsin, my first response was, "What's Door County."  I'd hardly heard of Wisconsin, much less Door County, but I was assured by a representative of the PR firm sponsoring the trip that I would love it.

Yeah, right. Have you ever known me to love anything?  Besides my sparkling repartee, that is? Well, I'm on my way home after spending three days here in Door County, and I'm quite upset about this whole thing. The problem is that I don't have one thing to complain about or to ridicule. How am I supposed to do my job under such intolerable conditions.

Everything about the trip, except for the two hour delay at Richmond International, and, oh yeah, the $40 roundtrip luggage charges that Delta has, but beyond that, this was a perfect trip. I really shouldn't complain about the luggage charge. After all, those 12 peanuts they gave me cost something, not to mention the space age packaging they come in.

But, back to my trip...Door County is beautiful. Green Bay (the bay, not the city) is to the west and Lake Michigan is to the east. Door County juts up between the two bodies of water. It's a 70 mile or so peninsula that ends, to the north, at a treacherous water passage that was dubbed Death's Doorway. That's how the county came to be named. Think about it. These must be some hardy folks who celebrate the fact that their county is a great place to die. 

Truth is, these people, many of whom are either Scandinavians, Icelandic, or Cheeseheads, are tough, rugged, and yet exceptionally friendly individuals. They'd give any southerner I know a run for his or her money when it comes to hospitality. They also have some of the best restaurants I've ever visited. 

And, as for the scenery, absolutely gorgeous. I don't use that word very often. It just isn't a manly word and, as you know, I'm a manly man in a manful sort of way. Of course, I'm not as manly as Jon, from the county's Visitors Bureau, but I'll tell you more about him later. He's a guy who walks with a bounce, but I'll explain more about that as well.

I can't go into more detail  right now because I'm sitting in the airport in Green Bay (the city, not the bay), waiting to catch a plane. I have a little bag of Wisconsin cheese in my carry on.  I'm going to take my seat, fasten my belt, and eat my way into oblivion.  But stick around, there's a lot more about Door County I have to tell you.

My Wisconsin Trip - Part 1

I'm on my way to Door County, Wisconsin. And, at the moment I'm waiting in the Detroit airport for a flight to Green Bay. Go Vikings!

Here's something you may not believe. I wouldn't have had I not seen it with my own eyes...the airport here in Motor City is one of the nicest I've ever seen. There are people movers everywhere, so if you're exceptionally lazy, or a hypochondriac, or both, as in my case, you can travel throughout this huge place without actually having to put one foot in front of the other. And, if that's not enough, about 15 feet above the walkway, there's a tram to carry you wherever you want to go. Except it doesn't go to downtown Detroit. I don't think that was such a stupid question to ask, but, sheesh, some people have such an attitude.

My flight from Richmond to Detroit was uneventful, pretty much. It was delayed by about 90 minutes or so, but that's not so bad. Just gives me more chance to sit in a cramped seat with a little seatbelt around me and make small talk with strangers, while I try to keep my mind off of those horror stories of folks who have sat on the runway for hours. I tend to be claustrophobic, so I try not to have any panic attacks on the plane. Sometimes I just have to count from 1 to 1000 loudly in order to keep my mind off the fact that I may suffocate any moment. People seem mesmerized by my counting trick.

As we were fighting some turbulence upon landing I got to looking around the plane and thinking about how many precious lives would be snuffed out if something should happen. There was a beautiful little girl, about 4, sitting on her father's lap. I thought about her, and how she had her life in front of her.

I don't know if you know this or not, but I suffer from a mental disorder known as Acute Sympathy Syndrome. It's been voted the worst disease to abbreviate. I got to worrying about a guy named Michael. No, Michael wasn't on the plane, but his boss was. And the boss was typing a document that I couldn't help but read closely as I sat behind him. Seems Michael is making more than he's worth. He's an accountant, somewhere in Virginia, and he was making $65,000, then all of a sudden the guy's making $95,000. I thought about how proud his wife must be. Little does she know that Michael will probably be getting the boot within a day or two. I worried about Michael and his wife, and his two precious children who look up to him each evening when he comes home and who say, “Hi Daddy. We missed you. Will you carry us on your back.” Pretty soon Michael can spend the entire day carrying the little tykes around on his back.

Then there's this guy next to me, across the aisle. He's the type that as soon as the plane lands, he gets on his cell phone and talks so loudly, you'd think he must think the cell phone is kind of a glorified tin can with a string that you have to yell into. I wasn't feeling sorry for this guy, let's call him Tim, at all, until he said something that bothered me.

“Have you found anything in Florida,” he screamed to someone on the other end of the line. “Something's turned up on my end.”

Ouch, I'm thinking. Is it a tumor? A boil? “It's pretty big,” he says.

Double ouch! Now I can't stop worrying about him.

Then to further complicate things for an Acute Sympathy Sindrome sufferer, as I was walking through this really neat tunnel in the airport (the walls turn colors and cool, mood music plays), I saw three guys with the word DEPUTY emblazoned on the backs of their jackets. I got to thinking how cool it would be if they were transporting a criminal. Then I saw him. The criminal.

But, then I got to feeling sorry for him. Everyone in the whole place was staring at him. How terrible. He was just a young guy. Why do people have to be so cruel? As I was staring at him, he turned and looked at me. “I care,” I mouthed to him, the way Acute Sympathy Syndrome sufferers are wont to do. He flipped me the bird.

So, at least that helped me with my condition. Well, I guess that's enough for now, but I did want to keep you informed. I know you're following my every step with baited breath, and many of you are living your lives vicariously through mine. I'm not sure what that means, but I've always wanted to use the word, “vicariously.” So, there, I've used it. Talk to you later.

All the News That Fits this Little Box

I've been seriously trying to decide what to do about my online column, sometimes pronounced “blog.” While I definitely have an opinion on just about everything, those opinions include one that tells me that most of you don't really care what I think. That's only fair, since I really don't care what you think.

Okay, that was just me being cool. Truth is, I do care. So I've decided that instead of just presenting my opinion of life's daily events, I'd just simply report the news and let you make your own decisions. So, here goes, my first in what I hope will be literally years of news reports without any personal opinions thrown in.

First story, and this is one I like to call a potential widow-maker, did you hear that an iceberg is headed right for Australia? True! I mean we're talking about an entire, virtually civilized continent, facing something that could destroy all life as we know it. Ted Turner is probably already predicting eventual canibalism there.

Anyway, these Aussies have themselves a potential disaster. I don't know what an iceberg would do if it rammed into a country, but I can only think that it wouldn't be pretty, except to persons, who, like myself, love to chew ice. My question is, where's Al Gore when you need him. I think those Australians should be pretty much hoping for global warming right now. I may be wrong about that, though, because I just read that one climatologist has claimed that global warming could cause more icebergs.

I can't figure out how that works, but, hey, I'm no climatologist. One thing I do know, though, is that I sure would hate to be global warming. It gets blamed for just about everything. In a way, I guess I can relate to that, so, while this is not an opinion, I can say that I do feel sorry for it.

In another story, that may somehow be blamed on global warming, an ambulance crew in England dropped this fat guy they were carrying and killed him. I don't think that's an accident, to be totally honest. I think if there's one group of people who are discriminated against these days it's fat people. And, having watched Biggest Loser for the past few years, I have come to the conclusion that fat people are people, too, and should have the same rights as regular people. Sure they're fat, but some of them, when they take off a ton or two, are downright pretty. Maybe this guy was really good looking and could have contributed something to society, but we'll never know because those ambulance guys in England couldn't care less about him and the rest of obese society.

And, finally in today's news, my heart goes out to Mario Flores. Flores, 37, of Long Island, was stuck in a cesspool for 4 hours. He was rescued, but really, by that point, what's the use. It does remind me of the story of the guy who fell into the cesspool and began crying, “Fire! Fire! Help me!.” I'm sure you've heard it, so I won't bore you with the punchline.

Anyway, how did I do? Pretty opinion-free, wouldn't you say? Well, if you like it, stick around. I may make this my new career. I mean, Paul Harvey's dead, so somebody has to do it.

The Nightmare Continues

Okay, so where were we?  Oh yes, I had regaled you with the events of Thursday night at the Quality Inn in Syracuse. Just the thought of 4 glorious days in Syracuse, New York must thrill you beyond words. I had mentioned that despite our room problems, primarily the 32 degree temperatures in the room, the manager was very kind and assured us that all we needed to do was to phone Priceline, have them phone her, and, voila!, we would be credited for our first night's stay.  

Oh yes, before I move on, I will as politely as possible inform you that the toilet in the bathroom of our room wasn't working properly. The manager assured us that she would make sure that was cared for. That was very much appreciated. I'd rather sleep in a 32 degree room and have a working toilet, than have a nice, warm room and an unflushable toilet. Call me old fashioned, but that's the way I roll. So to speak.

As my wife and I headed over to her grandparents' home, she decided to call Priceline. I'm sure the clever customer service people there have cleverly designed a system that, at least half the time, results in the caller hanging up and shooting him- or herself  before he/she ever gets to speak with someone.

But my wife is tenacious. After about fifteen minutes a real live human comes on the phone. What more could we have asked for? Okay, it would have been nice if said human spoke English, but I don't want to be too picky.

"We had a problem with our room last night," my wife tells someone who could very well have been Osama Bin Laden's wife for all I know. And, if she is, that might explain a few things. Anyway, my wife begins to relate the adventures of the previous evening, beginning with the clerk's refusal to change our room to non-smoking and ending with us having awakened with icicles dangling from our noses.

After my wife's unabridged explanation, the pleasant woman says something that sounds somewhat like, "Let me see if I understand. You have left the hotel?"

"Well, we have left for the day, but we're still there," my wife explains.

"But, you want to check out and not stay the next two nights?" Masumi asks.

"NO!" my wife explains. "We spoke with the manager and she said that because we had no heat last night, she would comp us the night, but we have to go through Priceline." Clear enough, I'd think.

"Okay," Abdullette continues, "If I'm understanding you, you would like for the hotel to move you to a smoking room?"

"NOOOO!" my wife explains again. "The manager at the hotel says she will give us last night free because there was no heat in the room. She told us to call Priceline."

"Oh, I understand," Mahatma says. "Well have you spoken with the manager at the hotel?"

"Yes," my wife says, almost patiently. "She told us to call you and that if you call her she will tell you that she will comp last night's room."

"So has the hotel offered to do anything?" Sumiko asks so politely. 

"Have you not heard a word I've said," my wife explains. "The manager said that if you, Priceline, will call her she will authorize you to credit us for last night."

"Now, let me see if I have this correctly," Falafel says. "You want me to call the manager for you?"

"Close," my wife says, feeling that maybe she's getting somewhere.

"And ask that you be switched to a smoking room..." Babaghanoush states proudly.

"Can I speak with your manager," my wife explains.

"No," Affifa says. "You must call back to do that."

"Okay," my wife explains. "I'll do that."

"Before you go," Badriyah says, "Let me ask you this. Have I completely cared for your needs today?"

CLICK

After a couple more thirty minute phone calls to Priceline, I can proudly say we got our credit. And who says there is no such thing as customer service anymore.  There is more to the story, but I think you've probably had your fill for today. We'll talk toilet next time.

My Four-Day, Three-Night(mare) Getaway

I'm sitting here in my hotel room in Syracuse, looking out the window at the glowing Embassy Suites sign. The only problem is the sign is in front of the hotel across the street. I'm in a fabulous 2 star Quality Inn. I've been here one day, with two more to go. I would have told you this morning, after my experiences last night, that it couldn't get any worse. I would have been wrong.

But, let's start at the beginning. It's a very fine place to start. My wife and I came up yesterday to visit her grandmother and step-grandfather. I like them both. On the trip up, we tried some of the tricks we'd heard on the radio about negotiating for the best hotel rates. We failed miserably, so I decided to try Priceline. I'd tried it in the past, but my offers were always rejected. My brother brags about the great deals he gets, so I figured I'd give it another shot.

My first offer for a 2-and-a-half star place got rejected. So, I dropped down to two stars. Immediately, I got back a response. We had been accepted. My wife and I joined hands and danced around her grandmother's kitchen. "Two whole stars," we shouted in unison.

I should have known that something must be amiss. I mean, why would the fine folks at Quality Inn accept my $3.79 a night offer?  Anyway, we drove over to the hotel. I checked in. The place wasn't the Taj Mahal. It wasn't even the Oddfellows Hall, but it looked okay.

As soon as we walked into our cozy, little, closet-like room, the smell of tobacco gently wafted up into our lungs. After a few seconds of subdued gagging, I called the front desk. "This must be a smoking room," I said, kindly enough.

"Yes," the not so very concerned front desk guy replied.

"Do you have a non-smoking room?" I asked in my nicest nice-guy voice.

"Yes, but because you came through Priceline I can't let you have it," the guy says, relishing the opportunity to tell me that. "I'd have to charge you again and you'd get no refund on your first room."  He was in his element now.

"That's the most asinine thing I've ever heard," I said, my voice dripping with kindness. "How about that sign in the lobby that says that if something doesn't meet my satisfaction, you'll correct it?"  I thought my comment was very well thought out.

"Yeah, but you came through Priceline," he said, as if that pretty much answered my well thought out question perfectly. Evidently Priceline customers are second class citizens in the hotel world.

"This is absurd," I say.

"Here, give me the phone," my wife says. She's made a career of apologizing for me. 

"Help yourself," I say lovingly to her, handing her the phone.

Well, to expedite this thing, I'll just say that she was able to get the guy to extend to us a degree of courtesy not known in the Western World. He gave us another room and promised he wouldn't charge us.

We moved next door. The room smelled great. We brought all our luggage in, turned the hi-tech little wall air/heat unit on, and proceeded to get ready for bed.  After noticing that the rather chilly room wasn't warming up, I checked the heater. It wasn't heating up either. It was blowing cold air. 

My wife called the office. This time the caring clerk was also clever. He didn't answer. So, we just turned the heater off and slept in the cold room. Needless to say, we both survived the night.

This morning I spoke with the hotel manager. She was very kind and understanding and agreed to comp our room for last night, but, she said, we'd have to call Priceline to get them to initiate the credit to our card.  

So we called Priceline. That's when the real fun began. I will tell you more about that tomorrow. I'm tired and going to bed...not in the same room as I woke up in, but I'll save that story for tomorrow as well. Who knows? I may even have more to tell. The night is young.

IF YOU'RE LAUGHING OUT LOUD, YOU NEED HELP.

I'm not sure who started it. But, I'd love to find out, and then beat them mercilessly about the head and face. I am, of course, talking about the originator of that now famous expression, "LOL!" I hate it. Honest, I do. Please, I beg anyone who ever writes to me, comments on my Facebook, or engages in any social interaction with me, DON'T SAY "LOL," or "ROFL," which is even worse, or the granddaddy of them all, please never, ever say, "ROFLMAO." Eeeek, that one gives me the shivers.

I'm sure I've already ticked at least one someone off. But, please believe me, I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to save you from yourself. Let me try and put this as delicately as I can. Saying LOL is tantamount to admitting that you're a complete idiot with a vocabulary of a first grader (my apologies to many of your first graders).

Think about it. What does it mean? Laugh(ing) out loud. Oh really. So, you're sitting there, brilliantly commenting on what a text mate or a Facebook friend has said and you're truly laughing out loud? Really? And, pray tell me, just what are you laughing out loud about? 

Most people, I think, if I'm reading them correctly, are saying they LOLing about their own comment. Occasionally, one will simply respond to something someone else has said with an "LOL." That's not too bad, if, indeed, you truly are laughing out loud.

But, more often than not, the ubiquitous LOL will be used somewhat like this: I'll write, "I'm working hard today."

Then Mr. or Ms. Laugh Factory will respond, "Working hard or hardly working? LOL" Are you really laughing out loud at your clever retort?  Because, if so, what we probably have going on here is some sort of bipolar thing. I mean who, really, sits around by themselves, just them and their keyboard, and laughs out loud?

So, unless you really are laughing out loud, don't say it. If you don't think the recipient of your LOL humor is smart enough to know you're joking, then just don't joke with him or her. LOL is kind of like the cyber version of those old TV show laugh tracks.  

It evidently is used as some sort of primal pump to encourage the person with whom you're having some sort of online communication to start laughing.  Let me give you a little tip on humor. If you have to tell someone to laugh, or if you have to laugh to get them laughing at something you've said, you're not the least bit funny.

Gee, I feel so good, just getting this off my chest. It's something I've been wanting to say for so long, but I have been afraid of alienating friends. But, hey, who cares? Not me. 

Now, on occasion, you may worry that the person with whom they're chatting may think you're being serious and you need to warn them that you're not. For instance, suppose someone says something that is a bit of a put down, so you cleverly reply, "Yeah, and your mother wears army boots." And then you get to thinking that maybe they'll really believe that you think their mother wears army boots. And, truth is, you really don't want to cause them any lasting emotional harm, so you'll quickly add, "LOL." And, you'll feel much better.

I'm not an unfeeling person. I can understand that. So, here's my suggestion. If you're using LOL when what you're really trying to say is, "Hey, that is an example of my biting sarcasm," then wouldn't it be better to do something like this:

Your chat partner says, "I'm feeling pretty good today."

And, you, with that quick wit of yours, say, "What? Are you pretty and good?"

Don't add LOL. It would be much better to add "BS" 

Of course, one caveat here to finish things up.  If you are exceptionally clever and spend your day communicating your biting sarcasm to any and all comers, you had better watch out. It could be that your chat messages will be full of BS. LOL.

HOT AIR BUFFOON

I've been doing some thinking about the balloon family in Colorado. I'm not sure it was a pre-planned hoax. But, if it wasn't planned, they sure were quick to milk it, and then to throw it up. Maybe the balloon flight wasn't staged, but I feel pretty sure the vomiting was.

It's a sure fire way to get an interviewer to stop asking embarrassing questions. I'm guessing it's something we'll see politicans add to their repetoire of evasive measures. They'll probably have to start wrapping the President's teleprompter in some sort of plastic wrap.

Actually when you consider the absurd accusations politicans hurl at one another, it would be less offensive if they were just hurling at one another. Watch closely in the future and see if Sean Hannity doesn't have little bottles of Ipecac available for his guests.

But, once you get beyond the regurgitation, there's something else that's been bothering me about this whole event. Here's my thinking...the father and mother are pretty darn fortunate that it was just their kid that could have gotten in the balloon and not the family pet.

If a dog had been endangered, you can bet your life that that couple would have their showboating butts in jail. Every animal rights group in the country would have been up in arms.

But thankfully it was just a child. And, really what's so bad about a runaway balloon that can climb to 10,000 feet and, evidently, carry a child along. It's not like the father left the keys in the pickup, or left the gun cabinet open. Really, let's be honest. Haven't we all left our spacecraft loosely tethered to the barn door once in awhile. It happens. Big deal.

Of course, it can't be overlooked that the boy is, from everything I can see, a bratty, obnoxious kid. When you first hear that a child may be floating wildly through the atmosphere, you immediately feel shock and sadness. I guess it's not human nature to allow yourself to think that there are some kids whom you'd like to see lost in space. Or, am I just too jaded?

I hear the dad has been pitching a reality show to the networks. Here's an idea for him, and I'll give it to him free of charge. How about a series entitled Parent Gone Stupid? Must see TV, if you ask me.

FEAR OF CHECKING IN

I’m in Nashville. It’s a great city and I would come here again, for vacation. I’m surprised at how much it has to offer. But, since I’m very uncomfortable when I am not complaining, I’ll move on and tell you about my trip down or out or over or whatever.
I have no fear of flying, but I have a tremendous fear of checking in at the airport. For starters, I’m so afraid that I’ll forget my drivers license that I check my wallet about every fifteen minutes to make sure that it hasn’t gone anywhere.
But there’s a lot more that frightens me and I think the airlines are to blame for that. This trip is the worst yet from that aspect, because as soon as I got in the ticket line at the airport, some nice lady from Delta told me that I had to use one of their computer kiosks to get my boarding pass. I know that doesn’t sound so bad, but it gets worse. As I’m entering the information, I’m asked if I’m checking in luggage. I push a button to show I am checking one bag. Then this computer has the audacity to tell me I have to pay it twenty bucks. “Twenty bucks,” I scream to no one in particular, but that nice lady comes over and explains that even one bag costs extra.
“How about the use of the restroom?” I ask.
“Well, you can pay five dollars a visit, or fifteen dollars for unlimited use,” she explains.
“Suppose I don’t pay, but then I get on the plane and I have to go?”
“It’s six dollars at the door,” she tells me.
I decide to forego the restroom, and proceed to finish up the computer stuff and get my ticket. I’m afraid I’ll be asked if I was interested in paying for a seat on the plane, but happily, that’s still included in the airfare. Although they were measuring passengers’ derrieres to see if we needed to pay additionally for being over endowed.
Next I go to security to get screened and analyzed in order to get to the gate. There are two signs. One tells me that the security threat is high. They tell me it’s orange, but there’s no orange light or anything. Why just call it a color if you’re not going to show me the color?
Then there’s another sign warning me to be on guard for anyone who looks like they have swine flu. I listen for any oinking sounds. Then I get to the check in person and I’m asked if I have any flu-like symptoms.
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask me about hemorrhoids,” I say in my typically very hilarious manner.
“Wait until you get to the next guard,” the woman tells me. “We won’t need to ask.”
Ouch
I swear within a year airport check in will be a totally nude procedure. Maybe then I’ll qualify for some sort of discount.
I finally get on the plane. I’m still fuming over the baggage charge, so when the flight attendant is handing another passenger a hot drink, I try and tip her arm. I’m figuring if she scalds me, I can ask for my twenty back. She doesn’t. But she does give me a bag of peanuts. Now I know how they’re spending that twenty. No, not for the eight peanuts in the bag, but for the spaceage material that houses the peanuts. I break three teeth just trying to rip it open.
Anyway, to make a long story a little longer, I finally get to Nashville. As I said, it’s a great city. I’ll tell you more later, but I just wanted to share.

WHERE ARE HUNTLEY AND BRINKLEY WHEN YOU NEED THEM?

I've come to a painful realization. Basically, I've concluded, and I believe correctly so, that the world I grew up in has changed dramatically. "Duh," you might be saying, and I would applaud your having said that. I suppose there have been so many dramatic changes that my statement is somewhat of a no-brainer, but I'm referring to one particular aspect of the world.
Having worked for newspapers, magazines, and radio stations, I've always been particularly interested in news and news gathering. I was never a Pulitzer winning type of guy, but I think I recognize true journalism when I see it. The problem is, I rarely see it anymore.
What we have today is a National Enquirer world of journalism, and, in saying that, I may be doing a disservice to the National Enquirer. I'm guessing that there are some so-called journalists (sometimes pronounced "bloggers" or simply "morons) who probably think the National Enquirer is one of the nation's most erudite publications.
But, what used to be laughed at as inane, asanine, and imbecilic, is, today, the stuff of Fox News Alerts. I'm not picking on Fox, all of the news networks do it. Just look at the hours and hours of coverage CNN devoted to the death of Michael Jackson.
Sensationalism is the order of the day. Remember the old adage (or whatever you call those things) that "Dog bites man" is not a story, but "man bites dog" would be? Today it's not a story unless either the man or the dog chewed the other's leg off, and then disgourged it whole on camera. And then the victim, man or dog, would have a camera shoved in front of his/its face and he would proceed to weep bitterly about how losing his leg was such a crime and evidence of discrimination of some sort or another. I've even seen hurricanes and tornadoes accused of bigotry.
The only good story these days is one that can completely humiliate at least one person, even if that person (or maybe, especially if that person) is too stupid to realize that he/she has been humiliated. Today's journalists are really more opinion givers, and 99% of the time their opinion is centered around how horrible someone else is.
It's true, celebrities, athletes, and politicians provide enough ammunition for some really juicy stories, but progressively, the news gatherers find new and more interesting ways to juice up even the already pretty juicy stories. And once they get all that juice flowing they keep it flowing for days and days, or until a juicier story comes along.
Here's just one example - Farah Fawcett's battle with cancer and her relationship with Ryan O'Neil and their junkie son were big stories up until a few short hours after she died. I'm sure the media could and would have continued to milk those stories for days afterwards, except for one thing. Michael Jackson died that same day.
Immediately, no one cared about Farah anymore. I'm guessing even Ryan O'Neil was on the phone with Jesse Jackson (the sixth Jackson brother) in an effort to see how he could get some face time at the hospital or the morgue or the eighteen-hour tribute memorial or wherever.
Of course that's just one small example. It's a pattern that could contribute to the eventual, total downfall of life as we know it.
Presidents, and other politicians, have always had their detractors, but today, no human on earth will be able to succeed in office. The media is intent on destroying them. It doesn't matter if it's Bush or Obama or whomever, there will be opponents to tell you how horrible they are and polls to prove how horrible the public thinks they are.
The only thing that can keep the politicians and their scandals and other nefarious deeds off the airwaves is if celebrities keep dying. So with the fodder the politicans are producing, my suggestion is that they come up with a way to kill at least one celebrity a day. That may sound a bit far-fetched, but I'm already wondering if Nancy Grace doesn't have someone on her payroll kidnapping children.
Reporting the news has become dirty business in a dirty world. And mark my word, on the day the world comes to an end, there will be some reporter somewhere telling you that God is a Nazi.

STAFF INFECTION

You know all this talk about health insurance is really getting a bit tedious.  Some say America has the best health services in the world. That may be true, but if it is, I really feel sorry for anyone who gets sick anywhere else on this big round ball I like to call Earth.  

Now, I'll admit there are many dedicated medical professionals. Unfortunately, I don't run into a lot of them.  The truth is most of my problems have been, not with the doctors, but their staffs. I've had some horrid experiences, and apparently I'm not alone.

A friend of mine...I'll just call her Terrijo (I've cleverly changed her name to protect her identity), was telling me about an experience she had with one of those after hours doctors' answering services.  You know, the doctors hire a live person, who often is less caring than an answering machine.  I guess they're instructed not to panic, but it would be nice if they didn't give you the impression that your call was an intrusion on their nail filing.

Terrijo says she informed the phone answerer that she needed to get hold of an optometrist and that it was an emergency. She had a chemical burn in her eye.

Now, before I continue let me just interject that as she was telling me this, I was doubled over in pain. I have a low threshold for pain, even hearing about it. But, back to her problem...

So she tells the woman who has been hired, and who is, in all probability, being paid to answer emergency calls, that she has a chemical burn in her eye. She explains that her optometrist does not have an after hours emergency number.

"So, you're not a regular patient?" Miss Sympathy Galore asks my friend.

"No, but a friend of mine recommended I call you. She says you are very accommodating," Terrijo explains. That sounds nice enough, and to be honest, if my eyeball were burning, I wouldn't worry about being so nice.

"We are accommodating," Miss How Can I Help My Fellowman says, "...to our regular patients."

"Well, I have a regular emergency," my friend says. Now she's beginning to talk my language, the beautiful language of sarcasm. "And I have regular insurance and regular cash to pay for it."

"You're welcome to come in when the office opens at nine in the morning," Miss Compassion Is My Middle Name says.

Needless to say, Terrijo took her damaged eyeball elsewhere. And I thought I got poor service.  This is so typical. The staff in my doctor's office goes by the Hypocritic Creed, which says, in part, "We care about all mankind, but especially those who have insurance. No, let us correct that. We only care about all who have insurance."

If I were wheeled into my doctor's office on a gurney, with blood gushing out of my ears, and both of my arms dangling by some sinewy thread from my contorted body, I'd have to somehow reach into my back pocket, pull out my insurance card and let them make a photocopy before they'd talk to me.  

I want to make one thing clear...my doctor is very compassionate. I say that because I may be on a gurney one day with blood gushing out of my ears and I don't want him to be bringing this blog up before he stops the bleeding.

But I also want to be clear on another thing...his staff could not care less. Once I waited three days for him to call in a refill of a prescription upon which my life hinged. He never got the message. I just hope those gals in his office have an emergency  need for me to write a column for them one day. Just wait. I'll show them a thing or two.

TO ERR IS HUMAN. TO FORGIVE IS POLITICALLY CORRECT

What is wrong with you people...at least some of you, not you, personally, of course. Some of you however are just so judgmental. You know who you are and you know what I'm talking about.

For the innocents of you out there, I'll spell it out. Kanye West. I've heard so many negative comments about West, even before he had a chance to explain. Now that he's explained why he did what he did, I guess those of you who are so quick to criticize are feeling pretty foolish right about now.

But let's analyze Mr. West's apologies (and yes there were several, which, in itself proves beyond a shadow of a doubt he is sincere). But first things first...in his blog, West wrote, "I'm so sorry." Now that alone should shut up his critics. He said he was sorry. Let's forgive and forget, you heathens.  But West went way beyond that, or perhaps I should say, "he went waaaaaayyyy beyond that."  Because the rapper turned apologist actually wrote, "I'm soooooo sorry." That's right. Six, count 'em six "o"s were used.  Now a 2 "o" so should be more than enough, but this poor persecuted man used 6 of  'em. I would think in anybody's book that should settle the matter. 

In fact, I'd say that the fact that Taylor Swift hasn't come out and accepted that apology tells you more about her than it does about him. Okay, technically she accepted it, but she really should have apologized for her part in putting him in that embarrassing situation.

But, West has gone way beyond a six "o" so.  He, in effect, opened up the very essence of his being, pouring his heart out and revealing his deepest, innermost thoughts. Looking at the audience in what has to be totally genuine remorse, the young musical genius told a somewhat heartless audience, "I may need to take some time off."

What pathos.  Or maybe I should say, "What does pathos mean?" Because I don't really know. But just think about this. Here Kanye West, in the prime of an ultra-successful life, indicates that the reason he stormed the stage and grabbed the microphone from the young and somewhat snotty Swift is that the poor man is just plain tired. Not since Madeline Kahn expressed her fatigue in Blazing Saddles has anyone so eloquently come right out and admitted to having been tired.

I have to tell you, I was shedding tears in buckets last night, not just because my heart went out to Kenye West, but because even I, yes even I, had harbored some animosity towards this most gracious of entertainers.

But I'm a changed man.  Just as America having elected a non-white President has made all of us white people feel better about ourselves, so my being so forgiving of Kanye West, who is also non-white, makes me feel real good about myself.

I'm positively radiant today. In fact, I don't think I've felt so good about myself since I forgave Chris Brown. 

A PAINFUL ADMISSION

As painful as it is to admit I have an addiction, I feel that it's part of my recovery. In fact, in putting together my own 12-step program, I've decided to put, “Admitting the addiction” as step 1. I am forced to create my own recovery program, because after doing an extensive search on the web, I've come to the conclusion that Law and Order Addiction is not recognized by any reputable recovery program people or whatever you call them.

Oops, I guess I slipped and admitted my addiction before I actually got to step 1. But, it's true. I'm addicted to any version of Law and Order. I don't care who is in it, how many times I've seen it, I can't go past a channel showing a Law and Order episode without stopping to watch.

However, in recent months, I've come to the conclusion that the TV program is, in part, responsible for my violent behavior. I think it has to do with the fact that the show proclaims its stories are “ripped from the headlines.”

Do you see what I'm talking about? They could just gently tear the story from the headlines. They could even get a pair of pinking shears and carefully cut the stories from the headlines, but no. They have chosen to rip them from the headlines. It's that sort of aggressive behavior that has impacted my life in a very negative way.

For instance, when I'm driving on the highway and some lovely little blue-haired brake rider pulls in front of me, forcing me to slam on brakes and smear my Big Mac all over my neatly pressed suit, I should just smile and say, “Be careful, ma'm.” Instead, I peel out and around her, roll down my window and yell, “Why don't you check into a nursing home and get off the road, Granma?”

Yes, it may be wise advice, but I know I'm only saying it to get back at her. I'm violent and I blame it on Law and Order.

I also think the program has made me immune to the horrors of seeing dead bodies lying in the bushes. I used to shriek uncontrollably when I was playing ball with my grandson, and he would run into the bushes to fetch a ball and come back with a person's nose or finger, or whatever he could pull off. But, after watching so many opening scenes of Law and Order, I've come to the conclusion that virtually every bush has at least one dead body in or under it. So, when I stumble upon one nowadays, I simply call the police non-emergency number and report it. Tell me, is that normal behavior?

That isn't to say that watching Law and Order is all bad. It has brought my wife and I closer together, as we play what we call the Dick Wolf Moment. As each episode draws to an end, we try to be the first one to scream, “Dick Wolf Moment.” Sometimes we scream simultaneously. Those are very special nights. You know the moment of which I speak, I'm sure. You know, that last line...that last, pithy line. It's uttered and suddently Dick Wolf's name appears. I love that.

In fact, I love it so much, I'm going to go watch another Law and Order right now. This addiction might be harder to break than I first anticipated. But, I have gotten past step number one. I've admitted it. And right after Dick Wolf, I'm going to come up with step two. I promise.

GRAVE NEWS

Here's an open letter to famous people everywhere:

STOP DYING! FOR A LITTLE WHILE ANYWAY.

That about does it.

It's not that I really mind them dying, but what I do mind is the fact that the TV networks and the news channels stop the world to talk about the dead person. I could see that if it were somebody like the President or an American Idol, but not just for anybody famous.

The last few weeks, famous people have been dropping like flies. And the TV people have been all over it.  First, it was Walter Cronkite.  Seeing how the guy must have been around 116, I guess the networks were pretty much just hanging around the guy with a mirror under his nose. Because as soon as he checked out, Fox News interrupted its programming to tell the unabridged Walter Cronkite story.  The other news channels did the same thing. It's kind of like buzzards flocking to a corpse.

It was less than fascinating, although I was enchanted to learn that as a boy, he preferred grape to strawberry  jelly. I learned just about everything else the guy ever did or said. Now all human lives are of value, and I'm not one to make fun of the dead. Actually, I would much prefer to make fun of the living, when they can be aware of it, and hopefully just a little ticked off.

But the guy was just a TV news reader. He read real well and for that I commend him, but really, what else did he ever do?  I mean that impacted my life.  

Anyway, Walter was hardly settled into his casket when Michael Jackson was murdered. And all of a sudden all of those important news stories that the news channels keep harping on, ceased to matter for about 48 hours. Michael Jackson?  I'm sorry the guy's dead, but what can you say for 2 straight days about anybody being dead.

Then yesterday Teddy Kennedy dies. The funny thing is even those who spent years making fun of him, suddenly began to put wings and a halo on the guy. The networks even send camera crews and top notch reporters to Cape Cod to cover the death.  How do you cover a death?

It's not like it's a developing story, although no one has bothered to tell Fox News that. One of their cadre of blonde women gushed yesterday, "Breaking News! We're continuing to follow the death of Senator Kennedy."

Huh?  What develops? I'm surprised they didn't have a camera trained on the body to cover rigor mortis setting in.  They did have a camera at Arlington National Cemetery to show us where Kennedy was going to be buried.  That's right...a live shot of a cemetery.  They could have at least shown us the grave being dug.

 And do we, the viewers, really want a blow by blow account of everything the dead guy has ever done?  I mean we didn't care before he died. Now that he's dead, the truth is, he's even less relevant. I don't mean to sound cold, but am i wrong? I thought not.

Wouldn't it be refreshing if one news channel simply said, "Senator Kennedy died. And now on to other news..."  Anything beyond that, and I'm getting bored. Hey, I don't have that many years left myself and I sure don't want to spend them watching details on a guy's death...especially not when I could be watching Sean Hannity telling other people what great Americans they are. Now that's the sort of quality programming I'm looking for.

MY DARING ADVENTURE IN VIRGINIA BEACH

I think that it goes without saying that you all have been wondering if I was dead or something. Well, actually, I'm not. Not yet, anyway. I've just been on vacation, which, as you may know, can kill you if you're not careful.

Indeed, many daring vacationers often do foolish things, such as skydiving, or bungee jumping or something equally as stupid, that they wouldn't normally do in their offices.  I guess vacations just bring out the fool in a lot of us, including myself.

While I'm normally a pretty tame sort of guy, I guess it was something about being in Virginia Beach that made me feel just a bit daring.  Yes, I admit it. I took my life in my hands and did something that, in retrospect, I'd just as soon forget. However, I'm thinking it will be quite some time before I can totally erase the memories from my little brain.

If you're familiar with Virginia Beach, perhaps you're one step ahead of me and have already figured out what I did. But, in case you're not (familiar with Virginia Beach, that is), I'll tell you.

I went to eat at Captain John's Seafood Buffet.  There I said it.  You know, I've written quite a few articles about restaurants. I've often said that I don't do restaurant reviews, because you cans always find something good to say about just about any restaurant. Well, Captain John's is an exception to my little rule.

Have you ever been to a 50 plus item buffet and found that everything on it was horrible? I never had before. But Captain John's gets some sort of award for being truly bad. Come on and relive some of my memories with me. My first stop on the buffet was the seafood. After all, I'm in Virginia Beach, the seafood capital of the world.  I helped myself to a heaping helping of fried clams. They're not good for me, but they're oh so good. At least virtually every fried clam I'd ever consumed prior to this moment in time was good. They looked good...golden brown. But they were as tough and as dry as the cardboard in the center of a roll of toilet paper. Actually, Captain John's clams weren't as good as that. But the toilet would be an excellent place for the clams. In addition to the clams the buffet offered some sort of greasing looking nugget of fish. I knew as soon as I saw those fish morsels that this was going to be a memorable buffet. 

I also tried the steamed shrimp but they were so old and decayed that as I extracted the shelly tail, the shrimp just flaked apart in my hand.  

I put a rib on my plate, thinking maybe the non-seafood offerings would be better. Think again. Actually, the rib was just that...a rib. I couldn't find any meat on it. There was a little sliver of fat and gristle but that's about all that one could suck off the rib, if one had the audacity to try and suck the rib.

After striking out in the fish and meat department, I figured I'd have some side dishes. The corn on the cob looked good...nice and yellowy. It was also tasteless. This is corn the pigs would throw back. 

Despite the fact that I was striking out all along the buffet, I bravely tried the mashed potatoes. You can't mess those up, can you?  Now, I'm not big on instant mashed potatoes, but these had slivers of what looked like potato skin mixed in with them. I'm not sure what the skin-like substance was, and I'd prefer not to figure it out, but the potatoes were much reminiscent of paper mache. You have tried paper mache before, haven't you?

My final attempt at finding something worth eating was with the pudding. It looked like it might be either lemon or a yellowish vanilla. I can't tell you which it was. Maybe it was just a sugar pudding, because it was sweet, but no identifiable taste was apparent.

Now, there were other items on the buffet that didn't look as good as the ones I tried. After discovering that the good looking stuff tasted horrible, I decided that the horrible looking stuff, rather than tasting good, probably tasted even horribler. 

The bottom line, this $16.00 buffet had nothing on it worth eating. I mean nothing. The whole event was traumatic. My first impulse was to  declare that I would never eat again. But, I've been thinking. They say that if a horse throws you, you have to get right back on. I believe that is true. So, I'm heading on over to the Golden Corral.  I'm sure it's just what the doctor ordered.

CHU ON THIS

Now let me see if I got this right. The new Secretary of Energy has the solution to global warming? Well, why didn’t he say so in the first place. Look at the way that pool ol’ Al Gore has been slaving away, trying to end global warming, when Steven Chu, Obama’s right hand man when it comes to energy, has known all along what it took to put an end to global warming. His solution: If everyone on earth would paint their roof white, it would go a long way to ending this menace, he says.
In fact, according to Chu, if all roofs were painted white, it would be as good as taking all the cars off the roads for 11 years. I have an even better idea. Let’s take all the cars off the roads and paint our roofs white. I get chilly just thinking about how that would affect our climate.
To be honest, I think I came up with a better idea a few years ago. I published what I lovingly refer to as the Steve Cook White Paper on Global Warming.
I’m going to share my findings with you. Here’s an excerpt from my white paper:

Regarding global warming, I have 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 global warming 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 it.
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 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 him or herself 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.
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 have proved.
Now, what I haven’t been able to figure out, is how the earth’s tilting affects both sides of the 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 have it. I came up with that idea two years ago, but does President Obama make me the energy secretary? I think not. Why? Is it because of my race? I demand a beer and I want it before it gets too hot outside to enjoy it.

THIS ISSUE OF RACE COMES TO A HEAD

I’m pretty sure the world, as I know it, has come to an abrupt end. When? I’m not sure. Sometime in the past week or so, evidently...probably while I was sleeping.
No, it’s not quite Armageddon, but perhaps a precursor. You see, in the old days, in my world, when a policeman arrested a citizen for disorderly conduct, that was pretty much the end of it.
I’m sure there were some injustices back in those days. And, I’m sure there were a lot more perceived injustices. I was ticketed by a black police officer once for going around a vehicle that had stopped in front of me and was waiting to change lanes. The driver (a lovely woman, I’m sure) even waved me to go around. The policeman accused me of reckless driving because I had crossed a yellow line. I thought he was an idiot, but it never occurred to me that it was a racial thing.
Something else that didn’t occur to me, back in that old world, was to ask the President to invite both me and the police officer to sit around and drink beer so we could all get over it. Therein, my friends, is the big change, the point of demarcation between the old world and this wacky new world.
The old world, which now looks a lot more sane than it did when I lived in it, did not include Presidential press conferences that included questions about disorderly conduct charges. I blame Bill Clinton a bit. He and Monica changed the accepted topics of conversation in press conferences forever.
In the old world, the Presidents didn’t involve themselves in such mundane issues, nor did they publicly accuse police officers of being stupid, especially with no more than a TV news version of what had happened to go on. Ah, life was so good, back then, back in my old world.
One thing that has crossed over into this new world is the appearance of such big mouths as Jesse Jackson and the like. Speaking of whom, did you notice how Jackson evidently sees himself as the sixth Jackson from the way he was hamming it up on stage at Michael Jackson’s memorial service. The good Reverend is very buzzard-like in swooping down at virtually every media event.
But let’s get back to this whole thing with the police officer and the professor. Even if the officer made a “bad arrest,” as it’s been termed, why would the President invite both sides to the White House for a beer? Does that strike you as ludicrous, or is it just me? What’s next? Maybe the President will invite O.J. and Mark Furhman over for tea.
If you want to make this a race issue, then I think every black man who has ever been mistreated by a police officer deserves a beer. Maybe a six-pack should be included in this whole reparations thing.
But, is this really a race issue at all? The professor was, from accounts of eyewitnesses, hostile. The police officer arrested him. No one was beaten mercilessly. There were no racial slurs. I haven’t even heard an accusation that the officer called Professor Gates, “boy.”
The guy was taken to the jail, booked, and shortly thereafter released. When one considers all the truly brutal treatment blacks have suffered at the hands of real racists through the centuries, it doesn’t seem as if this is an event that warrants all the conversation. It would be like when that lady astronaut strapped on the diaper and went to attack the other astronaut. Suppose the media had used that event as an excuse to indict the space program or to reevaluate the space program. Where’s the relevancy?
But, what do I know? I’m just saying the world has changed. But you know, come to think of it, turning the Oval Office into a cozy little pub where persons of all races and ideologies can gather to share a brew or two, isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe it can even help the nation raise a little much-needed revenue. Hold on! I might like this new world.

I'M GOING TO TAKE THIS LYING DOWN

I’m beginning to think that I might not be famous and handsome and rich when I grow up. Now I haven’t given up completely, but it’s beginning to dawn on me that time is running out.
It's not that I’m a quitter. It wasn’t until I reached my mid-forties that I finally decided I wasn’t going to grow any taller. I kept thinking maybe I was one of those late bloomers. I always wanted to be six feet tall. Six feet sounds so debonair, so virile. Five feet, ten inches sounds so ordinary, so frumpy, especially the way I wear it.
But, anyway, I won’t be six feet. So, I have to fall back on my looks. And therein lies the problem. I’ve never been a looker, so to speak. I had about a two month window between acne and liver spots. I was never grossly overweight, but I’ve spent most of my life trying to suck it in.
As far as famous goes, that ain’t going to happen. No one has ever recognized me, except when they mistake me for someone else. And usually, I’ve discovered the people they mistake me for are even uglier than I am. What does that say? I’m not sure.
I never really wanted to be rich. I would like to be in a position where I could have some of the finer necessities in life. It would be nice to go into Food Lion and not have to stop before I get in line and count my money to make sure I can afford to buy what I’ve been putting in my cart.
But I have my health. There’s always that. Not counting the diabetes and the blocked arteries, and the arthritis, I’m virtually in perfect shape.
I have some other things going for me in my encroaching old age. No, I may not have fame and fortune, but here’s a list of the positives in my life:
I have most of my teeth. And, the ones I don’t have, only I and my dentist know about.
I have virtually zero hair growing out of my ears. Occasionally, I’ll see one small hair growing out of that little sticky out nodule on the ear. I pull it and life is good. I also have very little nose hair, and no hair growing on my back, so on the unwanted hair front, I’m in great shape.
I don’t have hideous birthmarks on my face. It may not be a pretty face, but it’s birthmark free.
And here’s the biggie that makes me special…I can hold my breath for a really long time. That’s a plus isn’t it? When I was younger, I used to pretend I was the star of a TV show where the hero’s super ability was that he could play dead. I’d pretend that the hero (me) had his lifeless-like body placed in a room with criminals who would proceed to speak freely because they thought the guy in the room was dead. As I grew through my teens, I began to realize that while the idea was fantastic, there’d probably not be many situations where people would talk with a dead guy in the room. But, while I was pretending to star in this show, I’d lie in bed, perfectly motionless (except I blinked a lot) for five minutes of so.
You know, in retrospect, that really would make for a good TV series. If any of you would like to invest in this venture, I’d be glad to come over to your house and lie on the floor and play like I was dead. I think you’d be impressed and think how surprised your friends will be when they drop in and see what they think is a dead body lying on your floor as you’re vacuuming around me.
I might not have a lot going for me, but, at least, I still have some really great ideas.

CALIBRATE, CALIBRATE, DANCE TO THE MUSIC

As you may know, I’m a totally non-political sort of guy. It’s who I am, so to speak. But, that doesn’t mean that I can’t learn from our great political leaders. As a keen observer of the news, I have been interested in President Obama’s recent comments regarding the police acting “stupidly” in the case of the black professor.

The President and myself are very much alike. We sometimes say things that, upon further consideration, we will admit should have been better calibrated. No, I’m not saying that we (the President and myself) go so far that we need to apologize, but at times a little calibration is in order. Having seen how nobly the President has responded in this situation, how willing he is to admit the need to better calibrate, I’ve done some thinking myself, and I’m going to do some calibrating…here and now.

A couple of years ago, I told you about having a truck driver run me off the road, then get out of his truck, come back to my car, open my door, yank me out, and beat me about the arms and face. Do you remember that?

Well, let me calibrate. 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 having not calibrated more effectively at the time. It’s the same one Hillary Clinton used back a year or so ago when she had ineffectively calibrated that she had had to duck to avoid enemy gunfire on a trip to Bosnia. Now admittedly, Mrs. Clinton is worse than the President and me, because she went beyond failure to calibrate. She came right out and admitted that she had misspoken. But she had a good excuse…sleep deprivation. Well, I too was suffering from sleep depravation when I had written about my encounter with the truck driver .

Anyway, I'm not here to talk about Hillary Clinton. This is all about me and the President. His willingness to admit the need to better calibrate has truly inspired me. I'm trying to get a few things off my chest.

And, in that regard, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d like to direct the following to my family. Do y'all remember how I told you that when Uncle Eddie had that seizure back in 1981, 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. But I should have calibrated the account a little better.

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. And sometimes I don’t calibrate as well as I could.

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 impact one’s ability to calibrate, you know.

WARNING: Warnings Can Be Dangerous to Your Health

My poor mother must have been friends with the most pathetic humans who ever lived when she was a girl. I know this because as I was growing up, she was forever telling me about someone she had known who had severely injured himself running with scissors. Then she knew this girl who was killed when she opened her car door before the car had come to a full stop. Evidently, the poor child had fallen under the car. Although I'm not sure just how she managed to do that.
My mother knew someone who had gone deaf sticking a pencil in her ear, and another friend of hers had almost died from stuffing kernels of corn up her nose. Then there was this friend of hers who had lost an eye just looking at a BB gun in a catalog. I’m surprised my mother lived long enough to be a mother.
The thing is, the world today is filled with mothers. Have you noticed how all the local news people never report news anymore? They just warn you about things…”Before you buy your school lunch today, stick around for our upcoming report.” “Is your cell phone giving you cancer? The answer to that when we come back.” And on and on and on.
Just today, I heard a news story that proclaimed hot dogs are dangerous. Hot dogs? Now of course we all know that the wiener is a loser as a health food. But do we really need someone telling us we shouldn’t eat hot dogs? The report went on to suggest that warning labels be put on packages of wieners. Huh?
And speaking of warning labels, look at this recent report, “Oversize clothes should have obesity helpline numbers sewn on them to try and reduce Britain's fat crisis, a leading professor said today. He also wants to see adviceline numbers attached to all clothes sold with waists above 102 cm for men, 94 cm for boys, 88 cm or size 16 for women and 80 cm for girls.”
This warning label thing could really get out of hand. For instance, what about tooth picks? Have you ever jabbed your gum with a sharp wooden pick? I have. Why wasn’t I warned that jabbing a pointed stick in my gum would hurt?
But, if tooth picks need a warning, what about dental floss. Every time I use it, my gums bleed. What sort of sadist would come up with something so sinister? That's a product just begging for a warning label.
And what about stairways? I almost tripped just going downstairs this morning. I think there should be a warning at the top of the stairs that said something like, “WARNING, failure to place your feet squarely on each landing can result in a serious tumble.”
And something else I think they should warn people about…trying to dry their hair with an electric hair dryer while lying in the tub. Who would ever imagine that could be dangerous?
I think you get the point. We’ve become so “mothered” that if someone doesn’t warn us, we automatically blame somebody/anybody for whatever happens to us. Common sense is no longer needed, as long as someone is there to tell us to “be careful.” We’re becoming a nation of sheep…very scared sheep.
Isn't it time some government agency was formed to warn us about warnings?

ADVICE YOU CAN'T BEAT

You know who I really feel sorry for? It’s that Chris Brown guy. You know, that singer from Tappahannock, who got a little carried away and beat his girlfriend, Rihanna, to a bloody pulp. Hey, things happen.
This poor guy has had to face the public humiliation of being accused of being a girl-friend beater. But, as if to pour salt in that wound, over-zealous prosecutors actually dared charge him with girl-friend beating, or whatever technical term they trumped up to get him. Is this a racial thing? I’m not saying, but you do have to wonder.
Recently Brown went to great efforts and, no doubt, at tremendous personal expense, to videotape a two minute apology. That’s 120 seconds of his life that he’ll never get back. He said he was really sorry. He said he would try and never do it again. He explained that he had witnessed domestic violence in his home growing up.
And, yet, despite all that this noble young man has done, the California court system has placed him on five-years supervised probation with quarterly California court visits. The audacity! Do you realize what this means? For the next five years, Brown will be virtually unable to beat up any of the lady-folks. And, besides that, he has to do six months of community service here in Virginia. I sure hope, if there is any justice left in this old world, that he gets two minutes of credit for that heart wrenching apology tape he did.
But wait! There’s more! Now, you’re probably thinking, hasn’t this young man suffered enough. Apparently not. Because, in a recent column in a Los Angeles newspaper, it has been suggested that this one little savaging of a young woman could hurt any chances Brown might have of EVER winning a Grammy. Unbelievable.
They don’t give Grammies for not beating women up do they? I think not. You win a Grammy for talent and for talent alone. I say if Bill Clinton can keep being president, Chris Brown should win a Grammy. In fact, I think they should just give him one as a gesture from the people who give Grammies, to say, “Hey, we feel your pain. Oh yeah, we feel what’s her name’s pain too, but we feel yours.”
I think Americans are a forgiving people. I mean look how so many rallied around O.J. following his little run-in with his wife. So, here’s my idea. I think it’s an idea that will garner Brown a much-deserved Grammy. My suggestion is that he take his apology, put it to music, and sell it. He could make bazillions. Shoot, I’d even buy that CD myself. And when it came Grammy-winning time, why there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house as Brown humbly thanked everyone, especially Rihanna, for all they did to get him to that point in life.
You know, sitting here reading this, I can’t help but be impressed with how hip I can be, even in advancing old age. Call me a problem solver if you will. Will you? And, if you have any issues that are making your life miserable, hit me up. That’s what I’m here for.