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.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, July 17, 2009
I CARE, THEREFORE I AM
People are forever approaching me and, in an effort to get to know me better, they ask, "Steve are you totally self-absorbed?" I have to tell you, I appreciate that sort of interest.
But, to answer the question, I'm not really sure what that means. If they're asking am I involved in efforts to help improve the quality of life for others, the answer is a resounding, "YES!"
I am, from what I've learned watching Star Trek, an empath. I deeply feel the pain of others. And I'm here to tell you that I am constantly meeting individuals who must have much pain because of severe emotional disorders. I'm no podiatrist, but I understand mental and emotional disorders. Today, I will address just three severe disorders that plague many of my friends and acquaintances.
First, and it's a new breed, are the fist shakers. I don't know how this got started, especially among old white guys who think they're cool, but have you ever tried to shake hands with such an aforementioned person and he holds his fist up. I guess the "cool" thing is for my fist to bump up to his fist. I don't get it. What's so cool about that.
Just the other day, I gave this guy some good news (about me, of course) and he says, "Alright!" He then puts his hand out and I reach out to shake it. But what happened is I grasped his fist. Since I'm the type that belives in the "When in Rome..." approach, I then made a fist. He was also a "When in Rome..." sort of guy, so he ended up wrapping his hand around my fist. It would have been pretty embarrassing had I not immediately realized that the poor guy had an emotional disorder. I walked away wiping a tear from my eyes. Remember, I'm an empath.
The second disorder is especially pervasive among young retail clerks. I call it the, "I can't say 'You're welcome'" disorder. You've probably seen it yourself. You purchase something at the store, and as you conclude, you politely say, "Thank you."
Now, in the old days, the clerk would have said, "You're welcome." But because this disorder has become so pervasive, the clerk will inevitibly say, "No problem."
No problem? Of course it's no problem. You're a clerk. I'm a customer. I hand you the item. You ring it up. You tell me how much. I pay it. You put it in a bag. I leave you to get back to examining the infections from your facial piercings. I don't see any problems with that. In fact, if I thought it would have been a problem, I wouldn't have gone in the store in the first place.
The third disorder is very sad. It's also very annoying. It's the God-blesser syndrome. If you've ever worked in an office, you've no doubt encountered someone who suffers from this. Some offices have three or four sufferers.
Someone sneezes and, the God-Blesser, who, I'm guessing, has a variation of Turrets Syndrome, is compelled to say, "God bless you." Why? Is sneezing such a sin that this "office priest" must bless the sneezer?
No, there's no valid reason for such a reaction. And it truly is an obsessive, compulsive thing because if one should sneeze two, three, or more times, the "god-blesser" god-blesses every single time.
Some poor souls suffer to such a degree that they're in tune to a sneeze anywhere in the building. I worked with one woman who'd get on the elevator and go up three floors to bless a sneezer. It's very distracting. In fact, if I know I'm going to have a sneezy day, I'll stay home from work.
I personally witnessed an encounter one day recently that highlighted the severity of the disorder. Here's how it went, and I'm hardly making this up:
Betty: Oh, it's so sad. Jim's doctor found a tumor and he doesn't know if it's malignant and I'm so (Betty sneezes)...
Sue: God bless you.
Betty: Oh, gee, thanks. Anyway his (Betty sneezes again)
Sue: Ha Ha God bless you again
Betty: Hee Hee, thank you. I must be allergic to something. I can't stop (Betty sneezes)
Sue: God bless you once more. Ha Ha Ha Ha
Betty: Hee Hee Hee Hee. Oh my. Now, what were we talking about. Hmm. It must not have been that important.
Sue: I think you were saying you had allergies.
I couldn't make this stuff up. Well, actually I could. But I didn't...much.
Anyway, I hope you've gotten the point. I care about the crazy people out there. I want to help them. So, am I self-absorbed? If that means being a truly, caring person, an empath, if you will, then my reply will have to be, "Guilty as charged."
But, to answer the question, I'm not really sure what that means. If they're asking am I involved in efforts to help improve the quality of life for others, the answer is a resounding, "YES!"
I am, from what I've learned watching Star Trek, an empath. I deeply feel the pain of others. And I'm here to tell you that I am constantly meeting individuals who must have much pain because of severe emotional disorders. I'm no podiatrist, but I understand mental and emotional disorders. Today, I will address just three severe disorders that plague many of my friends and acquaintances.
First, and it's a new breed, are the fist shakers. I don't know how this got started, especially among old white guys who think they're cool, but have you ever tried to shake hands with such an aforementioned person and he holds his fist up. I guess the "cool" thing is for my fist to bump up to his fist. I don't get it. What's so cool about that.
Just the other day, I gave this guy some good news (about me, of course) and he says, "Alright!" He then puts his hand out and I reach out to shake it. But what happened is I grasped his fist. Since I'm the type that belives in the "When in Rome..." approach, I then made a fist. He was also a "When in Rome..." sort of guy, so he ended up wrapping his hand around my fist. It would have been pretty embarrassing had I not immediately realized that the poor guy had an emotional disorder. I walked away wiping a tear from my eyes. Remember, I'm an empath.
The second disorder is especially pervasive among young retail clerks. I call it the, "I can't say 'You're welcome'" disorder. You've probably seen it yourself. You purchase something at the store, and as you conclude, you politely say, "Thank you."
Now, in the old days, the clerk would have said, "You're welcome." But because this disorder has become so pervasive, the clerk will inevitibly say, "No problem."
No problem? Of course it's no problem. You're a clerk. I'm a customer. I hand you the item. You ring it up. You tell me how much. I pay it. You put it in a bag. I leave you to get back to examining the infections from your facial piercings. I don't see any problems with that. In fact, if I thought it would have been a problem, I wouldn't have gone in the store in the first place.
The third disorder is very sad. It's also very annoying. It's the God-blesser syndrome. If you've ever worked in an office, you've no doubt encountered someone who suffers from this. Some offices have three or four sufferers.
Someone sneezes and, the God-Blesser, who, I'm guessing, has a variation of Turrets Syndrome, is compelled to say, "God bless you." Why? Is sneezing such a sin that this "office priest" must bless the sneezer?
No, there's no valid reason for such a reaction. And it truly is an obsessive, compulsive thing because if one should sneeze two, three, or more times, the "god-blesser" god-blesses every single time.
Some poor souls suffer to such a degree that they're in tune to a sneeze anywhere in the building. I worked with one woman who'd get on the elevator and go up three floors to bless a sneezer. It's very distracting. In fact, if I know I'm going to have a sneezy day, I'll stay home from work.
I personally witnessed an encounter one day recently that highlighted the severity of the disorder. Here's how it went, and I'm hardly making this up:
Betty: Oh, it's so sad. Jim's doctor found a tumor and he doesn't know if it's malignant and I'm so (Betty sneezes)...
Sue: God bless you.
Betty: Oh, gee, thanks. Anyway his (Betty sneezes again)
Sue: Ha Ha God bless you again
Betty: Hee Hee, thank you. I must be allergic to something. I can't stop (Betty sneezes)
Sue: God bless you once more. Ha Ha Ha Ha
Betty: Hee Hee Hee Hee. Oh my. Now, what were we talking about. Hmm. It must not have been that important.
Sue: I think you were saying you had allergies.
I couldn't make this stuff up. Well, actually I could. But I didn't...much.
Anyway, I hope you've gotten the point. I care about the crazy people out there. I want to help them. So, am I self-absorbed? If that means being a truly, caring person, an empath, if you will, then my reply will have to be, "Guilty as charged."
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
THREE THINGS I HATE ABOUT UKROP'S
Yesterday a shocking news story appeared on a Richmond website. Ukrop’s is for sale. The story may have been retracted or denied by now. I’m not keen on fact checking. Facts just get in the way of my opinions. But, anyway, the story got me to thinking about a column I wrote for West End’s Best Magazine several years ago. The column never got into print, because it was felt by the publishers that to say anything against Ukrop’s Grocery Stores would be heresy or blasphemy or some other word ending in “y.”
Anyway, I pulled the story out of the file this morning. I haven’t even dusted it off. Here now is my column, banned in Richmond, Three Things I Hate About Ukrop’s.
Well, I guess I'm treading on sacred ground here, at least among many, if not most, Richmonders. And, by the way, if you're not from or in the Richmond area, this column will mean absolutely nothing to you. But, if you are, then here goes. Like it or not, I'm going to tell you the things I DON'T like about Ukrops. Admittedly, there are things I do like. Who could not like their great customer service? And, as for their prices, well, sometimes they're substantially higher than the other guys, but generally, I feel their prices are fair. But, I’m not here to say nice things. So,here are the things I don't like. (I’m doing this in a countdown style to make it even cooler)
3. No beer or wine sales. Now, it's not that I need a can of Bud Light so badly that I get the shakes when I go into Ukrop's. But, my gripe is with the hypocrisy (more hypocrisy to follow) of claiming to be so driven by Christian ethics that they won't sell alcohol, when they'll sell you all the cigarettes you can cram in your mouth. I've seen pictures of the Last Supper. I know they might not be entirely accurate, but Jesus and his Apostles are drinking wine. I've never seen a picture of them lighting up after enjoying a good meal. I have no beef with someone who, for whatever reason, is against alcohol consumption. I don't think a person can get into trouble by not drinking alcohol. But I find it hard to understand how one can proclaim that smoking tobacco is more acceptable than the moderate drinking of alcohol.
2. No West End's Best or Chesterfield Living Magazines available. Our readers are constantly telling us they have picked up our magazines at Ukrop's. The only problem is, our magazines aren't in Ukrop's. Personally, I wish they were. But, we choose not to put them in their nearly hidden wooden racks when Ukrop's allows Style Weekly, and only Style Weekly, to be in a rack at the entrance. Why only Style? Their official answer is that they have a grandfather clause with Style. I don't understand stupid answers like that. Are they saying, "Hey, grandpa made a dumb decision and we can't change it,"? That wouldn't make any sense. It's like when companies give you the pat answer, "We can't do such and such." I always ask them if they mean they can't do it, or they WON'T do it. If you choose not to do it, then just say so. Don't hide behind a "can't." It's your company, you can do just about anything you want, within reason, of course. What really irritates me about the Style magazine deal is that the back portion of Style magazine is filled with sexually-oriented ads. And, I'm told, by Ukrop's personnel, that Ukrop's is the number one distribution spot for the weekly tabloid. That mean's this Christians-ethics-driven organization is the leading supplier of sexually-oriented materials in Richmond. No beer, mind you, but lots of sex, regardless of your personal sexual orientation. I asked one of the Ukrops brothers how he could justify distributing Style inasmuch as it contained so much filth in the magazine, especially in the classified section in the back. His reply was, "That's why I don't look in the back of Style." Hey, if you can live with that double standard, go right ahead.
1. The main thing I hate about Ukrop's is their bank. Talk about customer service...I consistently get horrible customer service at the Ukrop's banks. Okay, before someone corrects me, I know the bank isn't really run by Ukrop's, but for a company that prides itself on its customer service, and well they should, they made a rotten decision on a banking partner. I had to go into a Ukrop's last Friday, to do some banking. The bank teller was, perhaps, the most unpleasant, unconcerned, uncaring, rude human I've encountered in quite some time. I can't point to one particular thing she did, it was more just a total disdain for the customer. Instead of saying, "May I see your ID," it was "I need to see your driver's license." And she stared at it for so long, I made the off-handed comment that I was glad I hadn't been wearing my turban when the DMV took my picture. She, by the way, failed to see the humor in that. In fact, I have a feeling this woman had never seen the humor in anything for a long time.Without boring you with boring details, I will say I went to the bank with my wife to have my name added to her account. I had been in before, after my wife opened the account, but the bank wouldn't put me on the account unless she was there. Okay, I guess that makes sense. They also won't let her put my paycheck in her account. Even when we both have signed the check, they won't let her deposit it in her account. THAT doesn't make any sense.So, we go in together. We both show our ID; the woman looks at me as if she is thinking I'm some sort of terrorist. After finally deciding that I am who I say I am, she announces, "I have to get approval now."She calls some secret number where someone gives her an approval number. Now, that tells me that I'm approved. Hey, big whoop. Now, I've earned the right to let them take my money. After the approval, the woman demands to see another form of ID. I have it, but I choose not to give it to her. She's already asked for my driver's license. She's already gotten that magical approval number. So, either for the sake of principle, or because I'm a real jerk, I say I won't give it to her. I ask her why I need to do that.I'm ready for the answer. It's the same stupid answer I hear everywhere since September 11, 2001. "For national security," she tells me. I tell her I don't believe it. I tell her that I've opened accounts before without having to have two forms of ID. By the way, she was asking that the second form be a major credit card. My feeling is what right does she have to see my credit card. I'm not going to be using it at the bank. Why should I let someone else have that number? If she'd asked for my library card, I may have been willing.Anyway, she tells me in her oh-so-condescending tone, "Well, the Patriot Act is rather new. Maybe you haven't heard of it.""I've heard of it," I say. "I also remember nine eleven.""So, do you want to be added to your wife's account or not?" she asks."Nope, I choose not to," I say. I know I was a total embarrassment to my wife. I couldn't even give her a good explanation for my conduct, except to say, "I'm looking out for the little guy." How I'm doing that I'm not sure, but somehow I think I am.So, bottom line, it's basically my banking experiences that make me hate Ukrop's. But, I was able to pick up a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice before I stormed out of the store. So I guess it's not all bad.
Anyway, I pulled the story out of the file this morning. I haven’t even dusted it off. Here now is my column, banned in Richmond, Three Things I Hate About Ukrop’s.
Well, I guess I'm treading on sacred ground here, at least among many, if not most, Richmonders. And, by the way, if you're not from or in the Richmond area, this column will mean absolutely nothing to you. But, if you are, then here goes. Like it or not, I'm going to tell you the things I DON'T like about Ukrops. Admittedly, there are things I do like. Who could not like their great customer service? And, as for their prices, well, sometimes they're substantially higher than the other guys, but generally, I feel their prices are fair. But, I’m not here to say nice things. So,here are the things I don't like. (I’m doing this in a countdown style to make it even cooler)
3. No beer or wine sales. Now, it's not that I need a can of Bud Light so badly that I get the shakes when I go into Ukrop's. But, my gripe is with the hypocrisy (more hypocrisy to follow) of claiming to be so driven by Christian ethics that they won't sell alcohol, when they'll sell you all the cigarettes you can cram in your mouth. I've seen pictures of the Last Supper. I know they might not be entirely accurate, but Jesus and his Apostles are drinking wine. I've never seen a picture of them lighting up after enjoying a good meal. I have no beef with someone who, for whatever reason, is against alcohol consumption. I don't think a person can get into trouble by not drinking alcohol. But I find it hard to understand how one can proclaim that smoking tobacco is more acceptable than the moderate drinking of alcohol.
2. No West End's Best or Chesterfield Living Magazines available. Our readers are constantly telling us they have picked up our magazines at Ukrop's. The only problem is, our magazines aren't in Ukrop's. Personally, I wish they were. But, we choose not to put them in their nearly hidden wooden racks when Ukrop's allows Style Weekly, and only Style Weekly, to be in a rack at the entrance. Why only Style? Their official answer is that they have a grandfather clause with Style. I don't understand stupid answers like that. Are they saying, "Hey, grandpa made a dumb decision and we can't change it,"? That wouldn't make any sense. It's like when companies give you the pat answer, "We can't do such and such." I always ask them if they mean they can't do it, or they WON'T do it. If you choose not to do it, then just say so. Don't hide behind a "can't." It's your company, you can do just about anything you want, within reason, of course. What really irritates me about the Style magazine deal is that the back portion of Style magazine is filled with sexually-oriented ads. And, I'm told, by Ukrop's personnel, that Ukrop's is the number one distribution spot for the weekly tabloid. That mean's this Christians-ethics-driven organization is the leading supplier of sexually-oriented materials in Richmond. No beer, mind you, but lots of sex, regardless of your personal sexual orientation. I asked one of the Ukrops brothers how he could justify distributing Style inasmuch as it contained so much filth in the magazine, especially in the classified section in the back. His reply was, "That's why I don't look in the back of Style." Hey, if you can live with that double standard, go right ahead.
1. The main thing I hate about Ukrop's is their bank. Talk about customer service...I consistently get horrible customer service at the Ukrop's banks. Okay, before someone corrects me, I know the bank isn't really run by Ukrop's, but for a company that prides itself on its customer service, and well they should, they made a rotten decision on a banking partner. I had to go into a Ukrop's last Friday, to do some banking. The bank teller was, perhaps, the most unpleasant, unconcerned, uncaring, rude human I've encountered in quite some time. I can't point to one particular thing she did, it was more just a total disdain for the customer. Instead of saying, "May I see your ID," it was "I need to see your driver's license." And she stared at it for so long, I made the off-handed comment that I was glad I hadn't been wearing my turban when the DMV took my picture. She, by the way, failed to see the humor in that. In fact, I have a feeling this woman had never seen the humor in anything for a long time.Without boring you with boring details, I will say I went to the bank with my wife to have my name added to her account. I had been in before, after my wife opened the account, but the bank wouldn't put me on the account unless she was there. Okay, I guess that makes sense. They also won't let her put my paycheck in her account. Even when we both have signed the check, they won't let her deposit it in her account. THAT doesn't make any sense.So, we go in together. We both show our ID; the woman looks at me as if she is thinking I'm some sort of terrorist. After finally deciding that I am who I say I am, she announces, "I have to get approval now."She calls some secret number where someone gives her an approval number. Now, that tells me that I'm approved. Hey, big whoop. Now, I've earned the right to let them take my money. After the approval, the woman demands to see another form of ID. I have it, but I choose not to give it to her. She's already asked for my driver's license. She's already gotten that magical approval number. So, either for the sake of principle, or because I'm a real jerk, I say I won't give it to her. I ask her why I need to do that.I'm ready for the answer. It's the same stupid answer I hear everywhere since September 11, 2001. "For national security," she tells me. I tell her I don't believe it. I tell her that I've opened accounts before without having to have two forms of ID. By the way, she was asking that the second form be a major credit card. My feeling is what right does she have to see my credit card. I'm not going to be using it at the bank. Why should I let someone else have that number? If she'd asked for my library card, I may have been willing.Anyway, she tells me in her oh-so-condescending tone, "Well, the Patriot Act is rather new. Maybe you haven't heard of it.""I've heard of it," I say. "I also remember nine eleven.""So, do you want to be added to your wife's account or not?" she asks."Nope, I choose not to," I say. I know I was a total embarrassment to my wife. I couldn't even give her a good explanation for my conduct, except to say, "I'm looking out for the little guy." How I'm doing that I'm not sure, but somehow I think I am.So, bottom line, it's basically my banking experiences that make me hate Ukrop's. But, I was able to pick up a jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice before I stormed out of the store. So I guess it's not all bad.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY BLAH BLAH BLAH
Okay, today really is the first day of the rest of my life. I'm going to lose weight. I'm going to take my work seriously. I'm going to treat people better. I'm going to be an all around great guy. Really.
Oh, so you're thinking, "Hey, haven't we heard that before?"
And I'm thinking, "Hmm, are you supposed to put quotation marks around thoughts?"
But to get back to what you're thinking. The answer is, "yes" you have heard me say the same thing before...hundreds of times. But this time is different. And, even though I said "this time is different" several times before, this time I really mean it. And yes, I have even said, "This time I really mean it," before, but you gotta believe me.
I've never said, "This really, really, truly, honest to gosh, really is the first day of the rest of my life," before. So, you see there. I'm one step ahead of you.
But all seriousness aside, I really am going to become a better person. I've had a life-altering experience. Just yesterday, I came this close (picture me holding my thumb and index finger about an inch apart) to death.
What happened, you're wondering, and I know you don't have to put quotation marks around wonderings. Well, I was getting ready to change lanes on the Interstate yesterday. I looked through all my mirrors and even turned around and looked, just like they teach you in driving school when you are sent there to keep from getting a ticket. Anyway, I was sure no one was behind me. So, I switched over to the passing lane.
At the instant I did so, a commercial on the radio played a horn blaring sound. I froze. I kind of did a swerve here and swerve there sort of tactical maneuver, which proved to me that if there had been someone behind me, I'd in all likelihood be very dead today. I didn't handle it well at all.
But, you're thinking, "Steve, if there really was no car coming, you wouldn't be dead."
To which I have to reply, "Yes, you're right. So, there is another reason, I almost died."
And that reason can be summed up in one word, "I was scared to death." Or almost so.
Which brings up the real reason I'm writing all this. Have you ever said, "I was scared to death"? If so, you weren't were you? You see, you couldn't really say it if you had been. I used to say it a lot. But after yesterday I got to thinking that I had better stop saying, "I was scared to death." And I figure as long as I'm going to work on that, I may as well work on my weight and my job and my personality. So you see, today really is the first day of the rest of my life.
Oh, so you're thinking, "Hey, haven't we heard that before?"
And I'm thinking, "Hmm, are you supposed to put quotation marks around thoughts?"
But to get back to what you're thinking. The answer is, "yes" you have heard me say the same thing before...hundreds of times. But this time is different. And, even though I said "this time is different" several times before, this time I really mean it. And yes, I have even said, "This time I really mean it," before, but you gotta believe me.
I've never said, "This really, really, truly, honest to gosh, really is the first day of the rest of my life," before. So, you see there. I'm one step ahead of you.
But all seriousness aside, I really am going to become a better person. I've had a life-altering experience. Just yesterday, I came this close (picture me holding my thumb and index finger about an inch apart) to death.
What happened, you're wondering, and I know you don't have to put quotation marks around wonderings. Well, I was getting ready to change lanes on the Interstate yesterday. I looked through all my mirrors and even turned around and looked, just like they teach you in driving school when you are sent there to keep from getting a ticket. Anyway, I was sure no one was behind me. So, I switched over to the passing lane.
At the instant I did so, a commercial on the radio played a horn blaring sound. I froze. I kind of did a swerve here and swerve there sort of tactical maneuver, which proved to me that if there had been someone behind me, I'd in all likelihood be very dead today. I didn't handle it well at all.
But, you're thinking, "Steve, if there really was no car coming, you wouldn't be dead."
To which I have to reply, "Yes, you're right. So, there is another reason, I almost died."
And that reason can be summed up in one word, "I was scared to death." Or almost so.
Which brings up the real reason I'm writing all this. Have you ever said, "I was scared to death"? If so, you weren't were you? You see, you couldn't really say it if you had been. I used to say it a lot. But after yesterday I got to thinking that I had better stop saying, "I was scared to death." And I figure as long as I'm going to work on that, I may as well work on my weight and my job and my personality. So you see, today really is the first day of the rest of my life.
Monday, July 13, 2009
A BFF IN NEED IS A BFF INDEED
So Paris Hilton is narrowing down the field in her search for a new BFF. I have to admit, and I don't think this is simply an age-difference thing - but isn't that last "F" in "BFF" supposed to mean "forever"?
And didn't she just pick a BFF a year or so ago? I know the English language is constantly changing, but I'd think forever should mean considerably more than a year or so.
Now, I haven't watched the new season. I didn't watch the first season, except for the thrilling climax. And, I'm sure half the nation was tuned in and turned on for that. But my guess would be that there would hardly be anyone who'd want to sign up to be a short term BFF. Imagine the humiliation of being dumped by Paris Hilton.
Now, of course, I may be overlooking some important factors. It could be, and I believe this is totally possible, just from watching Ms. Hilton on TV, it could be that she's just so deep and profound, that even being her Best Friend Forever for a week or so would be too mentally challenging to miss the chance to be selected by her.
I would love to just sit and pick that girl's brain some day. She's definitely got some gray matter, I'm guessing.
And, you know what? I think she might find me equally mentally stimulating. I mean those of you who know me, know how much I enjoy deep, thoughtful discussions on such things as why weathermen never get it right. Or, why apparently sane people continue going back to Food Lion. Or how the gas stations are clever enough to make you think $2.50 a gallon is a great deal.
Paris and I could share a few laughs over that one, I'd think. I believe that I should have applied for the position.
I can just see the two of us jetting across the globe, discussing the McNeil Lehrer report and trying to figure out which one is dead. I used to have the same problem with Huntley and Brinkley until they were both dead. That helped a lot.
Some people would scoff to think that two people who, on the surface, are so different, as Paris and I, could have become BFFs. "She just wants you for your looks," some would suggest. But I think not.
I think we could make quite a team. For instance, I could regale her with the fact that two of my favorite TV shows are Mental and the Mentalist. "That's so ironic," she would laugh.
To which I would respond, "I never knew just what ironic meant, but I think you're right."
We could discuss fashion trends. I would ask her to critique my choice of plaid polyester pants delightfully paired with a black and white flannel shirt. "How do you like my sandals and black knee-high support socks," I would ask her sincerely.
"Couldn't you just get lost in my eyes?" she would respond in great depth.
I know I'm getting on a tangent here. I'll try and control myself. Actually this blog is going in an entirely different direction than what I had anticipated when I began.
But, now that I think of it. I believe Paris Hilton could truly be my BFF. That is until I decided to dump her.
And didn't she just pick a BFF a year or so ago? I know the English language is constantly changing, but I'd think forever should mean considerably more than a year or so.
Now, I haven't watched the new season. I didn't watch the first season, except for the thrilling climax. And, I'm sure half the nation was tuned in and turned on for that. But my guess would be that there would hardly be anyone who'd want to sign up to be a short term BFF. Imagine the humiliation of being dumped by Paris Hilton.
Now, of course, I may be overlooking some important factors. It could be, and I believe this is totally possible, just from watching Ms. Hilton on TV, it could be that she's just so deep and profound, that even being her Best Friend Forever for a week or so would be too mentally challenging to miss the chance to be selected by her.
I would love to just sit and pick that girl's brain some day. She's definitely got some gray matter, I'm guessing.
And, you know what? I think she might find me equally mentally stimulating. I mean those of you who know me, know how much I enjoy deep, thoughtful discussions on such things as why weathermen never get it right. Or, why apparently sane people continue going back to Food Lion. Or how the gas stations are clever enough to make you think $2.50 a gallon is a great deal.
Paris and I could share a few laughs over that one, I'd think. I believe that I should have applied for the position.
I can just see the two of us jetting across the globe, discussing the McNeil Lehrer report and trying to figure out which one is dead. I used to have the same problem with Huntley and Brinkley until they were both dead. That helped a lot.
Some people would scoff to think that two people who, on the surface, are so different, as Paris and I, could have become BFFs. "She just wants you for your looks," some would suggest. But I think not.
I think we could make quite a team. For instance, I could regale her with the fact that two of my favorite TV shows are Mental and the Mentalist. "That's so ironic," she would laugh.
To which I would respond, "I never knew just what ironic meant, but I think you're right."
We could discuss fashion trends. I would ask her to critique my choice of plaid polyester pants delightfully paired with a black and white flannel shirt. "How do you like my sandals and black knee-high support socks," I would ask her sincerely.
"Couldn't you just get lost in my eyes?" she would respond in great depth.
I know I'm getting on a tangent here. I'll try and control myself. Actually this blog is going in an entirely different direction than what I had anticipated when I began.
But, now that I think of it. I believe Paris Hilton could truly be my BFF. That is until I decided to dump her.
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