The Steve Cook Report

WHY CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG

2010-07-24T08:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm going to start this thing off with a little story from my boyhood. Stick with me here. I'm going somewhere with this. I was about seven years old, growing up in Franklin County, down in Southwestern Virginia. Now these were the days before civil rights, you have to keep that in mind.

On Saturday mornings, my mother would take my two brothers and me to the movie theater in Rocky Mount, the biggest town in the county. They had a kiddie show on Saturday mornings. She would let us out, go get her hair did (sic) or something and come back and pick us up.

Well, this one Saturday morning, I was sitting in the theater and the movie must have been especially boring because I got to looking around and I notice there's an upstairs to the theater. I doubt I had ever heard the word, "balcony." Anyway, I figure that this upstairs would be a neat place to watch the movie, so I go out into the lobby and start up the stairs. Now there are two ushers (white, of course) standing there and they stop me and ask me where I'm going. I tell them I want to go upstairs to watch the movie.

They look at each other and laugh, then the older guy says to me, "That's for the coloreds." I turn around and storm back into the theater where my brothers are sitting. I'm steamed. I sit down and whisper to my brother, "Why do they treat colored people better than white people? That's not fair."

I don't know how long after that it was that I realized that it was the other way around. Because in those days, blacks were treated like second class citizens. It was "those days" that Shirley Sherrod was talking about in her speech to the NAACP, even worse days for her personally.

So, where am I heading? It's this, despite the fact that Sherrod's story was more about how she learned to stop hating white people and start hating rich people, the truth is, she has some racist leanings. At least to this extent, she feels that whites have not always treated her right. And she's right.

You know what, I think there have been times when I've been mistreated because of my race. And, I bet anyone of you who is honest enough to admit it, would say the same thing.

Racism does exist. To some degree, it exsists in most of us. But I think intellectually most of us recognize that despite what went on decades ago, today most people are treated relatively fairly, not totally fairly, but mostly so.

Hence, I think most of us, black or white, or whatever shade we may be, would not try to stir up racial tensions. I would like to think that if I spoke at a gathering of the NAAWP, I wouldn't dwell on how I've been mistreated by blacks. Come to think of it, I don't think I'd speak before any organization that is just for "white people."

While I believe Shirley Sherrod is not some advocate of black power, I think she still harbors a lot of resentment. I might too if I were in her position, but the truth is, the government has taken pretty good care of her, up to last week that is. Her salary has been paid by a nation of taxpayers who are, if my calculations are correct, about 85% white.

And if it weren't for reactionaries in leadership positions, she would still be feeling pretty secure in that government job. That's a lot more than many of us can say, white or black.

Mrs. Sherrod spoke of taking the white farmer to one of his own kind - that white lawyer. It's pretty clear that she still holds to that basic belief. And, in my opinion, making someone "one of your own kind," or "one of those people," based upon the color of their skin is pretty racist. I may be wrong, because I'm not even sure what the real definition of a racist is. I think whoever comes up with a definition makes it exclusive of how they personally feel.

I think Mrs. Sherrod has racist tendencies. She may think I do. Neither of us would see it in ourselves. So, I'm not trying to sound superior to her, not like that ol' white farmer did, as she put it.

After the events of this past week, the people I feel the sorriest for are the comedy writers in Hollywood. They could never come up with stuff as good as the media and the government is acting out on the world stage. No matter how outrageous and shocking Hollywood may try to be, Washington has 'em beat.

Other than that, I'm not really sure how I feel about the Shirley Sherrod story. I do think she has a great name for a song. But, other than that, I guess my main assessment is this: No racist ever stands so tall as when she stoops to help a white man.

A REALLY CHEESY WAY TO RERUN AN OLD COLUMN

2010-05-27T14:53:00.000-07:00

I came across a column I'd written about 5 years ago while I was in China. The thing that struck me had to do with my willingness to show my papers while in a foreign country. I don't think it's so wrong to ask that of aliens, except, of course, aliens from other planets who are superior life forms and who could easily shoot beams out of their eyes and kill us if we asked for papers. I think they should kind of be given a free pass.

Anyway, just to show that I'm not some sort of hypocrite, I'm rerunning that column below. I will say one more thing. When I first wrote this, I ticked some people off. I really didn't mind doing that. So, if you're ticked off now, please keep in mind that I don't care. Other than that, I'm a good guy, and no hypocrite.

HERE GOES:

To Live and (Almost) Die in China

It’s difficult to even type on my keyboard right now, as I reflect on my somewhat life-threatening ordeal I have just come through here in Communist China. My adventure began after passing through immigration and customs at the Guangzhou railway station. As we prepared to leave the station, my business partner and I were stopped by a man who asked us where we were going. The man wasn’t wearing any type of uniform, but being a little unsure of what to expect (I had heard the horror stories), we quickly gave him the name of our hotel. I’m ready to hand over my papers, but before I can do that, he then runs and grabs another guy and says he’s obtained a taxi for us.
He quoted a price, which seemed a little high, but, hey, we’re newcomers in town, so we agree that if the fare would be no more than the amount he’d quoted, that was fine. He and the other guy then grab our bags and head down the steps. We’re following closely behind as these two men, along with luggage careen through an area in a deserted part of the station that appears to be under construction, and into an adjoining restaurant. We’re right behind them, running through the restaurant, around the tables, past the booths; diners staring at the sight of two Americans chasing their luggage.
We leave the restaurant and enter a small parking lot. This doesn’t seem like it would be the place to catch a cab and I’m starting to get a little suspicious; but again, we’re in a whole new world. One of the guys starts packing our luggage into the trunk of a fairly modern Toyota. The car has no markings to indicate it is a cab, nor is there any driver’s I.D. posted in the car. I’m getting a little panicky, but figure by this point, if these guys weren’t on the up and up, it was just a matter of whether they’d kill us in the parking lot or in some predetermined out-of-the-way spot.

The first guy who approached us gets in the front passenger seat, and the other guy is sitting behind the wheel. The first guy says, “I’ll take my money now.” I go ahead and pay him, hoping that he’ll just make this quick and painless.

He takes our money and hops out of the car. The cab driver starts the engine and immediately becomes a raving maniac. He’s weaving between cars, trucks, bikes, motorcyclists, pedestrians, honking his horn, gunning the engine and slamming on brakes…somewhat simultaneously.

My traveling companion, Rob, observes that it doesn’t appear the driver has the foresight to realize that if he changes lanes, he’s only going to have to almost immediately change again because of traffic blocking the lane he’s just changed to. I think the guy just doesn’t care. It’s like playing a video game. The driver takes one obstacle at a time and moves on to the next.

But my mind is on more important matters. I’m sitting there wondering how I can prevent our murder. I’m pretty positive that we’re about to meet with foul play. We pass a policeman in his cruiser. I think maybe I can use some sort of international symbol for, “Hey, I think I’m about to be murdered.” Being unable to recall that particular hand gesture, I contemplate taking my shoelaces out of my shoes and strangling the driver. I’m sitting right behind him and, from reading a good many mystery novels, I think I know how to pull it off. The only problem is that I’m wearing loafers.

So, I begin to determine if I could quickly grab him by his hair and slam his face into the steering wheel. Now keep in mind, I wouldn’t do that until he, the driver, made the first move. But, as soon as it looked like he was ready to kill us, I was ready to spring into action.
I was halfway daydreaming and worrying at the same time…daydreaming about crushing the driver’s skull and worrying that I might not grab his head just right and end up only irritating him. I was also wondering just what that first move on the driver’s part would be and would I recognize it in time. After all, when it comes to killing a cab driver/kidnapper, timing is everything.

All of a sudden he starts shouting and slams on the brakes. This is it, I’m thinking. He’s making his move. I came that close to grabbing his head and slamming it, when I realize he’s shouting at a school kid who has come running out in front of the cab. I was so unnerved that I decided that should anything happen the driver could go ahead and kill me. I just wasn’t up to any head-slammings.

Within a few minutes we pull up to the hotel. The driver gets our luggage out of the trunk and drives away. I have to admit I’m relieved, but slightly disappointed. I’ve always wanted to be on CNN and this was probably my best chance.

Later in the day, when I confess to Rob that I was on the verge of killing our cab driver, he admits that he was trying to figure out what he had on him that he could use to defend us. “I figured he (the cab driver) didn’t have a gun,” Rob said, “but, he might have a knife. I was trying to decide what I had in my pocket that would be a good match for a knife.”

Fortunately, neither of us had to kill anyone…on this particular day. And, for that I’m very grateful. I’m also grateful that I lived to tell the story, but, just barely. Besides, did I mention that there were no seatbelts in the cab?

DON'T YOU JUST LOVE CUSTOMER SERVICE?

2010-05-25T10:04:00.001-07:00

I'm just sitting here by the computer, so I figured I may as well write a blog. I'm on the line with a customer service guy from Comcast's help desk. So, as you know, I'm going to be awhile.

I stopped by my mother's house (bless her heart) because her phone, I assumed, was off the hook. No such luck. There was a big problem. At least that's what the guy is telling me.

He, the phone guy, seems utterly at a loss to understand. He's had me pulling plugs and resetting buttons for about a half hour. When I tell him that we still didn't have service, he just sighs. I think I hear him weeping. I get the impression he's never encountered a phone problem before.

Finally, after a series of tests he runs from there (ain't technology wonderful),he tells me that this problem is so bad, he's going to have to call someone at the phone company.

"Aren't you the phone company?" I ask him, politely.

"No, I mean, someone from the, uh, the, um, oh what do you call them?" he asks me.
"The service department?" I suggest.

"Kind of. Oh, let me think. Um, er, uh, oh yeah, the troubleshooting people."

Sounds good to me. He's going to call the troubleshooters. So, he puts me on hold. Finally after about ten minutes, he comes back on the line. "This is a big problem. I can't even explain it," he explains. "We're going to have to call you back."

So, anyway, I wait about a half an hour and my cell phone rings. I answer.

"Hello, Mrs. Ford?" the voice asks.

"No," I reply honestly.

"Are you sure, you're not Mrs. Ford?" the man asks as if maybe I have forgotten.

"Never have been," I say. I think that's a cute way of putting it. "Who are you?"

"I'm the guy from Comcast," the guy from Comcast says. "I got mixed up on who I was calling."

"I bet that happens a lot," I say to him pleasantly.

"Hold on a minute," he says nicely. "I have to figure out who I'm talking to."

"I can tell you that," I offer. "The name is Cook."

"Okay, hold on," he says. "Let me verify that."

Finally after about five minutes, he comes back on. "Is this Cook?" he asks.

"No, I'm Mrs. Ford," I say. I quickly tell him I'm joking, because I'm not sure the guy can handle the pressure.

"Well, Mr. Cook," he says, "this is a big, big problem. I've never seen it before."

"Wow, we feel special," I say.

"Our modems never cause us any problems," he assures me. "But yours has gone retrograde on us."

"Don't you hate it when that happens?" I ask. I really want to know.

"We're going to, er, have to , um, you know, get someone from, the er,..."

"Troubleshooting department?" I offer.

"Yeah, but the guys in trucks. What do you call them?" He is very nice.

"The mobile troubleshooting department?" I'm full of good ideas for names of departments.

"Yeah, maybe," he says. "Anyway, I grabbed the first open appointment. They can come on the 26th."

"You mean tomorrow?" I ask.

"Hold on," he asks, politely. "Let me see. Okay, today is the 25th, so that means that, er, um, the 26th, would be, well, it would be tomorrow."

"Can you make it any sooner?" I ask. "My mother is 85 and has heart problems." Once in awhile I actually tell the truth.

"Oh gee, I don't, er, I'm not, well, hold on."

"Okay," I say. I'm also polite. I think that's when I started writing this.

Anyway after a minute he comes back on. "Okay, Mrs. Ford," he says.

"No, Cook," I say.

"Oh yeah, Mrs. Cook..."

"No, Mr. Cook, but you can call me Steve." I am very polite

"Well," he says, "someone will have to be there all day."

"Tomorrow?" I ask

"No, today, but let me recommend that for only four dollars a month, your mother can get the WPS. I think that would be good." He is trying.

"Good for her heart?" I ask.

"No, it's a wire protection service. It's in case the wires go bad," he continues.

Before I can ask what that has to do with anything, he adds, "Of course, that's not the problem this time."

"I think my mother already has WPS," I say.

"Is that a heart condition?" he asks.

"No, it's wire protection service," I inform him.

"Yeah, that would be good. Let me confirm that..."

Anyway to make a long story short, I think he's going to send someone from the troubleshooting on wheels department to come out today. Or else, they're going to Mrs. Ford's.

IN THE BEGINNING...

2010-05-21T23:01:00.000-07:00

Although that dad-blasted Pullitzer Prize has somehow eluded me for lo these many years, I was able, this week, to get an interview with someone that’s pretty important in the scientific community right now. Of course, I’m talking about Synthia, the first man-made living cell, or so I was informed. Synthia, while just a newborn cell, is a fascinating lady and I’m happy to share that interview with you.

ME: Synthia, thanks for speaking to me by phone. This is pretty exciting stuff, isn’t it? And, by the way, may I call you “Synthia”?

SYNTHIA: Well, I guess you’re going to have to because that’s all there is to my name.

ME: Really? I guess I didn’t realize that. You mean you don’t have a last name?

SYNTHIA: Well, let’s just say that “Synthia” is my professional name. You know like Madonna or Cher.

ME: Cool. Or like Lindsey, huh?

SYNTHIA: Who?

ME: Lindsey. You know, Lindsey Lohan.

SYNTHIA: Well, Steve, it’s not like Lindsey at all, because you had to tell me her last name. Lindsey Lohan isn’t known by just “Lindsey.”

ME: Well, I think if you said something like, “Lindsey is a famous young movie star who gets drunk and likes girls,” people would know about whom you were speaking.

SYNTHIA: Well, of course. But if I said, “Thomas was a famous inventor who is responsible for the light bulb,” you’d know about whom I was referring, wouldn’t you?

ME: Sure. Thomas Jefferson.

SYNTHIA: You numbskull. Thomas Jefferson was not an inventor.

ME: I assume you’ve never been to Monticello. He was quite the inventor.

SYNTHIA: Well, okay, maybe so. I’ve only been in existence for a couple of days. I can’t know everything, but my point is that…

ME: Potato, potato

SYNTHIA: What are you talking about?

ME: It’s just an expression. I say “potato,” you say, “potato.” Let’s just agree to disagree so we can move on.

SYNTHIA: Okay, but if you’re going to be writing this out, “potato” and “potato” look the same.

ME: I don’t think you give my readers the credit they deserve. Perhaps we weren’t created by some fancy scientists, but we know “potato” when we see it. But, moving on. You’re a brand new life form created by some humans or something, right?

SYNTHIA: Well, not exactly. I’m more of a goat germ that turned into a cattle germ. It’s all very technical. I’m not sure you’d understand it.

ME: Well, you know what happens when you assume, don’t you?

SYNTHIA: That wasn’t funny the first time I heard it, which, come to think about it, this is the first time I heard it.

ME: Don’t be fooled. I have a pretty good idea what you’re saying. I do some experimenting in the kitchen. Like this one time, I took some feta cheese and mixed it with bleu cheese. That’s kind of like what you’re talking about, isn’t it?

SYNTHIA: Actually, Steve, to put it in laymen’s terms, you’re an idiot.

ME: Potato, potato again. But, tell me this. Do you know why the bleu in bleu cheese is spelled so weird?

SYNTHIA: Steve, I think I need to go back to the test tube and lie down. You’re really very tiring?

ME: Intellectual discussions can do that. They give me a headache sometimes. You know, right down where my sideburns are, but usually only on the right side of my head. Like when I went to see Somewhere in Time, I got nauseous trying to figure it out. Anyway, this has been fascinating, but I think I have enough words for my column. Thank you so much for helping me to enlighten my readers. And if I may say it, “Happy birthday.”

SYNTHIA: No, I don’t think you can say that. But thanks for having me.

JUST ANOTHER DAY IN MY ADVENTURE-PACKED LIFE

2010-05-18T04:45:00.001-07:00

So I go into the bank yesterday, to open up a new account. That's the best way, I've found, to balance my checkbook...just to open a new account every few months.

Anyway, I go into the bank and, you might say, I'm loaded for bear. I know how difficult these banking people can be and I'm ready for them. I've even written down some pretty snappy replies to hurl back at them when they start making trouble for me.

I'm sitting there, looking pretty stupid, if I say so myself. That's the best way to catch them offguard, just look stupid until you open your mouth and start spewing brilliance. And the young lady looks me right in the eye and says, "May I see some identification?"

"I knew it!" I exclaim.

"Excuse me," she says, acting like if she's all innocent and stuff, and pretending she has no idea what I'm talking about.

I'm ready for that. I pull out my notes and after a few seconds of searching for the right place, I retort back to her, "Where do you think we are, Arizona?" I came up with that one myself.

"I'm sorry sir, but I do need to see your I.D." She's good, I'm thinking. A little too good, if you ask me. To my disbelief, I wasn't able to shake her off her game. But, there's more in my mental arsenal. So, I look down at the paper again and find the exact right thing to say.

"That's racial profiling," I exclaim indignantly.

"But sir," she says, "I'm also white."

I admit I hadn't written down anything for that, but I'm quick, mind you, so I think for a minute or two (during which time the two of us are just kinda staring at one another) and then I say, "Yeah, sure, but you're not as white as I am."

"Very few are," she replies.

"Okay, I give up," I say. I admit it, this girl is good. I go ahead and hand her my drivers license.

Anyway, she starts punching in some numbers on the computer. I notice she's deceptively kept the screen turned so I can't see it, but I'm pretty sure she's pulled up some dossier that the bank and the government have put together on me. You do realize that all the banks in this country are controlled by the Obamas, don't you? I forget where I read that, but it was on the Internet, so it's pretty right on.

Since I believe that the best defense is a good offense, I speak up as she's pretending to enter some information on the screen. "I can explain that unpaid doctor's bill," I say.

She just looks at me as if I'm the crazy one. "Ha," I think. Actually, it may have been, "Ha, ha." She knows good and well what I'm talking about and I'm realizing that if I'm going to get the bank to let me give them my money I better do some talking and pronto.

"The doctor didn't do a very good job," I explain. You'd think that would settle it, but this girl is a tough cookie.

"I'm not sure I understand," she says, her eyes burning holes into my face. I'm starting to sweat profusely, and I don't mind admitting it.

"It was the doctor," I continue. "I always pay my doctor's bills," I explain. "But that doctor, no way. I think he took advantage of me while I was sedated."

Now that's not exactly true. Because actually, I was never sedated. But it's the in vogue thing to claim when you want to get out of a bill. I got the cable TV people to give me a $25.00 gift certificate by using that very same line. So, I'm feeling pretty good at this point. Although, the woman at the cable place wasn't nearly as good as this girl.

"Well, let's save that discussion for another day," she says.

I'm thinking that maybe she's hitting on me, so I wink at her.

She gives me this puzzled look, probably playing coy, so I give her another wink, then another with the other eye.

"Can I get you a tissue?" she asks.

"No, just my toaster oven," I reply.

"I'm not following you, sir," she says.

Admittedly, that line hasn't worked since the early sixties. Why dont' banks give away toaster ovens anymore?

"Nevermind, " I say.

"Okay," she smiles at me. "All you need to do is just sign here and we'll be done."

"Is signing this going to obligate me to pay that doctor's bill?" I ask. "Because, I won't do that. He took advantage of me." A good liar never forgets his lies. I stay on point and even if it's not working on her, I'm feeling pretty good. I heard an actress on TV this morning say something about feeling good in her skin. I think that's me.

Anyway, I digress. This banker lady pretends she doesn't even understand. "No sir," she says. "It's just your signature to protect you."

I start to point out that there's no way signing my name is going to protect me, but over the course of the past fifteen minutes, this well-trained agent for the bank/U.S. Government has worn me down. I sign my name. Count out my initial deposit of three dollars and 37 cents and head on out. It's a small victory, I'm thinking, but, nonetheless, it is a victory for the little guy.

PEOPLE, LET ME TELL YOU 'BOUT MY BEST FRIEND

2010-05-16T07:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure who it was that came up with the old saying, "Dog is man's best friend." Maybe, Ben Franklin, but don't quote me on that. Anyway, whoever it was, I'm pretty sure he didn't check with the dogs on that. And, I can tell you positively that I know one man with whom dogs are not best friends. That man, as you may have guessed, is me.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't hate dogs. Some of them I really enjoy. My wife has a really great black lab, Toby. I get along fine with Toby, but best friends? I hardly think so. For starters, we have so little in common. He likes to sniff my groin. I have no intention of returning the favor. The only thing, really, that the two of us have in common is that we both sleep with my wife.

That wasn't exactly my idea. It's something the two of them worked out. Sleeping with a dog is not something that I would ever choose to do, except maybe if I were stranded in the Arctic and needed the warmth. Even then, I would have to decide how much I truly wanted to keep on living.

Actually, my wife has two labs. Toby is okay. He's a pretty loyal dog, although his breath leaves something to be desired. But Tory, the female, would definitely not qualify as a passing acquaintance, much less a best friend. I don't know what my wife loves about that dog. I suggested one time that we not keep Tory. She loves to dig under the fence and run away. She howls all night long, and she whines constantly. And the dog is even worse.

Anyway, all seriousness aside. I asked my wife about giving Tory away, perhaps to someone we really didn't like all that well. "Oh no!" my wife exclaimed. "We couldn't get rid of Tory. Toby would miss her too much."

"So, let me see if I understand this," I said to my wife. "Toby is your pet and Tory is Toby's pet?" See didn't see the humor in that.

But, just talking dogs in general, I'm not really sure how one could conclude they were man's best friend. For instance, my idea of a best friend is not one who equates my carpeting to a roll of Charmin.

Have you ever put on a pair of socks that were soaked in dog drool? Disgusting! What best friend would do that?

Have you ever had to apologize to your neighbors because your best friend had just picked up their cat in her teeth and shaken it nearly to death? In my little world, best friends don't let best friends go through that.

And, it's not just me. I'm sure Toby and Tory don't consider me their best friend either. Friendship is based on trust. And those two don't trust me at all. For instance, they've been in the house for ten years. In those ten years, I have never attacked them with the vacuum cleaner. And yet, every time I turn the vacuum on, they yelp as if their lives are in jeopardy and run out of the house. I try to reason with them. "Hey," I say, "it's just the vacuum. It's not going to hurt you." But they act as if I'm speaking Greek to them.

My idea of a best friend is someone who can sit down with and share a drink at the end of the day. Toby and Tory's water bucket is disgusting. Two or three sips from that is the best I can do.

And I refuse to join them in drinking from the toilet. There are basically two reasons I would never drink from a toilet. Number one...and number two.

So, as far as truly bonding with dogs goes, it just ain't gonna happen. I'll pat them on the head. I'll throw 'em a bone, but this being best buds is out of the question. Besides if I were going to choose a non-human as a best friend, I know what I'd choose.

Yes, I already have a best friend. It's always there for me, ready to immediately respond to my most basic needs. It brings me so much joy without asking hardly anything in return. Of course, as you may have guessed, my best friend is the remote. It's always there at my side, at my beck and call, and best of all, it never sniffs my groin.

THE QUESTIONS OF AN OLD MAN

2010-05-11T03:13:00.001-07:00

Contrary to popular opinion, I read. And, unlike Sarah Palin, I don't mind telling you what I read. When it comes to keeping up with the news and staying informed on world events, there is, of course, no finer online source than Wikipedia. Virtually everything I've ever needed to know comes from either reading Wikipedia or watching the Andy Griffith Show.

Hence, it should come as no surprise that someone who keeps up with world and national events as keenly as do I, should occasionally have some questions about what's going on in the world. There's so much controversy these days, so much bickering and name-calling. It's all so much fun, but it does leave me scratching my head, as well as that really hard-to-reach spot right under that bone at the top of your back that sticks out. I'm not sure what it's called. But right under there itches quite a bit.

Anyway, I figured that maybe some of you, out there in what I like to call Virtual Reality Land, might be able to help me out. You know, give me some answers to those tricky questions. So, here goes:

1) Some people are saying that the new Supreme Court nominee is gay. When a blogger posted that on the CBS website, a lot of people got really upset with the blogger. CBS even took the blog down or at least eliminated that line. Wikipedia wasn't clear on that one and Andy is just too old to ask these days. Anyway, if being gay is no more unacceptable than being left-handed (that's what I've read and heard numerous times), why do people get so upset when they or someone else might wrongfully be accused of being gay? You see, I'm openly left-handed. I came out of the closet back in the first grade (where I had been kissing a first-grade girl, I add proudly). But, if I were right-handed (you know, normal) and someone accused me of being left-handed, I don't think I'd be so upset about it.

Here's an experiment to try on your friends. Go to one of them whom you know is right-handed and suggest that they might be left-handed. See how mad they get. You'll have to admit, especially if you try this at home, that my question is a valid one.

2) Even the mention of the subject of my next question gets some people up in arms. But, I'm going to come right out and mention it...illegal immigrants. There I said it. I'm really not so sure why so many are so upset about the new Arizona law. Many are suggesting that the police will use it as an excuse to abuse immigrants or even natural-born Americans who are of Hispanic descent. My first question on this subject is, why assume the worst? With all the attention called to the law and the possible abuses attached to it, I'm pretty sure that the police in Arizona are going to realize they're under a microscope here. My guess is that even any who might be prone to abuse will bend over backwards (figuratively speaking) to avoid any possibility of an accusation.

Secondly, why all the uproar about about showing papers? Every time in the last twenty years or so, that I've started working for a new employer, I've had to show papers and I'm the most American looking person in the world, if you consider pasty-white as being American. There have been times when I didn't have my papers on me. Never has an employer slapped me around. Now, I've been slapped around by employers, don't get me wrong, but never for not having papers. I always went down to the paper-getting offices and got new papers. I never thought about getting other pasty-white people together and protesting. I just did it. So, why all the turmoil?

3) My last question is kind of about immigration as well. I'm just wondering why these days everything has to be in Spanish. If I use an ATM, or call some customer service department, I have to choose "1" for English. Once I had to choose "2" for English. That really steamed me. If I were in Mexico, I could see choosing "2" or even "3" or "4" or "10" for that matter for English, but, hey this is the United States of America.

I don't think I should have to be forced to read stuff in Spanish if I don't want to. I got a new electronic gadget the other day. I think it was one of those new-fangled alarm clocks. Anyway, I opened the instruction book and my first thought was, "why is this book so thick just for an alarm clock?" Anyway, I started reading the instructions and nothing was making any sense to me. I got alarmed (get the pun). I'm thinking what's wrong with me? Why can't I understand simple instructions? Then I realized that I'm reading the Spanish instructions. The English instructions were on the other pages. I had to turn the instruction book upside down and backwards to read English. Seems to me that, at the very least, the Spanish-speaking people should have to turn the book upside down and around. But, I won't protest that just now.

Why has it come to this? If our forefathers had been troublemakers, just think about it. Pepsi bottles would be in English, Italian, German, Greek, and probably Spanish as well. Instruction books for the rabbit ears would have been too big to pack in the box the ears came in.

Were those immigrants of yesteryear mistreated? I don't think so. I think they came over here and realized that if they were going to make it, they had to learn English. I guess they feel foolish today. If they had waited about 80 years or so, they could have avoided that ordeal altogether.

Anyway, those are my questions. Please don't hate me for asking them. I'm not some sort of bigot or racist. I'm just a poor old man with questions and what's so wrong about that?

O Versus the Volcano

2010-04-19T19:52:00.001-07:00

President Obama wanted to go to Poland, to attend the funeral services for that country's President, who, along with his wife and 95 others perished in a plane crash last week. He really did. After all, that's what Presidents do for one another.

And, obviously, no one can blame Mr. Obama for that Icelandic volcano. Well, I guess there are some who might try and blame him. But, we all know the cause is, yes, you guessed it, global warming.

But, anyway, back to the President. After that dad-blasted volcano put an end to his travel plans (to the funeral), Obama did what any self-respecting President would do. He turned to his own religious rituals. Yes, since a trip to Poland was out of the question, our President payed homage to Poland's President by playing a round of golf.

Golf is a rather religious event to many. It's where throngs of the faithful spend their Sunday mornings, often engaged in prayer, it would appear. And, while I don't know politics from a hole in the ground, it does seem that many Presidents have been devout, practicing golfers.

Indeed, there are many similarities between golf and other religions. The Catholics have their confessions. Golfers have their mulligans. They're kind of similar, don't you think.

The Catholics have their share of scandals. Golf has Tiger Woods. Do you see a pattern here?

Keep in mind, I'm not mocking. This isn't a case of blasphemy. I'm simply defending the President. Some have criticized him for playing golf, when he was supposed to be at a funeral. My point is that Mr. Obama did turn to his religion for some degree of solace. And it's a form of worship in which he has proven to be more devoted, more spiritual, if you will, than just about any President that's putted before him.

While some have been unduly rough on the President's choice of worship, I think I have chosen the fairway to look at it. I think Mr. Obama is to be lauded for the depth of his devotion. As soon as he realized that Jeremiah Wright was wrong (approximately 20 years), our President converted, abandoning a course that had guided him for years, for another coarse in life. And, while I am very apolitical, I can only say well done, sir. It's no wonder that I've heard so many, especially on Fox News, referring to Mr. Obama as a fore-year President.

They Don't Shoot Horses, Do They?

2010-04-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

You know how when you're watching a Western movie (in this era of political correctness) and the horses fall down, and at the end of the movie there's this disclaimer, "No animals were injured in the making of this movie." You know what I mean?

Now, when you see that do you feel all fuzzy inside and thank the powers that be that those horses weren't tripped up or anything? I used to do that too. I used to walk out of the movie house and be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, "Steve, you'd never want to see a horse hurt, would you?" And then I'd answer myself and say, "No, I wouldn't." It was all very upbuilding to me.

But I started thinking. If they are not knocking horses down or tripping them up, then what's happening. I don't think it's some sort of Shrek-like computer animation. I think the horses are being made to fall. Now, maybe they can train a horse to fall on cue. But, even so, how do we really know that no horses were injured? I'm thinking that some of those horses are bound to be sore the next day at the very least.

But as I got to thinking about horses falling, I got to thinking about something else. You know how when you're watching some Law and Order crime drama and there's a baby in the scene and the baby (in the storyline) has been traumatized? And, you know how the baby seems to cry on cue? I mean somebody has got to be making that baby cry. And yet, at the end of the movie there's no disclaimer saying that no babies were harmed in the making of that movie.

So what does that tell you? It tells me a few things.

1) The people who make these movies must know that a lot more people are worried about harming animals than they are about harming babies.

2) These same people must be harming children. I mean think about it. They make the babies cry. They make no promise that they didn't have to hurt the kid to make him cry.

3) Hollywood producers are deliberately harming babies.

So, what are you going to do about that? I've presented the evidence. I laid out my argument, brilliantly, if I must say so myself. The truth is staring you right in the face.

I feel pretty confident that after most of you have gone back and re-read this blog carefully, you're going to do the only thing a progressive thinking American could do. You're going to get on your computer and you're going to start sending emails. And you're going to let anyone who will listen know that you're on to them. You're going to tell these big-time Hollywood types to stop hurting horses and lying about it.

And you'll feel much better about yourself for having done so.

Thank You Al Gore. You Keep Us Warm

2010-03-31T03:51:00.001-07:00

People are forever coming up to me and saying things like, “Steve, you're just so deep,” or, “Steve, you think too deeply for your own good,” or stuff like that.

I always humbly reply, “Aw, shucks.” And then I blush. I can blush at will, you know.

Anyway, I do have to admit that sometimes, when I put my mind to it, I can come up with some pretty brilliant ideas. And, I've done it again. Here's what I've figured out: Al Gore is actually largely responsible for global warming. He caused it. No, wait. I can prove it.

Think about it. Doesn't increased electrical consumption have something to do with it? I'm sure I read that somewhere. And I'm not talking about how much electricity Al Gore uses in his big house. I think people who can afford big houses should live in them, and, hey, you got to keep a light on.

No, I'm talking about something much more than one house. Here's where my depth comes in. Didn't Al Gore invent the Internet? I think so. He said it and I don't think he would lie about something as important as that. I think I may have even read it at Wikipedia. So you know it has to be true.

Now if it weren't for the Internet, how many computers would be on right now? Mine probably wouldn't. I don't get up at 5:00 in the morning to play Solitaire. Not anymore. But I will get up to see the NASA picture of the day, or to watch some kid in Ohio, on You Tube, who can play a selection from Chopin with his armpit.

And I have Al Gore to thank for that. Bless his heart. Without him, how would I know that the sun set yesterday at 7:27 pm? Or that Haiku is 5 syllables, then 7, then 5?

These are just a few of the things I've learned, indirectly from Al Gore. But, alas (I hope I used that word right. I've been wanting to use it for quite some time), such wonders come with a price. In this case, the price is increased electrical usage. Now take me and multiply me times 1.7 billion Internet users worldwide (learned that from the Internet, too). Now, take that number and multiply by 55 kilowatt-hours of use. That's a typical, maybe modest estimate I found at a website, which, I might add, was only accessible to me because of Mr. Gore. So, take 55 kilowatt-hours and multiply by 1.7 billion and you get 93,500,000,000 kilowat-hours a year of electricity.

Now could that cause global warming? I'm not sure because I couldn't find anything on the Internet to tell me. So, I'll go out on a pretty big limb here and say, yes indeed. It definitely would cause global warming.

But, before you Al Gore fans get all up in arms, which according to allwords.com means, “(idiom) angry,” let me explain. I'm not denigrating our former Vice-President, and, according to some, almost President. I'm thanking him for causing global warming.

What? You're probably asking yourself as you scratch your head. Calm down and hear me out. Before global warming, yes, before there was an Internet, what were scientists warning us about? Now, you're beginning to nod your head in wonderment, aren't you? Yes, it was global cooling. Just 35 years ago or so, that's all we heard about.

Now, if I had my choice of global cooling or global warming, I'd take global warming. I mean we're not talking about the earth hurtling into the sun and frying us to a crisp. We're only talking enough warming to turn New York city into a tropical Atlantic island. And, when you think about it, what's so bad about that. I bet there are many New Yorkers, who, especially after this winter, wish they lived in the Bahamas. Soon they will, sort of.

So, the way I look at it, Al Gore saved us from freezing. And, at the same time, he provided us with a tool that helps me to know the difference between “hurtling” and “hurdling.” I dont know about you, but I'm grateful.

Anyway, I gotta get off of here. I'm going outside and plant me a grove of banana trees. And, next year, every time I go out back and pick me a deliciously fresh banana, I'm going to say a little thank you to Mr. Al Gore.

GEE, MY HAIR SMELLS HORRIFIC

2010-02-04T15:16:00.001-08:00

You know, I always am amazed when someone sniffs a carton of bad milk, makes a horrible face, and says “Yuk. Smell this.” Even more amazingly, I actually stick my nose in the carton and take a big whiff. And, it's not just me. I think we're all intrigued by horrible odors...drawn to them, if you will.

So, if I'm right about that, many of you may well be enticed by my request. Sniff my hair please. That's not some kinky plea. I just want you to confirm that my hair really stinks. No, it's not a dirty, stinky smell. It's a clean, stinky smell. Perhaps I had better explain.

My wife loves creams and goos and lotions and elixirs and shampoos and all that stuff, and the more exotic, the better. She spent a two-week vacation at an Aveda store once. So, it was not surprising that when she returned from a recent business trip, she brought back a bunch of new goo from some sort of organic type goo store.

Included among her finds was a round cake of soap that's really shampoo that you smear all over your head and it lathers up. It lathers beautifully, but it stinks. I think it's called Mildew or maybe just Doo. But it smells like cigarette smoke.

She used it the other night and I thought I was going to have to evacuate my home. So, when she handed it to me, while I was in the shower this morning, I was somewhat hesitant to use it. In fact, I begged her not to make me use it.

“Use it,” she demanded. “It's good for dandruff.” As if I have dandruff.

“But it stinks,” I tell her meekly, in my typical meek manner.

“You can always rinse and use some conditioner,” she assured me.

So I used it. It was horrible. The steam from the hot water mixed with the stuff and sent a whiff of something terrible right up my nose. I was gagging so much that I could hardly reach for the conditioner. It's her conditioner and guess what it's called. Go ahead.

Tree Sap. That's right. Her conditioner is tree sap. So, I mix the tree sap in with the cake of horror and what do I get? Well, let me paint a word picture to help you get the essence of what I smell like. Picture, if you will, a lovely little cabin in the woods. Listen as the birds chirp a cheery good morning. See the little winding stone walkway leading up to the little cabin. Did you notice the butterflies around the lovely little flower garden?

Now, picture that beautiful little cabin going up in smoke. Whoof. In an instant, the log cabin is reduced to a smoldering heap. Imagine what that cabin smells like as you sift through the ruins, trying to find anything that might be salvaged.

Your lungs are filling up quickly with a putridness, right? Well, that's me. So, if you run in to me today, please come up and say, “hello.” And, please sniff my hair. Pretty yucky, huh?

Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due

2009-12-23T19:45:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-22T19:23:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-17T08:16:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-15T18:37:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-14T05:54:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-13T07:25:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-11T03:11:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-10T07:25:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-28T05:45:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-27T17:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-02T11:44:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-17T08:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-09T06:41:00.001-07:00

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?

2009-10-06T11:25:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-29T10:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-15T14:07:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-31T17:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-27T07:36:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-14T15:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-30T12:24:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-30T08:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-28T17:53:00.001-07:00

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

2009-07-25T03:33:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-22T22:35:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

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.

I CARE, THEREFORE I AM

2009-07-17T05:22:00.000-07:00

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."

THREE THINGS I HATE ABOUT UKROP'S

2009-07-15T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY BLAH BLAH BLAH

2009-07-14T06:32:00.000-07:00

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.

A BFF IN NEED IS A BFF INDEED

2009-07-13T15:10:00.000-07:00

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.

It's A Brand New Day

2009-04-17T12:16:00.001-07:00

I think that's from Disney's Pocahontas. Although it might be from Les Miserables. I get those two mixed up sometimes. Anyway, i think it clearly expresses my sentiments. My life has changed since we last spoke. If you don't remember speaking, see http://www.stevecookramblings.blogspot.com/. Of course, I did most of the speaking.
As I said, my life has changed. I nearly died from what doctors are describing as the worst case of acute hypochondria ever recorded. On top of that, they tell me, I have severe neuroses. However, personally, the rash is barely visible.
But I digress. And, let me tell you, it's hard to digress before you even get started, but somehow, I've managed to do it.
So much has happened since I did my last blog, which I like to refer to as a column. America has elected it's blackest president. I don't think it's proper to say it's first black President, inasmuch as other presidents have, no doubt, had some black blood in them. I remember reading several years ago that Abraham Lincoln's grandmother or great grandmother (or maybe his wife's friend's schoolteacher's grandmother) was a slave. If that's so, then certainly Lincoln was part black. Obama is, of course, part black. And, in all likelihood, more black than any other President.
I'm sure Obama is as qualified as just about anyone else. Although I think, in general, the leadership ability of humans in general has deteriorated over the years. But, I have to believe that the main reason Obama is President is that he makes white folks feel good about themselves
Have you noticed how Americans, white Americans have been falling all over themselves, congratulating themselves on electing a black man. Barack Obama is certainly a man, who asides from political ideology, it would be hard to find fault with. He's good looking (in a manly sort of way). He's intelligent. He has a nice voice, somewhat like Ric Flair's. He has an attractive family. And he really, really wanted to be President. I'm sure if he'd had a lot of skeletons in his closet, they would have been found.
The fact that he used to hang out with terrorists doesn't seem to matter so much these days. So, with that off the table, what reason not to have him as President. Especially when you consider that he really, really wanted the job.
So us white folk can feel proud of ourselves. It's kind of funny when you think about it. At a time when people should be talking about how far the black man has come, I hear more people talking about how far the white man has come, in electing a black man.
I've long held this belief that Obama's success is that he makes white folks feel good about themselves. And, now, that brilliant actress, Janeane Garofalo has proven me right.
Her comments about the tea parties being primarily supported by white racists who hate having a black President are very telling. Don't you see, Janeane is scared. She's scared that black people might start thinking white people are racists again, if they ever stopped. She's scared that if white people criticize the President, it's not because they have honest disagreements with his policies. It has to be because we whities just ain't ever gonna trust the black man.
But, the truth is, the way I see it, the folks, black and white and anything else, who took part in the peaceful tea parties, aren't thinking about race at all. Personally, I think Barack Obama looks more presidential than just about any President we've had in my lifetime.
The tea party attendees didn't, as far as I could see, promote any racial issues. I didn't notice any race-oriented signage. I didn't hear any of those extremists on Fox suggesting that a cross be burned at the parties.
So, who's thinking about race. Janeane Garofalo is. And, I suspect, so are a lot of those who agree with her. Such as that imbecile, Keith Oberman, who did all he could to supress the giggles while interviewing Garofolo. To quote Shakespeare, kind of, I thinks perhaps the lady doth protest too much.
So, rather than let the MSNBC crowd anger you, just take a moment to sympathize with these poor folks. They know that intellectually blacks are equal to whites, but, in their hearts, they have a hard time feeling it. They'd like to be viewed as intellectuals and progressives. In fact they want it so much that they elect one of the most unprepared politicians in the country to be the President in an effort prove how open-minded they are.
And now, you protesters you...you've messed it all up. Can't you just be quiet and let these white people alone. Just let them continue to feel good about themselves. Let them believe they're not racists. After all, isn't that what Janeane Garofalo really, really wants?