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.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
A REALLY CHEESY WAY TO RERUN AN OLD COLUMN
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
DON'T YOU JUST LOVE CUSTOMER SERVICE?
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.
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.
Friday, May 21, 2010
IN THE BEGINNING...
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
JUST ANOTHER DAY IN MY ADVENTURE-PACKED LIFE
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.
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.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
PEOPLE, LET ME TELL YOU 'BOUT MY BEST FRIEND
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
THE QUESTIONS OF AN OLD MAN
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?
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?
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