WHY CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG

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

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?

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...

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

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

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

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

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?

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

 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

 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

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

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

“Yes,” I reply honestly.

“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.

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

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

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

“Bingo,” he says.

“Bingo?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thin blood,” he answers.

I decide to play along.

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

“Global warming, I guess,” he says.

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

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

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

“I read,” he says.

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

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

“So?” I ask him.

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

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

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

“And, what’s that?”

“Sonny,” he answers.

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

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

“Could you explain?” I ask him.

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

“What kind of things?” I ask him.

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

“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.

“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.

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

“What do you mean?” I ask.

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

“No thanks,” I say. “I'm not Druid.”

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

My Very Special, Annual, End of the Year Report

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sizzling Hot and Delicious

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More About Door - Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Door County, Wisconsin - Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Wisconsin Trip - Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the News That Fits this Little Box

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nightmare Continues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CLICK

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