Being a pragmatic centrist is no fun. It’s lonely to be both the most liberal and most conservative person at the same party, depending on the topic of the moment.
I say this partly in jest because I think I’m actually among the majority in the middle. We are seldom heard, just as planes that land safely rarely make news.
Issues like gun control and abortion, which dominated national and local headlines this week, make my internal GPS system go haywire. They do not compute because there is no route to common ground. These issues cannot be solved, only won by whichever group of bullies currently tips the scales.
My views on abortion (and premarital sex and divorce, by the way) have never deviated from my Catholic upbringing: I don’t “believe in” them. That may surprise people who know that my political views on these things — and virtually all domestic issues — are far to the left.
I have no problem holding both views any more than reconciling faith and evolution, both of which I learned at a Catholic high school. As my science teacher, who later became principal, told me, “We teach science in science class and religion in religion class.”
In my opinion, that is the only logical approach to these issues, whether you worship God, guns or both.
If anything I’ve said makes you mad, now you know how I feel at most parties.
I always planned to write a letter on your second birthday, but I never anticipated the last two years would unfold - or unravel - the way they did. I hoped to write something witty or profound, but the words that came instead were wistful or profane.
You see, your grandpa has been disappointed, sad and angry. I need to tell you that so I can tell you this:
That watching you learn and grow brought joy that your grandma and I never imagined possible in a dark time of sorrow and anxiety.
That the New Year may or may not be better, but whatever else it brings, there will be love, laughter and new experiences because of you.
There is one more thing that's too big for me to ignore. One day you will have questions about events that happened before you were aware. When that day comes, I won't have the answers. What I will tell you is that I remember a bad year when the only thing that made your mom smile was her beautiful baby boy.
You have done more for our family in two years, little man, than we have done for you.
It won’t be a diet where I have to count things. I don’t like counting, and besides, I suspect someone else is already, secretly doing that for me.
Nor will it be the 365 Ways To Make Chicken And Pretend That It Tastes Good Diet.
I won't be buying food through the mail or attending support groups or spending a lot of time complaining that I'm on a diet. I'm just going to, quietly, not eat so much.
Thought: If I had to eat a bacon cheeseburger with low-fat ground beef, turkey bacon and light cheese I wouldn’t eat bacon cheeseburgers at all. I think I prefer not eating something to eating something that pretends to be something I actually like. At least my treasured memories will remain intact.
Fruit – check. Veggies – yup. Water – sure, bring me a bucket. Candy bars and Cheetos - fat chance! Got it.
There shall be exercise, but I don't care to talk about that.
There will be pizza on occasion; there will just be less of it. If I have to give up pizza all together, then the terrorists have won. Eat free or die!
I'm hoping to lose somewhere between 10 and 13 3/4 lbs. in Phase I, which will either begin or end on President's Day, I'll have to get back to you on that.
PS -- So you know: Turkey “bacon” isn’t a real thing. Turkey is turkey and bacon is something else.
Would you say that being asked to answer survey questions while standing in line at your friendly, local mega-store is:
A) Acceptable except that I was in here yesterday and answered the same questions - as I have done at every other retailer I shopped this holiday season.
B) No big deal. Do I get free stuff or something?
C) An efficient way to empower me, the customer, to share valuable feedback about the delightful service I have received thus far at this fine establishment. I actually enjoy providing data the store manager can use in her quarterly performance measures report to corporate to help further a company-wide commitment to continuous improvement.
D) The last thing I want to hear when the line is 14 people deep and I'm just trying to get home with my kaopectate and Marlboro Light 100s.
E) Annoying to the point that you don't want me to take your survey (trust me!).
F) Absofreakinlutely swell! I just have a few questions I'd like to ask you first. It will only take a few minutes.
We were having dinner in a Chinese restaurant near the Ohio State University campus when I noticed the statue in the corner. It was Buddha with a broad smile. I’ve always loved a deity with a good sense of humor, so it made me smile back.
I pointed out the statue to my dinner companion, a fellow reporter who was with me to attend a workshop on campus early the next morning.
Knowing she was a deeply religious person, I seized the opportunity to start a conversation beyond the polite chit-chat we were having with our almond chicken and chop sui (or whatever).
I recalled a priest in the Toledo Diocese, now deceased, whom I had once interviewed for a story.
The priest was known for his sense of humor. An author and columnist, he preached a sunny outlook that put earthly life in perspective. For example, in the living room of his small apartment at an East Side parish, he had a bookshelf made out of a coffin. It wasn’t meant to be macabre, he said, but to remind him that life here was merely temporary until he made it to the Kingdom of God. It was also a pretty cool conversation piece that came with a funny story about how he ordered it and had it delivered to his residence – apparently a first for a bewildered casket company clerk.
But the memory that the happy Buddha triggered for me was something else the wisecracking priest had in his room – a painting of a laughing Jesus. It was the only image like it I had ever seen, I told my frosty dinner date.
Big mistake.
Her fork froze halfway between her plate and her sneering lips as she shot me a Church Lady look that made me flinch.
“I don’t remember The Bible ever saying Jesus laughed,” she said sharply.
Whoa.
My first thought was to shoot back, “I don’t remember The Bible saying Jesus peed, either, but since the whole point was that he was a man in the flesh, I’m pretty sure that goes without saying.”
I resisted. I think what I actually said was something like, “I, er, um, yee, ahhhh. Okey-dokey then.”
I had a couple other thoughts, too, that I won’t mention.
That dinner conversation – if you can call it that – crystallized one of my views on religion: It’s Team Smiling Jesus vs. the Church Ladies. I’m certain there are many roads to heaven, and I prefer to take the scenic route, thank you.
The quirky priest left an impression on me. I hope he’s sharing a good laugh with Jesus and Buddha right now.
You’re four months old now, which means you’ll be having children of your own soon. I want to share with you some nuggets of sage wisdom passed down for generations, and a few things I thought of this afternoon while mowing the grass.
This is important, so let’s watch the kitty later, OK? Ready? Yes, I see the ceiling fan. Here goes, Lucas. Lucas? Listen to grandpa now.
Alright, maybe you’ll read this a little later.
1. A “really good” job is one where you’re overpaid for what you do, you get to make your own hours and shoes are optional. The rest are just OK jobs.
2. You don’t have to wait an hour after eating before going into the pool, that’s just something moms made up so they could go in the house for another Long Island. The running with scissors thing, however, is true: you should always wait until at least an hour after eating.
3. Never let the oil change place up-sell you. Your hubcaps don’t need rotating, or whatever they made up at their staff meeting that morning.
4. Extended warranties are for sissies.
5. If the question is, “Does this hat look silly,” the answer is invariably, “Yes it does.”
6. Nobody really knows what “icing” means. In hockey, they make up the rules as they go.
7. The special probably isn’t.
8. Never make an important decision based on advice you got in a bar or a bait shop.
9. Always listen to old people, and never make fun of them until they leave the room.
10. Buy yourself a dozen identical pairs of black socks. You won’t regret it.
We’ve just learned that Jesus is returning, and you’ll never guess where he’s expected to turn up. That and other news coming up, but first our top story:
Ricky Martin is Gay!
The Puerto Rican pop star made the shocking announcement today on Twitter in both English and Spanish, ending years of speculation that he would choose to come out on Facebook.
When asked about the accusations of lurid behavior and wasteful spending, RNC Chair Michael Steele replied, “Ricky Martin’s gay?”
And now back to our breaking news: Jesus is coming…to a trailer park in southeast Michigan. According to the FBI, nine members of a Christian militia group planned to welcome the Savior by staging violent assaults on police officers, in accordance with biblical teaching.
Turning to politics, a new poll shows that nearly 80 percent of Americans say they are willing to oppose health care reform, immigration reform, financial reform or whatever the hell other kind of reform they have to oppose to get Sen. Michele Bachmann to just stop talking for five minutes. The same poll showed a plurality of Americans are distrustful of a senator who spells Michele with only one “l” but Bachmann with a double “n.” Also, it appears that her ranting about President Obama being born on Pluto and agents of the Census Bureau hiding in her sock drawer are starting to creep people out.
Now in entertainment news, voting began today for the 2010 MTV Movie Awards, as if anyone really cares.
Stormin’ Norman will be back with tomorrow’s forecast, but first, here are your winning lottery numbers.
Welcome back. Turns out our own Norm Cumulus was the lucky winner of tonight’s lottery. Congratulations Normy – $6.29 million is nothing to sneeze at. I’ll bet your forecast is looking up. What can the rest of expect?
You can expect to look it up on weather.com like everyone else, Stu, because I don’t really give a…
Sorry, we’re experiencing a little technical difficulty there. Let’s throw it over to Bart Beerman in the sports center for this week’s edition of the Friday Freakout Live. It’s been a busy night in the sports center where they covered 1,400 high school events, including a remarkable upset in that contest we told you about earlier at the Chester A. Arthur Middle School science fair.
Welcome back to the Westminster Dog Show. I’m Howard Von Snout here with Claudia Piddles to bring you live commentary of this year’s show from Madison Square Garden.
We’ve just seen some of the best examples of the working class breeds. Coming up a little later tonight are the upper-middle class breeds, including the newest hybrid dog in the competition, the Schnoodle-pit-huahua-retriever.
But first, we're going to bring you the exciting rare breeds that you've all been waiting for.
And here they come now.
First up is a Klutzsteiner. These dogs are a delicate breed prone to tripping over their own four paws. Ouch, there he goes now, true to form. These little ankle biters should probably wear a helmet, Claudia.
Over here, Howard, is a Guatemalan Smiling Dog, a deceptively named breed. Powerful for its small stature, a “Smiley's” trademark expression is more of a snarl. They are cute little guys, but don’t turn your back on them. They’ve been known to kill their master in his sleep.
And here comes Stoner, the Jamaican ganja retriever, Claudia. Everybody loves the “Jammers.” These dogs are the life of the party. Notice how he struts in slow motion – he's not taking this seriously at all. These dogs make terrific family pets, but they do have an insatiable appetite for Cheetos and never chip in for gas money.
Yea, and don’t try to take them for a walk before noon, Howard.
Up next is the long-haired French Fufu Pookie. “FuPoos” are renown companion dogs, especially adapted to city living. They are a high-maintenance breed and aren’t for everybody. They require constant praise, generally in annoying baby talk, and never wear the same sweater two days in a row.
Here’s a brand new entry to the show. Talk about rare, Howard: It’s a Tibetan Yak Nipper. These are tough little dogs known for their fierce loyalty to their master, but a deep-seeded hatred of all other human beings. “Yippers” make excellent companions for really mean people. My ex has two.
Claudia, if I could interrupt, I see a Dutch Doofus entering the ring -- and I’m not talking about my brother-in-law Henrick - just kidding. “DuDos” are a handsome, if not particularly intelligent breed. They were bred by the Grand Dukes of Luxembourg, primarily as doorstops. Look at him chasing his tail, Claudia. That’s one dumb pooch.
Dumb as a box of Milkbones, Howard. Not you, the dog. But if you want to see a truly pitiful species, check out the mutts coming up next in the Unfortunate Cross-breeding Category. Wait till you see these furry freaks. But first, a word from our sponsor...
An off-duty police officer was simply fed up with neighborhood kids vandalizing his yard. So when he caught one of the brats red handed, he did something monumentally stupid, as fed-up men will sometimes do: he bolted from the house brandishing his service weapon.
I don't know what he was thinking, but there is no doubt in my mind that the aging policeman never meant for the gun to go off, striking the little boy in the leg. I can’t say I knew the guy, but I knew about him, and I will never be convinced that he intended to shoot a kindergartner for throwing stones.
White cop. Black boy.
I covered the resulting march on city hall as a young newspaper reporter. While the crowd gathered around a local civil rights activist before the march began, I managed to ask him a few questions:
Why are you doing this? “Someone has to look out for this boy’s rights,” he said.
Do you really think this was a racial act? “I have no idea.”
Then why not wait until all the facts come out? What about the officer’s rights? “He has plenty of people looking out for his rights.”
As the group paraded down the street, following the cute little boy in the wheelchair with his leg still in a cast, I realized what was really going on. And race had everything to do with it.
It wasn’t about the shooting. It was about the ugly, jeering crowd that lined the street. They’re the ones who made it about race; the march only set the stage.
It was about the mob that turned out at the suburban city hall and the near-riot that ensued. I remember the helmets and batons, shields and assault rifles laid out on a long table inside the city building, just in case.
The anger on the white faces in the crowd said all that needed to be said. This wasn’t about a cop or a little boy to them, either. It was about choosing a side.
What left an impression on me – let’s call it a scar – was the smirk on the civil rights activist’s face as he and a few dozen of his supporters walked silently down the road while people called them names. He knew what he was doing – letting the ranting idiots who taunted them make his point for him. He played the bigots like puppets, and they responded exactly as he knew they would.
I’m reminded of that day when I see the mobs marching on Washington and elsewhere toting signs with racial caricatures and sayings directed at a black president. Like the mob at the march I witnessed, their anger seems out of proportion to whatever “socialist” strawman they came to protest this time.
It’s not about healthcare or taxes or whatever cause the ranting entertainers on TV and radio used to ratchet up these people’s rage. I know what it’s about and so do you. But we tolerate it the way we tolerate the crazy uncle who throws around racial slurs because “that’s just how he is – he’s really a nice guy.”
No, he’s not.
At what point do we demand that people who know better – from former congressmen and governors to TV talking heads who fan the flames of hatred for their own gain – defend their fiery, race-baiting remarks instead of treating them as “equal time?”
At what point should I speak up when a man remarks to me, as though I’d understand, that he doesn’t shop at the Kroger by his house because “everyone knows that’s the black Kroger.”
What do I say to the man who forwards me emails about patriotism and Jesus, riddled with ethnic slurs and calls for violence against Muslims?
The march I witnessed at city hall happened many years ago, but the Kroger remark happened last week and the latest email arrived yesterday. I responded by being polite, treating them like the crazy uncle who’s really a nice guy despite the vulgar stupidity that comes out of his mouth.
I suppose I will just continue to smirk and let the idiots reveal themselves for what they really are. But I’m getting awfully tired of being polite.
I’m new at this, and you’re just one day old, but I’m taking my grandfather duties seriously from the start.
Your grandpa isn’t old or wise. Let’s face it, mature would be a stretch. But I’m not starting this list of grandfatherly advice because I’m so smart. It’s just that I have a 45-year head start on you and I think I can share some tips and observations that you might find useful growing up.
Here are a few things I’d like you to know. I’ll add to the list from time to time when I think of something new.
1. People generally mean well, even if it’s not always obvious.
2. You never want to take a job “for the money.”
3. Everything you’ll hear about girls is true, or sort of true. Take notes.
4. There’s no such thing as a secret.
5. Bigots and zealots are beneath you. Don’t hate the haters, just defeat them every chance you get.
7. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. (That’s what great-grandpa says, and he’s a salesman, so he knows what he’s talking about.)
8. Be loyal, but don’t always expect the same in return. Sometimes people suck.
9. Trust people until they give you a reason not to. I’m not saying to be a doormat, but being paranoid and isolated is no way to go through life. See No. 8.
10. You can be happy without being selfish. In my experience, the two are mutually exclusive.
I have an irrational itch to buy a van. Not a mini-van, but a full-size, gas-guzzling, doesn’t-fit-in-the-garage VAN van. Something from the Ford E-series. I don’t know why, exactly, but here are 10 possible reasons I can think of:
1) A van says, “Fashion doesn’t apply to me. I’m beyond fashion. I’m post-fashion. You wouldn’t understand.”
2) Vans are boxy. Boxy is good. Whatever the opposite of aerodynamic is, that’s what vans are. I like to displace a lot of air when I drive. That’s just me.
3) It would be a home away from home. I could have a picnic in there. Or spend the night. And if that van’s a rockin’, you know, I could be playing Snowball Fight on the Wii Fit or something.
4) Almost nobody has one. That would place me in an elite club, like astronauts or serial killers or the number of people who saw Glenn Beck's new movie “The Christmas Sweater – A Return To Redemption.”
5) It may be the closest I ever get to my dream of driving a bus, which I’ve had since I was a kid when I used to break into the old church bus parked across the field from my house. I did get to drive a city snowplow once, for a couple miles, but that’s as close as I got.
6) I could get one of those “Haulin’ Ass” bumper stickers. Classic.
7) If I had a van, I might name it Ghost Dancing and travel the country to find myself like William Least Heat-Moon, who wrote “Blue Highways,” which sold a bazillion copies. I wrote a book about Lake Erie, which I explored in an old Dodge Caravan I named “Red Van.” My book didn’t sell quite as many copies.
8) I could deliver cakes.
9) Dude, we’re getting the band back together. (Actually, I was in the marching band, so a van wouldn’t be large enough. But we could get the trumpet section back together.)
10) I need a van to pull the bass boat, which my wife won’t let me buy – yet. But the longer I talk about how much I want a motorcycle, the more practical the van/boat combo is going to sound.
There is nothing sadder (or more perversely satisfying) than a TV commercial gone horribly off course.
Some are stunningly, inexplicably bad. Remember the one a few years back in which it appeared as though Orville Reddenbocker’s corpse had been reanimated to sell popcorn? Apparently, the creative requirements called for “repulsive.”
Others are good/bad. These are the ones that are superbly executed, generate a lot of conversation, win prestigious awards, yet somehow miss the mark. Like the “I’m a Mac and I’m superior to the PC,” ads. There, I said it. Probably nobody will agree with me, but I think the Microsoft ads in response were much more persuasive, except maybe to those who see themselves as that Mac Guy, but that’s a subject for another blog.
Then there are the evil bad ads, perfectly honed to hit their target audience right between the eyes, but without an ounce of decency. Like the late night spots for the Girls Gone Wild videos or just about any recent Burger King ad.
But the most sadistically satisfying ads are those where the creative team paid so much attention to the imagery that they forget what the hell they were supposed to be talking about.
Which is the case with the first annual winner of my very own awards contest, the Carpies.
And the winner is….
Korean Air’s “The Color of Perfection”
One by one, beautiful images convey upscale, sexy scenes of sexy, upscale people doing routine things, like standing on a hilltop in their underwear beneath a Photoshopped sky to a soundtrack of ethereal music. Words appear out of thin air.
Words like breathtaking,exquisite and visionary.
Still more words: graceful, understanding, pledging - even admired.
Wait for it…here’s the pitch: “What Korean Air is made of,” says the perfect female voice, followed closely by the perfect male voice putting the final touch on this masterpiece of snootiness: “Excellence in flight. Korean Air.”
(The “color of perfection” is apparently turquoise, which is the recurring visual cue woven from scene to shining scene.)
And when it’s over, the viewer is left panting, wondering two things: “What perfume was that?” and “Did that really say ‘pledging’? What the…”
There are many words and phrases that one might insert into an airline ad: safe, reliable, comfortable, roomy, less bus-like than Northwest.
“Pledging?” “Admired?” “Understanding.” What Korean Air is made of, apparently, are platitudes written on yellow sticky notes left over from last year’s strategic planning session.
I think the team that produced this spot is the same group that sends me spam that looks almost legit except for the broken English that shatters the illusion (“she will show you much adulation for this product”).
For pointless perfection, this year’s Carpy goes to…what was the name of that aquamarine-colored perfume again?
Runner Up: Amazon.com’s Kindle
(Note: Sorry, the video of this ad was pulled from YouTube.)
Amazon is running its first commercial for the Kindle, a device that is actually pretty cool, but whose attributes are veiled in a cloak of cuteness in this peppy little spot (which was made by an amateur, but that’s not the point).
If it were an ad for reading, it wouldn’t be half bad. But I’m going to assume that people who might buy a devise made for reading already, you know, read. Why not instead clue them in about how the Kindle might improve upon something they’ve probably been doing without a Kindle since the first grade.
OK, there is this: “Books in 60 seconds.” That little nugget is tucked in at the end. Eureka! An actual attribute! But I need more than that to convince me to spend $250 for another electronic device, as though I don’t already have more of them than I have pockets to put them in. For 250 bucks these days, I expect a blinking thingy to not only point the way to the next exit, but tell me the number of fat grams in today’s special at the nearest diner.
The Kindle is thin as a pencil, holds 1,500 books at a cost of just $9.99 each for New York Times Best Sellers. It weighs less than a Wendy’s double with cheese and downloads whatever title you want in seconds out of thin air without a computer or cell phone.
Instant books for cheap without killing trees? Sign me up!
But first, you have to tell me about it, which the ad never gets around to doing.
Perhaps – and even this is a stretch – perhaps if Kindle were already a household name, then this ad might have some redeeming qualities. But I’ve asked actual people who I assume can read and most have only a vague idea about what it is.
Maybe that’s because the advertising is, you know, vague.
Note: This ad is terrific for what it was created to be – a very well done, stop-action viral video submitted in a contest. I applaud the young LA photographer who crafted it and won $20,000 for her trouble (I believe that’s her in the ad). And I applaud Amazon for its use of social media to engage customers.
However.
Like the ad for Korean Air, the Kindle spot leaves me wondering what the perfume smells like.
Distracted drivers are now the rule, not the exception. If the Pope got behind the wheel of the Popemobile, we would no doubt see him texting, juggling a McMuffin and iced cap, and fiddling with his Tom Tom (not in an unholy way). Not to mention occasionally sprinkling water on the gathered flock.
It is folly to criminalize the behavior of the masses (not the pope kind of masses, but, well, you know what I mean). Instead can’t we just build highways to accommodate the new norm? It’s just lazy engineering, if you ask me. What could it cost to add some padded guardrails, rumble strips between lanes and roundabouts so people with more important things to do can circle until they press SEND without being distracted by traffic signals?
Big cities have High Occupancy Vehicle (HOV) lanes. Isn’t it time for the Head-Up-A## (HUP) lane?
I Have Doubts
Insert rimshots where appropriate.
I choose not to believe in gravity, my mind is made up, so just go sell your socialist agenda somewhere else – I’m not buying it.
I’m skeptical of the “labradoodle.” Sounds to me like a shoddy breeder left the back gate open then found a clever way to profit from his carelessness.
Don’t get me started on grapples. Like we really need an apple that tastes like a grape. Make me brussels sprouts that taste like bacon, then I’ll be impressed.
In Michigan, they have yellow, flashing turn signals. Is that not the epitome of pointlessness?
Founding Typo
As a strict constitutionalist, I insist on spelling Pennsylvania with one “n.” Also, I Spell random words with capital Letters.
NEWSFLASH: Budweiser drinkers are 42 percent more likely to drive a truck than the average American.
That’s not all. We also know that people who drink Blue Moon are 105 percent more likely to own a hybrid, Corona drinkers know how to party and those with inflated egos prefer Heineken.
OK, maybe we didn’t need a marketing research company like Mindset Media to tell us that the driver of the pickup with the “Back Off” mud flaps probably isn’t your average Stella Artois sipper. Or that the guy at the bar hugging the green Heinie bottle isn’t as important as he thinks he is.
But did you know that Bud Light drinkers are 48 percent more likely to play the lottery, Michelob Ultra fans are 34 percent more likely to buy life insurance and craft beer drinkers like me are happy-go-lucky slackers who are 52 percent more likely to watch “The Office.”
In case you were wondering.
These and other fascinating facts are examples of what marketing types call “Who gives a…”
No, actually, according to a story in Advertising Age magazine, they call it psychographics. Companies pay lots of money to learn what customers and potential customers are thinking. I’m analyzing your thoughts right now. (You think I’m kidding, but you’re reading this on Blogger, which is owned by Google and The Google knows what you had for breakfast [toast and OJ].)
I’m not sure how they do it over at Mindset Media, but the Research Division here at Carpenter Communications has uncovered some “psychographics” of its own, based on years of observing average people, often while drinking our pretentious craft beers.
Here are just a few of our recent findings:
• Some beer psychographics you won’t hear about in Advertising Age: Keystone drinkers are 56 percent more likely to need life insurance, nearly 13 percent of PBR drinkers can read and those who drink Guinness are 82 percent more awesome than those who drink all other beers combined.
• Women who bought the “Flirty Girl Fitness” video also purchased Ben-Gay and Ace bandages. (Over 78 percent of people who purchased “Flirty Girl” were actually men in pickups who drink Bud.)
• Those who drive white Ford Explorers with crinkled left front fenders and Michigan plates are six times less likely than people who aren’t INSANE to grasp the concept of “merging” on I-475 this morning. Jerk.
• People who live in glass houses are 97 percent less likely than the average person to throw stones, and nearly 200 percent more likely to buy Windex in the economy size.
We have also discovered that those who answer psychographic research surveys are 75 percent more likely to have nothing better to do but watch Dr. Phil with their cat all day.
The Google tells me that you are currently thinking that our Research Division dropped out of college, which may or may not be true. However, before you dismiss our psychographic analysis, let me just ask you one thing: Where do you think the idea for the Snuggie came from? It’s got Dr. Phil and Fluffy written all over it.
In the interest of fairness, we should point out that our Research Division does like his Heineken.
Forget Balloon Boy’s parents, I’d like to see a reality show based on the whacky misadventures of the Louisiana justice of the peace who refused to marry an interracial couple out of “concern” for the children they don’t have.
His Honor Keith Bardwell of Tangipahoa Parish said he doesn’t believe he is a racist because, well, for one thing he has had black people in his very own home and even “allowed them to use the bathroom,” for crying out loud!
Vindicated!
Not so fast. Nobody was buying the JP’s BS, and now the ACLU wants him F.I.R.E.D. ASAP.
What shocked me about JP Bardwell’s attempt to defend his actions wasn’t the inherent racism in his “I’m-not-a-racist” reply, or even that a man who thinks like him has held elected office in the United States for more than 30 years.
What shocked me is that Goober has indoor plumbing.
A reality show based on a racist could be enlightening and entertaining at the same time, in a Sammy Davis, Jr.-meets-Archie Bunker kind of way: “In this week’s episode of ‘The JP,’ hilarity ensues when a series of missteps lands Justice Goober at a Lenny Kravitz concert.”
As for Balloon Boy Falcon Heene, now there’s a child of an interracial couple Justice Bardwell can legitimately feel sorry for.
(Extra credit goes to those attentive readers who connected the dots between Archie Bunker and Lenny Kravitz.)
I put ketchup on eggs. It’s genetic. Anyway, my wife and I were in a restaurant in Tennessee, eating eggs with ketchup, when some kids in the booth behind us gasped, standing on their seats, pointing, and yelled to their parents – and half the restaurant – that a couple of Yankee freaks were putting KETCHUP on their eggs.
Until that point, I did not know I was different. Kids can be so cruel.
I hate stereotyping. But just as I had arrived at the totally unfair conclusion that the ladies in the booth across from me at lunch might have evening jobs that involve poles and bad 80s hair band music, they dumped a paper bag of crinkled dollar bills on the table and started counting them. Then, they began to discuss – loudly and in colorful terms – their pet peeves about their customers, erasing all doubt that I had misunderstood and that they, perhaps, simply worked for a vending company with a very lax dress code.
Fill the ketchup. FILL the KETCHUP! I got so irritated at lunch one day that I collected mostly-empty bottles from six tables, arranged them neatly in a circle on the table next to me, then told the confused waitress when she returned, nonchalantly, “You’re a little low on ketchup.” It was a jerky thing to do, but I’d do it again. I would.
I was in the kind of place that might employ the abovementioned dollar-bill ladies exactly one time in my life (it was a long, long time ago and I was obligated – I was in the wedding party). I spent half the night laying low and the other half chatting with a half-dressed but very sincere waitress about her Comp II class. [I was barely out of college myself, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds.]
Anyway, the perky scholar said, as if embarrassed, that she was not normally a waitress. No, she was a dancer, but she had pulled a hamstring and was on “light duty” that night. It was – in that place, at that time – the single funniest thing I had ever heard, as evidenced by the $12 Bud Light coming out of my nose.
Waitress: “Would you like ketchup for your fries, honey.”
My daughter (about age 3): “Duh!”
Where does she get it?
The older I get, the more insistent I become about two things: If you don’t put the paper on the porch, I’ll read it online and you can just skip my house and credit my account. Likewise, if the salad doesn’t arrive before the main course, then don’t bring it at all. Is that so unreasonable?
And, when the waitress forgets the ketchup with my omelet, and I have to ask for it a second time, throwing off her routine, I will bet you $100 she doesn’t return until my eggs are cold. Guaranteed.
On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the kinds of places where the waitresses anticipate that you might want ketchup with your eggs are the same places you are most likely to find boisterous women counting dollar bills at the next table. Not to stereotype.
I am in receipt of your letter dated September 29, 2009. Is this some kind of freaking joke? Seriously, who taught you people how to write?
According to your correspondence, I am either A) about to be evicted or, B) nominated for a Nobel Prize. It was unclear. I’m sure even you can understand why this might concern me.
Why not save a few trees and just say what's on your mind. I don’t think either of us wants me to call your 1-800 number for clarification, getting angrier and angrier as your auto-attendant system transfers me seven times before delivering me – now cranked up to a homicidal rage – to YOU. Do we?
Here's a little free advice about how to structure future letters.
1) Tell me first what happened or what is going to happen, and what it means to me. Example: “The house is on fire. You are in danger. “
2) Tell me, very clearly, what you want me to do, or what my options are. Example: “Run.”
3) Would it kill you to pretend to care?
4) Grovel, deflect blame, cover your ass – whatever you need to do – only after telling me what I need to know-slash-do. This is less important because I’m probably not going to read it, anyway, but if it makes you feel better, knock yourself out.
I hope this letter was helpful. I value our relationship. OK, I was kidding around there; we don’t have a relationship.
Love,
Scott
# # #
Dear Acer Group, Inc.,
I'm typing this letter on one of your Acer POS netbooks, which are really cute, but...
I'm sure you know by now that the unfortunate clustering of the arrow/Pg Up/Pg Dn/Home/End keys was not the smartest idea you ever had. Right? So, I don't have to tell you.
Still, I was wondering: does your 90-day warranty cover the replacement cost of my picture window?
Luv U Bunches,
Scott
# # #
Dear David Letterman,
As a public relations professional, I’d just like to tell you what a great job you’ve done handling you’re recent image problem. Telling your audience about the blackmail and the underlying affairs so they would hear the news from you first was a smart move. Poking fun at yourself was very effective, too (careful not to overdo it!).
Let me put something out there, just for discussion, that might help prevent further damage to your personal brand. Just to think about. You might - I think you know I'm just looking out for your best interest here - you might not want to cheat on your wife with subordinates less than half your age. Just a suggestion. I may be wrong.
Keep your World Wide Pants on, Dave, LOL. (You can use that one if you want to.)
Scott
# # #
Dear President Ahmadinejad,
The new suits look good, Mahmoud. Didn’t you get the tie I sent?
Say, you might want to lighten up a little over there. Just sayin’. The rocket thing – not cool. People are already pissed about the election.
You know I’m always straight with you, bro. That whole “the holocaust never happened” thing is a little out there. People don’t always get you.
Still up for some beer pong on Thursday?
Call/text.
Scott
# # #
Dear Glenn Beck,
The gargoyle in the red hat will emerge from the lagoon on Labor Day. Please send sardines.
Keep your head down, dude. We’re praying for you.
FreakyFreddy57@AOL.com
# # #
Dear Mr. Wldozskiwicz,
Thank you for your recent letter. We here at Carpenter Communications place great value on the input we receive from stakeholders such as you.
Our Engineering Dept. is checking into the physical feasibility of your suggestion about what we can do with our “juvenile/elitist/communist drivel.” The sketches you sent were very helpful.
I lead a pretty stable, suburban 9-to-5, cranky-middle-aged-male kind of life. Mow the lawn on the weekends, wear my slippers to the gas station, talk back to the news and complain about the neighbor who always BANGS THE DAMN GATE when he comes and goes UPTEEN TIMES A NIGHT.
But I also live distinctly different, simultaneous lives, the inhabitants of which do not know about each other.
In one life, I hang with cigar-chomping outdoor types who fish, hunt, swear and complain about the government.
In another life, I consort with people who ride bikes, spout Latin names for flowers, drive hours in their hybrid cars to look at birds and, well, complain about the government.
Writers, truck drivers, lawyers, factory workers, a surprisingly large number of nurses, students, teachers, retirees; health nuts and fat guys; Catholics, Jews, Methodists, agnostics (an evangelical or two, maybe an atheist in the mix); black, white, Latino, Middle Eastern (mental note: make more Asian friends); hopelessly optimistic and irreparably cynical. From gun racks to sweater vests, my circle of friends and acquaintances covers the range from redneck to erudite.
It’s all one life to me, but it does amuse me to think of a house party where all my Facebook/Twitter/Linkedin friends meet each other for the first time.
(The closest I’ve ever come to such an eclectic gathering was the surprise birthday party my wife threw for me in which members of my extended family mingled with my coworkers in a surreal scene that reminded me of the Country Music Awards.)
I’m sure such a party would go OK. My friends are a polite bunch. And I like to think we could find some common ground.
Most of my friends love the outdoors, to some degree. Some call themselves “environmentalists,” a term that would make others cringe. So, let’s just say we’re all conservationists. Agreed?
The government. OK, we all hate the government, except, of course when the government’s doing what we want it to do, like picking up our trash or saving our lives or giving someone else a ticket. I think if we just talk about “the government” without partisan labels, we’ll be fine.
Abortion? No middle ground there. But why would that come up?
Puppies! Pretty sure all my friends like puppies.
Race? Religion? Racists aren’t welcome in any my lives or my house, and I think all my friends, religious and non-religious, are pretty tolerant grownups. No problems anticipated there.
The beer/wine, carnivore/veg-head factions will self-select and pick neutral corners. No intervention needed on my part.
That just leaves healthcare reform and immigration. Those could be tough. Better steer the Glenn Beck fans to the basement and the Rachel Maddow crowd to the kitchen. The Lou Dobbs folks are on their own. If there’s a Michael Savage fan in the crowd, he can stay out in the yard because nobody will know what the hell he’s talking about, anyway.
OK, I think we can make this work. As long as nobody brings up concealed carry laws or gay marriage, in which case, I’m changing the subject to puppies.
About this time last year, our youngest daughter was attending her last homecoming dance in the high school gymnasium.
About this time 19 years ago we were a few weeks away from being parents for the second time, three years after the first time.
About this time 23 years ago – exactly 23 years ago this Saturday – Beth and I were walking down the aisle without much of a plan, or much of anything else.
About this time a few years earlier, it was us going to the homecoming dance in the same high school gym, dancing (strangely enough) to the same, lame Journey songs.
There were bad times. I don’t recall the details or the dates. But I remember the smallest things about the best times, like how something new and wonderful always seemed to enter the picture just when we needed it to.
Right on cue, about this time next year our oldest daughter will be a mom herself, planning for our first grandchild’s first Christmas.
This time 23 years from now, who knows. We still don’t have much of a plan. But we have something better – a history.
