Workman Chronicle

Searching For Barbeque In Reno

2012-01-30T09:30:00.000-08:00

While spending last week in Reno and Sparks, which are basically the same place except Sparks has prettier street signs, I got a hankering for some good barbeque. (For the uninitiated, "hankering" is a technical culinary term utilized by BBQ connoisseurs to indicate a "strong epicurean desire.")

My first mistake was employing a 21st century solution to a 19th century problem.

The proper protocol in attempting to locate a provider of this uniquely American delicacy is to ask a sizeable sampling of the local citizenry "where can I find some good barbeque?"

It has to be this way, because "foodies" who run most of the recognized guides to restaurants and eating establishments are a snooty, uppity bunch. They refuse to acknowledge that barbeque qualifies as one of the basic food groups, and accordingly fail to include in Michelin's and Zagats the tumbledown roadside greasepots that always provide the absolute best offerings of sauce-slathered pork, chicken and brisket.

I don't know a lot about Reno, other than it seems to be locked in an epic daily struggle to undo the handiwork of their larger southern counterpart. Las Vegas is known as the place for speedy marriages performed by Elvis impersonators and elegant transvestites like Sister Love (who, incidentally, was the man/woman who administered the "I do's" when my wife and I tied the knot 12 years ago, and it seems to have stuck). Reno is the home of quickie divorces. According to recent uncoupling statistics, Vegas is still winning the race, but Reno seems to be catching up.

Because I don't know anyone in "America's Biggest Little City," I didn't have anyone to ask about the nearest barbeque joint. So we did what more and more people are doing when they don't have a carbon-based human friend: we got online.

In this instance, we fired up the Garmin GPS my wife bought me last year. Unfortunately, because the thing is barely more than 12 months old, it's about as accurate as an old telephone book that still lists phone numbers with letters, like "WEstmore 9-2745" (which was my family's phone number, 939-2745, when I was a kid. Yes, I'm THAT old.)

After plugging "Barbeque" into its little electronic question and answer session, it identified a couple of barbeque joints that were within five miles. The Garmin directed us to take the interstate, then an exit onto a major highway, then onto a smaller street, turning onto a dirt road or two, across three backyards, and finally arriving at a strip shopping center about 800 feet from where we started. Of course, when we got there, the purported BBQ place was now a dress shop for out-of-work transvestite ministers. Or maybe it was a Gap. I often confuse the two.

Like voters who just can't be misled enough, we checked the Garmin again for the next place on the list.

Two interstates, a dry creekbed, and four private driveways later (or about another 800 feet from where we started), we arrived at a building that looked exactly like your quintessential barbeque stand. It had a garish yellow paint job administered by someone with a surplus of Krylon, oversized exhaust apertures on the roof, and hand-lettered signage on the windows done in white shoe polish.

Unfortunately, instead of a barbeque joint, the eatery was called "JimBoy's Tacos."

Let that sink in.

Aside from the fact that we weren't going to get any barbeque, I was struck by the incongruity of the name.

JimBoy's Tacos.

"What's next?" I asked my wife. "Billy Bob's Chinese Food? Ricky Joe's Pizza? Big Bertha's Kosher Deli?"

We ended up at a nearby Sizzler, which is about as close to barbeque as a fish taco is to imported seafood.

Apparently, the good people of RenoSparks aren't supporting their barbeque community, and the eateries are going out of business.

It's a shame, because there are some hungers that simply can't be satisfied by a McRib sandwich or a $60 salad from Wolfgang Puck's.

So my advice to travelers is this: No matter where you're heading, seek out and support any food establishment that features this dying culinary art form.

Otherwise, we'll have nobody to blame but ourselves when the health food nuts finally manage to whittle our roadside options down to a string of Soylent Green drive-thrus.

Procrastination A Defense Against Fate

2012-01-16T10:50:00.000-08:00

I am a procrastinator. There's no denying it.

Those who don't suffer from Procrastination Syndrome often mistakenly believe it's a disorder caused by poor planning or a lack of organizational skills.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

If you saw the staggering variety of to-do lists, agendas, checklists, goal lists, schedulers, and event pop-ups that fill my computer, iPad, and iPhone, you might think I'm a little over-organized.

Yet even with all of these tools, I still tend to wait until the last minute to do or plan certain things. Also, even with my day meticulously planned down to the last half-minute, I still manage to show up late for almost anything that requires me to replace my slippers with the brown docksiders I wear in public.

A few days ago, while pondering such deep and heavy philosophical questions as the meaning of life and why green sugar free Jell-o doesn't taste at all like lime, I realized that my procrastination isn't just a character flaw.

It's my feeble little human defense against God.

To understand that, first you need to know about the Workman Curse.

It's a very real and longstanding vexation the family of my father's surname has experienced for at least two generations, and maybe even before that.

Basically it works like this:

Something wonderful will happen to me and/or my family.

Within seven days, something terrible will befall me or the family member who sustained the temporary stroke of luck.

I could give you a long tale of woe complete with an itemized list of all the things that have gone wrong on the heels of something great happening to me or my clan over the last 20 years, but that would just sound like whining when in fact I've actually had a wonderful life (peace and blessings be upon the sacred name of Jimmy Stewart).

It would be easiest to explain the Workman Curse like this: If I happened to win $100 at a local casino, I would hurry out to my car in the parking lot only to discover two flat tires that would require $105 to replace.

In other words, it's my destiny to never get ahead.

With the Workman Curse firmly in mind because of the litany of bad news my family has sustained in 2012 since receiving the wonderful news that my book is going to be published, I realized that my Procrastination Syndrome is actually a subconscious technique for trying to outmaneuver fate, kismet, or the Guy Upstairs With The 10% Cover Charge And The Warped Sense of Humor.

I realized it while making hotel reservations for an upcoming trip to Reno with my wife.

After wearing out the internet trying to find the best deal on a hotel room in America's biggest little city, I found myself fighting the requirement to hit the "confirm" button.

While psychoanalyzing myself about this muscle spasm, I came to the following conclusion about why I am a procrastinator:

I hate to make plans well in advance because I don't want "them" to have a chance to discover a plan of mine ("them" being the aforementioned triumvirate of fate, kismet, and God/Allah/Visnu/Santa). If "they" find out about something I've scheduled well in advance, it allows "them" the time to interfere, to disrupt, to turn God's lips upwards in that laugh the Divine enjoys whenever he learns of our pissant little human plans.

If this sounds familiar, it's like the trick Victoria the vampire used to keep future-seeing Alice from knowing about Victoria's plan to wipe out the Cullen family in the "Eclipse" episode of the Twilight movie series. Victoria didn't make an advance plan, instead letting things unfold away from her purview until her last-minute decision to attack.

In a twisted way, I've come to the conclusion that my procrastination is actually a means of ensuring that the task or event has a chance of coming to fruition. By putting things off, which sounds like a recipe for causing something to NOT happen, it is actually the best way of guaranteeing the event has a chance for completion. If "they" don't know about it, "they" can't stop it.

Of course, as long as God is still in control of traffic lights and the little magnetic strip on the back of credit cards, there are still opportunities to mess up a last-minute plan.

In those cases, the best I can hope for is that He is busy helping some rapper go platinum with their latest tribute to ho's and beyotches, or that He is tied up helping Tim Tebow complete a pass.

But those instances aside, the best I can hope for is that by continuing to put things off as long as possible, I'll be able to keep the Powers That Be on their toes.

The Art And Sport Of Taking My Blood

2012-01-10T12:55:00.000-08:00

I'm afraid of needles.

It's not an irrational fear, like agoraphobia (a fear of wide open spaces) or arachnophobia (a fear of spiders). This is legitimate.

I've never read a documented case of a wide open space inflicting pain or damage on a human being.

And while there are instances where a spider bite has been lethal, I've rarely encountered a North American eight-legger that could withstand my size 10-and-a-halfs.

That particular phobia loses a lot of points with me because it afflicts both of the women in my house. I can't count the number of times I've heard an ear-piercing scream from some part of my home that could make a cadaver shiver. After nearly pulling a hamstring trying to hurriedly clamber from the comfort of my La-Z-Boy and racing to that part of the building, I usually find a spider about the size of an eye booger cowering in the corner of the room, begging me to get these screaming female bipeds away from it.

Needles are different.

They were invented for one purpose, and one purpose alone: to perforate human skin in the most torturous manner possible in order to remove something you need, or introduce something that doesn't belong in there. I'll take a carload of eye booger spiders over a lone, pain-inducing needle.

Anyone who tells you that needles don't hurt is either a liar, a drunkard, or a compensated member of the health care profession. I've met car salesmen who are more honest than a white-shoed smock-wearer with a penicillin "gift" behind his or her back.

Even worse are the times when you arrive at the emergency room with some body part leaking red fluid like a busted radiator from a '62 Buick. One of the first lies they'll tell you in the E.R. (after the "your Senior Dimensions insurance will cover all of this" fib) is that they're going to give you a shot for the pain. Well, maybe it's not an outright lie, just some medical doublespeak. The person with the new red floral print on their previously white Aerosmith t-shirt hears "this will help it stop hurting." What the white-coat really means is "we're going to give you this shot to give you more pain, because that bone sticking out of your arm doesn't look uncomfortable enough."

I recently had my annual visit with my physician, Dr. Larry Cain. For starters, you have to love a sawbones named "Larry." No pretentious moniker like "Charles" or "Xavier" or "Lawrence."

One of the first things you'll notice about Dr. Cain is that he's tall. How tall? He's one of the few guys on whom Shaquille O'Neal could use the old "how's the weather up there?" bit. I believe God made Dr. Cain about 7'6" tall because that's what it would take to store all that medical knowledge AND his kind heart. (Never trust a short doctor, unless he's a podiatrist or a proctologist.)

Unfortunately, the medical school he attended apparently had a swinging watch with an extra long chain, because like all of his M.D. colleagues he has been hypnotized into believing that needles are our friends.

During my visit, he started filling out a pink and blue form that looked like a colorful crossword puzzle, complete with numbered boxes and long, unintelligible hints.

Turns out, it was a lab form.

For the uninitiated, "lab" is medical code for "the place where human extremities are forced to do pin cushion impressions."

If you've ever visited a sports pub and wondered where all those inebriated semi-pro dart players work during the day, you need look no further than your nearest blood-sucking facility. In fact, if you pay close attention the next time they strap you into the chair before turning your inner elbow into a trip-20 ring, you'll realize that the damp cotton pad they're rubbing on your skin is actually soaked with last night's leftover Patron.

Unfortunately, because malpractice insurers won't allow the phlebotomists to drink on the job, it can sometimes take two or three throws before they "close out the bulls" on your arm (shots they would never miss in the third round of a league tournament).

On this day, the capable woman tasked with giving my arm a new non-decorative piercing discovered one of my embarrassing secrets.

You know how they say certain male body parts tend to shrink and shrivel when in the throes of terror?

My veins tend to do the same thing.

When in the same room with an unsheathed needle, the blood vessels in my arm will constrict to the thickness of six pound test fishing line, then start trying to play hide and seek behind the nearest tendon.

My left arm won round one.

Since I couldn't convince the needle bearer to do it my way, which would be to allow me to scratch the scab off my shin from a previous night's game of "Pin The Tail On The Toilet In The Middle Of The Night," she moved on to my right arm. She was quick and stealthy, which allowed her to sneak up on my throwing limb before the vein could camouflage itself under the forest of arm hair.

Like an old time mountaineer with a pointy miniature divining rod, she was able to bring in a gusher with the first stab, filling what seemed to me like four or five quart-sized milk bottles with my blood.

In a few days we'll have the lab results, but I don't need a report to confirm that I am simply suffering from an allergy.

I am allergic to needles, and the white-coated stethoscope-wearing villains who wield them.

My Exciting News

2012-01-03T12:15:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been six months since leaving the newspaper. Since then, I've been pursuing my lifelong dream of becoming a published author.

I was raised in a traditional home where both mom and dad went off to work every day; mom as a nurse, dad as a police officer.

Both of them also worked a variety of part time second jobs. Dad did auto body work, drove a tractor trailer, played music in a band, and even worked for a cement company to fill his days when he wasn't on patrol. Mom did a stint as a waitress, drove a tractor trailer (hauling 8,000 gallons of gasoline, no less), and even drove a school bus in between college classes to earn her nursing degree.

So as I sit in my bedroom office day after day, you can imagine the guilt that seeps in as I fail to live up to my surname. Sometimes I feel like the punchline of an unfunny joke that begins "what's the difference between an unpublished writer and an unemployed bum?" To be honest, I'm not always clear on the distinction between the two. Both involve wearing slippers and unattractive oversized "comfy" garments that don't include a belt. As for income, each role earns roughly the same as the guy who can't answer the first-round question "what color is blue ice cream?" on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire."

Bums and writers both dream of the day when they'll "hit it big." For bums, that day usually involves some sort of lotto ticket or pharmaceutical settlement. For writers, it's the elusive "best seller."

For the record, I'm 0-for-20 in the lottery ticket department over the last few months. As for a "best seller," I'd be ecstatic with a "one or two seller."

Here comes the exciting news I promised last week:

It looks like I'm one step closer to that "one or two seller."

I finished my novel "The Cabin" in September. It's the horror story of an entity which brings death and destruction within the winter storms, damage mistakenly attributed to the snow and wind.

It also highlights a...well, I don't want to spoil it for you.

Once the novel was finished, I passed it along to a few friends and a kindhearted yet knowledgeable journalism teacher, who all agreed it doesn't suck too much.

After it passed muster with them, I sent it off to a dozen publishing companies.

Then I waited. And waited. And waited...

If my life were a movie, this would be the scene where a ghostly clock floats by, its hands spinning maniacally; or a calendar with page after page being torn off to show the passage of time.

I don't know a lot about the publishing business but I suspect they buy their timepieces from the same people who make clocks for the NFL, because I feel like an eternity has passed while I'd bet only two minutes have ticked off the wall clocks at the various publishing houses I've contacted.

This is tough for a former newspaper man. I'm accustomed to covering a scene, writing a story, editing it, and seeing it online the next day, followed by a print version a few days after that.

I cut my journalistic teeth on immediacy.

Now I'm splashing around in the other end of the pool, the place where bespectacled turtles dwell. It's a place where the only person who seems to be in a hurry is me.

I've only received two actual rejection letters, the bane of all authors. Even Stephen King racked up dozens of "no's" before "Carrie" caught on.

However, instead of being painful, those letters were quick and merciful. For those two companies, the waiting was over. It wasn't a yes, but at least I knew.

But for the rest of the submissions, time continues to tick away. Slowly.

How slowly?

Think back to your elementary school days. Do you remember the first time you sent "The Note" to the cute girl in the second row? You know, the one that says "Do you like me?" followed by a pair of check boxes labeled "Yes" and "No" in pencil? Can you remember how agonizingly long it took for the minutes and seconds to peel away before you got your scribbled response?

Now multiply that by 10,000.

In talking to a couple of other published writers, I've been told to be patient; that it can sometimes take up to six months to hear back from a publisher.

I've been on Amazon and visited Best Buy a half dozen times in search of "patience," but all the stores seem to be out of it.

Fortunately - and here comes the "exciting" part - I finally got an answer the day before Christmas Eve. A publishing company in Pennsylvania advised they would like to offer me a publishing contract.

If the word wasn't already copyrighted, trademarked, and protected by a large battery of attorneys, at this point I would yell out "yahoo!"

Along with the acceptance, the publisher asked that I respond "ASAP." I find that ironic, considering how long it took them to figure out where the "reply" button was on their iMac.

Being a bit of a snot, I of course made them wait. I didn't send my confirmation until three whole hours later. As part of that reply, I asked them to send the contract at their earliest convenience. I was hoping to review it over the holidays so I could figure out exactly how many firstborn children they would require, and the mailing address where I should forward my soul.

Today is January 3. I still haven't received the contract.

However, I'm still upbeat and optimistic. In human terms, that's 11 days. But in publisher and NFL time, it's barely second down and five, with two timeouts remaining.

The important thing is that someone has actually expressed an interest in publishing my book, something that doesn't always happen for first-time authors.

So that's the exciting news.

As soon as I know more, I'll share it with you.

That is, if the publisher replies before the Mayan calendar runs out.

Could The Anti-Christ Be A Woman?

2011-12-12T11:36:00.000-08:00

I've never been much on religion. I don't pretend to subscribe to any particular dogma, other than I believe in God because the alternative is too depressing to contemplate.

I also believe in a lot of what Darwin had to say, although I just can't buy into the notion that the intricate functions of a pancreas or gall bladder are really the result of a genetic crap shoot played out over millions of years.

There are big chunks of the Bible I don't believe, mostly because I know that the whole thing was written by human beings, and I know humans tend to lie and exaggerate for their own gains. But I still enjoy a lot of it, and many of the stories make for excellent drama.

One of the things that appeals to me about most religions is the symbiotic balance contained in their tomes. If there's a Heaven, there must be a Hell. If there's good, there must be evil. If you believe in God, you must also allow for the existence of Satan.

Along with the more mainstream interpretations of religion are scenarios depicted by zealots. While I hate having anything forced down my throat, including sweets, and as a general rule I dislike any group that claims to have cornered the market on truth or are in sole possession of the secrets leading to "the way," I also enjoy some of the wild stories they are able to concoct in their quest to scare and sway the undecided.

For example, while there are tons of folks who believe Jesus will one day return to the earth, there's another faction that believes that the "Anti-Christ" is also on his way, if he isn't already here.

Blend into that confection a claim by a small minority that God is actually a woman. I like that idea, and their arguments make sense. God created mankind. When you consider childbirth, bringing forth life is kind of a feminine gig.

Kindness, patience, virtue, and other touch-feely concepts from the New Testament also sit a little heavier on the female side of the ledger. (The Old Testament God was a bit of a bully. Just ask Abraham. But as a lot of modern day troublemakers have shown, men tend to calm down a bit once they become fathers.)

Using these tidbits, I proffer the following:

If it's possible that God is a woman, is it possible that the Anti-Christ might also be female?

I know a lot of guys who would jump on this concept, and quickly hold up their ex-wives as potential candidates.

Because I'm not into religion, I don't know a lot about the Anti-Christ, other than what I've read in the "Left Behind" series by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins. One of the big traits is that Jesus' counterpart will be known as "The Great Deceiver."

I could get into a whole discussion on who makes better liars, men or women.

Comedian Chris Rock did an excellent examination of this question in his show "Bigger and Blacker."

"Men lie the most, women tell the biggest lies," Rock explained. "A man's lie is like, 'I was at Tony's house.' A woman's lie is like, 'It's your baby.'"

Both sexes are guilty of the sin. So if both are capable, why couldn't the Great Deceiver be a woman?

I've looked for "signs" among current celebrities.

For the longest time, I was convinced Sarah Palin was a candidate for the position. The job of Anti-Christ may be the only one for which she hasn't actively campaigned at one time or another. Then I realized that the Anti-Christ is probably going to be a little smarter than a half-term ex-governor from Alaska who has to write crib notes on her hand and punctuates her most meaningful dialogue with "you betcha."

Ditto for Lindsay Lohan, who embodies a version of the old joke: "Q - How do you know when Lindsay Lohan is lying when she's in court? A - Her lips are moving." A lot of young girls have followed her like she's the Pied Piper equipped with a bag full of Ecstacy instead of a flute. But her appeal pretty much ends there, although she's sure to pick up some new male fans when her spread appears in Playboy next month.

I think some votes could go in the direction of Kristen Stewart, the mopey actress from the "Twilight" film series. She's made millions convincing teenagers that everyone should aspire to become a member of the undead, whether vampire or werewolf.

Casey Anthony would also be a reasonable nominee for the role. It requires true evil to kill your own child, and the guile of a gifted Anti-Christ to convince 12 jurors that you didn't do it when every scrap of evidence and reason indicates otherwise.

And how could anyone leave Hilary Clinton off a list of potential candidates for female Anti-Christ? Although, she's been so uninspiring in the last three years that few people would bother to follow her to the bathroom at an all-you-can-drink frat party.

On the male side, it's still easy to find likely options for Anti-Christ, so long as Dick Cheney continues to breathe and Newt Gingrich continues to run for president.

And you can bet the Obama haters are sure to nominate our current president as a likely candidate for the Dark Lord's throne.

Of course, if you believe those same haters about our president's religion, it's pretty unlikely since Muslims don't count as Christians (even though they believe in Christ), and therefore couldn't technically qualify for the job of Anti-Christ.

So if there really is an Anti-Christ in the offing, who do you think it might be? And is it possible that the job could be filled by a woman? And if so, would the Anti-Christ also earn about two-thirds of what a male Anti-Christ would make for the same job?

The Trauma Of Buying A New Christmas Tree

2011-12-05T11:11:00.000-08:00

Workman Christmas Tree
RIP
2002-2011

I broke one of my personal taboos recently, and the shopping gods punished me accordingly.

I usually don't do any Christmas shopping until after Dec. 10. It's one of those quirky things about me, like insisting that Christmas presents get opened Christmas Day instead of Christmas Eve, and the fact that I don't eat my dessert until after dinner.

On the weekend closest to Dec. 10 each year, I inflict holiday torture on my family with what I call "Christmas Spirit Day." On that day, I used to tie our children to the sofa with garland and force feed them a non-stop lineup of old Christmas movies like "Miracle on 34th Street" (the colorized version), "It's A Wonderful Life" (the black and white version), "Scrooge" (the 1951 version of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" with Alastair Sim, the absolute best version ever made), "Scrooged" (the comedy version of "A Christmas Carol" with Bill Murray, the second-best version ever made), the Jim Carrey version of "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas," "A Christmas Story" with Ralphie and his Red Ryder BB gun, and my all time favorite Christmas movie, "White Christmas" with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and George Clooney's aunt Rosemary.

When all the movies were done, or after the children managed to chew through the garland, my wife would make hot chocolate and we would decorate the Christmas tree and put up holiday decorations inside and outside the house. I can tell you that the hot chocolate part of the tradition was another form of torture back when we lived in Florida, where drinking a hot beverage in 80-degree weather could cause another Southern holiday tradition called heat stroke.

The movies and decorating were intended to put all of us in the mood, and make it easier for me to crack open my wallet for the trip to the North Pole (also known, then and now, as Walmart).

Filled with the Christmas spirit, shopping wasn't such a burden; also, since Christmas carols were verboten around our house until Dec. 10, I wasn't yet sick of the Muzak arrangements of "Silver Bells" and "Little Drummer Boy" force fed into the speaker systems at the stores and malls since just after Labor Day.

This year, we bent a little early on the rule. We're still going to watch all of the Christmas movies on Dec. 10 (our youngest daughter is now 21, old enough to tie herself to the couch), but I relented on an early shopping trip over the weekend, a full week before the legal start of the shopping season at the Workman hacienda. That's because you can't decorate a Christmas tree without...a Christmas tree.

We've had the same artificial Scotch pine since 2002, the year after we moved to the desert, and it was getting a little worn. You know your fake tree is too old when it sheds more needles coming out of the box than a real tree does by Dec. 28.

So we went in search of a new tree.

Wow!

Within two hours, it began to look like there wouldn't be any presents UNDER the tree this year because our entire Christmas budget was going to get blown ON the tree.

Our first stop was in a craft store that boasted it had trees for sale.

I quickly realized that whoever was responsible for putting the price tags on those trees needed to step away from the glue gun and its fumes. The first one we looked at was $400.

To be fair, it was pre-lit, which is how most trees are sold these days.

Initially, I thought a pre-lit tree was a great idea. It meant one less step in the tree-erecting process, and a lot fewer four-letter words on Christmas Spirit day at our house while the patriarch tries to untangle the strings of lights from the previous Christmas (and one less trip to the North Pole/Walmart to buy four more boxes of lights to replace the tangled ones after the patriarch yells "Scrooge it" and throws away the lights bought last year).

At the next stop, a big-box home improvement store whose name in no way resembles its pricing structure (the store would be called "Highs" if that were the case), we found pre-lit trees in the $200-300 range. Unfortunately, even with the built-in lights, the trees were so scraggly looking that even Charlie Brown would have taken a pass. How scraggly were they? There are Las Vegas strippers that aren't as bare as some of those trees.

I was beginning to think that maybe a home-made Christmas tree was in order. I was pretty sure I could take an old broom, spray the handle with a light adhesive, then wave it around under the bed where the family cat sleeps, and still have a version of fake tree that looked fuller than anything we had seen so far.

On our way out of Highs, irony got a chance to slap me upside the head. There, we found a display of real trees, priced anywhere from $30 to $60. One of the reasons we bought a fake tree back in 2002 was because it was cheaper than buying a real one. Guess those days are gone forever.

Finally we ended up at the rich-man's Walmart, a store we affectionately refer to as "Bullseyes" or "Tar-jay" (said with a redneck French accent).

There, we finally found the 2011 Workman tree.

It doesn't have any lights, isn't pre-decorated, and is full and bushy enough that you can't see the rods and wires to which the green pipe cleaners are attached. It also has uncomplicated instructions that basically say "attach section A to section B; attach section B to section C; attach section C into the decorative plastic tree stand." The only thing missing is a little white warning label that reads "this is an artificial tree - do not water."

It was "only" $85.

So when Dec. 10 rolls around, we'll have something to decorate at the Workman castle. Now if only our worn out 15-year-old video tapes can withstand one more go-round in an ancient contraption called a "VCR," my family can enjoy another year of hearing Jimmy Stewart yelling "Merry Christmas, movie house" while drinking hot chocolate in the middle of the desert.

New Bra Gives Your Butt A Lift

2011-11-28T10:40:00.000-08:00

You knew it had to happen.

In this, the dawning of the age of Kardashian (which is a little bit noisier, a lot more vacuous, and has more hair than the age of Aquarius), baby's gotta got back.

A new product developed by a California psychologist provides what every saggy-seated woman dreams of: a butt lift.

This sounds like the kind of farcical product to be featured in between Saturday Night Live skits, but it's actually a new fashion device that is getting a lot of attention among the fashionazis.

The contraption looks like looped garters, with adjustable straps going around the outside of each buttock and rejoining between the legs. The effect is to add a little J-Lo to every woman's backside.

The makers call it the "Biniki," referring to it as a bra for the butt.

It's hard to understand why fashionazis hate women so much. The joke is that the fashion industry today is controlled by gay men, who compete to prove just how anti-woman they are by contriving the ugliest, most uncomfortable clothing possible. That may or may not be true, but there's no denying that mid-century prisoners of war endured tortures that were far less painful than an eight-hour shift on seven-inch heels. It's no wonder that men complain their women want to talk to them non-stop when they get home from work, since they've endured a full day of discomfort usually imposed by German SS officers insisting that their subject "talk, you swine!"

Similarly, the only way the underwire on a woman's bra could be any more uncomfortable is if they connected it to a couple of 12-volt truck batteries and turned the amperage knob to "full."

Then you have the "Wonderbra," which improves the appearance of a woman's cleavage, but also leaves men to "wonder" why any woman would go through such extreme and uncomfortable lengths to perpetrate the hoax of an overstated ta-ta size on the public.

And that doesn't even include the liquid-filled bra, which is as close to water torture as the Geneva Convention will allow.

To its credit, the new butt bra is likely to attract a man's attention; not only because of the enhanced derriere illusion it provides, but because it's similarity to the lifting chains and straps of a car engine hoist is sure to intrigue every gearhead at bedtime.

The new device is getting a lot of attention and is sure to keep the California psychologist in cash for several lifetimes, leaving most former therapy patients desperate to ask the newly-enriched couch jockey "how does that make you feel?"

Since I'm big on bandwagon jumping, I've come up with a few inventions of my own, in hopes that one of them will catch on among the fashion firing squads, including:

"The UPS" - this is a contraption that fits like men's underwear, but includes enormous and bulky padding in the front that will give women the impression that the wearer is sporting an impressive "package."
"The Convertible Chest" - the early iterations of this product will be like a large sheet of smooth, flesh colored Band-Aid tape that a man can stick to his chest. It will give the illusion of a smooth, hairless torso for women who are turned off by the hairy-chested Guido look, while allowing a man the option of maintaining his inner wildebeest for those female companions and cat lovers who like to have something tangled and matted to run their fingers through at bedtime. A companion product, the "Convertible Back," applies the same theory to help men who have been mistaken for escaped zoo-dwellers when viewed from behind at the beach. The only hang-up in early research development is that few Neanderthal types have been willing to put the no-hair-pulling adhesive to the test, especially after watching reruns of the waxing scene from "The 40-year-old Virgin."
"The Maniki" - just like the Biniki, it is a device men wear which will make their butts protrude, filling out their Wranglers to Brett Favre proportions. The truth is that the accoutrement is actually nothing more than a jock strap, which is the secret behind why women lust after NFL running backs, and adds credence to the rumor that Kim Kardashian actually dumped former boyfriend Reggie Bush because she realized that his butt looked better than hers whenever he trotted onto the field in his New Orleans Saints uniform.
"The Rocktavia" - similar to Octavia dresses worn by curvy actresses like Kate Winslet that give the illusion of a slimmer waistline, the Rocktavia uses strategically placed reflective strips and holographic tape to hide a man's beer belly, while giving the illusion of a "six pack" with a series of a half-dozen bean bags sewn into the shirt's abdominal lining.

For now, these man-friendly ideas are still in the drawing board phase. However, the Biniki is already a reality, and continuing to grow in popularity. You'll know it has hit its peak when the Bravo Channel rolls out a new reality show this fall called "The Real Binikis of Orange County."

Pocket Protector Pit Crew At CERN Insists Einstein Was Wrong

2011-11-21T09:21:00.000-08:00

CERN's Hadron Collider, where scientists claim they have
discovered neutrinos are faster than the speed of light, as
long as the light comes from a three-wheeled scooter.

It gives me great pleasure to announce that genius extraordinaire Albert Einstein was wrong.

To me, it's not really important what the frizzy-haired whiz was wrong about. It could be an errant answer in a game of Trivial Pursuit and I would celebrate his mistake.

I say this because the guy who turned the cryptic equation E=MC²into a successful t-shirt franchise was known as the smartest man on the planet until he died in 1955 from terminal stubbornness. It was actually an aortal aneurism that laid him low, but it was a correctable malady even in 1955 when surgical tools still included leeches and chopsticks. Einstein simply opted not to have the surgery.

So now we're aware of the German-born scientist making two mistakes in his life. The second one was outed recently by the guys with the big electron race car track called CERN near Geneva.

According to Einstein, nothing in the universe is faster than the speed of light. Unfortunately, that's because Old Al lived in the first half of the 20th century. Since then, there have been a lot of things shown to be faster than that, including:

A Kardashian marriage
A Lindsay Lohan jail stay
The length of an American Idol winner's career
The shelf life of a Hostess Twinkie at Rosie O'Donnell's house
The time spent on Jessica Simpson's deepest thought
How long after election it takes a new Congressman to accept his first bribe

According to the guys at CERN, Einstein was incorrect. They claim that recent tests at their Hadron Collider prove that a particle called a neutrino is actually 60 nanoseconds faster than the speed of light.

I find it hilarious and telling that you can take a collection of mostly men with diplomas listing more advanced degrees than a Redman tobacco thermometer, give them a couple of billion dollars, and the first thing they do is build a 17-mile oval race track and start holding races and time trials. I guess the white coats help really set off the red of their necks.

However, I'm not sure I buy their hypothesis.

How long is a nanosecond? Who knows. Not even Bulova can make a watch that will measure such a minute (pronounced "my-newt," not "min-nut," which is my ghastly attempt at a pun) fraction of time. But it seems to get the guys in white lab coats all excited like Tony Stewart's crew chief following a 12-second pit stop.

The bigger question remains, "what is a neutrino?"

I got out my biggest Egghead-to-English translation dictionary only to find that it basically means "little neutral one" in Italian. It's allegedly like an electron, but without being electrically charged. It's neither positive nor negative.

In other words, it's as completely politically correct as they come.

But I believe that those guys are as wrong as Einstein. As Congress has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt for more than three decades, nothing in nature is completely neutral.

However, the brainiacs in Switzerland insist that neutrinos exist. The skeptical newspaper man in me suspects that the neutrinos also have an exquisite wardrobe made with the finest thread that only those with superior IQ's can see and appreciate (which would lead me to label them "emperor neutrinos").

I find it fascinating that people have been seeing actual ghosts for centuries, including documented and photographed proof of their antics. Yet scientists continue to insist that ghosts don't exist, but that we should believe in these mystical neutrinos despite the fact that you could take all the PhD's in the world who claim to have "seen" a neutrino, and they could comfortably fit into the space of a single Spock Ears booth at a Des Moines Star Trek convention.

Who would have thought that the Mensa crowd would glom onto a phrase that used car salesmen wore out a quarter-century ago: "Trust me."

But to me the important thing remains the fact that a collection of virginal electron nerds armored with pocket protectors on both sides of their shirts insist that the smartest guy ever to walk the planet was wrong.

If I had a nickel for every time someone pointed out a mistake in my writing with the suffix "Workman, you're no Einstein," I could now cash them in and be a millionaire. But more importantly thanks to the new claim by the pit crew at the CERN race track, that Einstein was also occasionally wrong, I now have a flawless retort:

Apparently, yes I am.

Race Between Christmas And Politics

2011-11-14T08:49:00.000-08:00

The race is on, and the two competitors couldn't be more different.

It's what some might call a "hurry up" race. Others might refer to it as "the race to prematurity."

I'm talking about the insistence on starting earlier and earlier to hawk some event.

On the holiday side, it's no secret that Santa images started popping up about the same time Freddy Kruger knocked on your door.

People say it every year, and every year they're more correct: The Christmas season seems to start earlier and earlier.

This year, my e-mail box has been flooded with various stores and businesses helping me prepare for "Black Friday," that day of shopping madness that usually comes the day after Thanksgiving.

Probably the best evidence that incrementalism has helped the Ho-Ho holiday creep up earlier is the announcement by Walmart that their Black Friday will actually begin at 10 p.m. on Thursday. That's right, for those who can still move after a day of epicurean excess, Walmart will be holding their first big blowout of the Christmas season with a sale on toys and video games at 10 p.m. Thanksgiving night. Then at midnight comes the one that usually results in somebody getting a ride in an ambulance thanks to trampling injuries - the sale on electronics.

I always thought the Black Friday thing was indicative of the worst in our consumer society, ramping up our shopping fanaticism a full month before Rudolph needed to get his nose shined up. Sneaking that starting pistol to Thursday night, infringing on the Thanksgiving holiday's territory, is simply wrong.

The arrival of TV ads and Christmas themed music also comes earlier and earlier. In fact, and I'm not kidding, I actually came across the movie "The Santa Clause" playing on TV over the weekend. (For those reading this in the future, I'm talking about Nov. 12.)

We used to joke every January that instead of taking down our holiday decorations, we should just go ahead and leave them up year round.

Thanks to the folks on Madison Avenue, that joke gets less funny each season.

You'll know the race to start Christmas shopping early has gone too far the day you see Santa and the Easter Bunny duking it out in your front yard some April.

But it's not just the retailers with an impatience bone.

It's not just an illusion that the race for president is starting earlier and earlier.

The next president of the United States won't be sworn in until Jan. 20, 2013. Yet here we are, in the early part of November, 2011, and we've already been forced to endure no less than a dozen televised presidential debates. (And I use the term loosely, since I've yet to see any "debating" take place at one of these events; it's actually just a compilation of candidates taking turns offering carefully crafted competing 120-second sound bites.)

I remember the good old days, when people didn't get sick of presidential politics until the national conventions fired up in the summer.

Here it is only November of 2011, a full year before the election, and I'm already tired of hearing from and about the candidates. Even as protracted and fake-dramatic as American Idol can be, the nonsense and final voting are wrapped up in less than two months.

You used to have to wait until the spring of an election year for political scandals to erupt. Now we have the Herman Cain sexual harassment claims getting front page publicity at the same time Santa is making his first appearances in the Sunday newspaper.

The first primary is yet to be held, and we've already had people dropping out of the race. It's like holding the time qualification laps for February's Daytona 500 sometime around July.

The TV personalities and political junkies were wetting themselves over the Iowa straw poll in August. A testament to just how meaningless these early straw polls can be is the fact that the winner of the Ames straw poll just three months ago is now about one "debate" away from going back to selling Avon.

It's ridiculous how early these presidential campaigns are starting these days, and rivals the early-Christmas dope pushers for impatient stupidity.

Personally, I'm hoping to solve both problems at the same time.

If I'm able to keep my eyes open long enough to continue paying attention, I'm going to listen very carefully to the next 30 or 40 televised debates. The first candidate to state that they will support legislation prohibiting the mention of the words "Christmas" or "Holiday Shopping" between January and November, or who promises to change the Constitution to restrict presidential campaigns to only be permitted in an actual election year, will get my support and vote.

Provided, of course, that candidate is still in the race when the next babbling, cooing, drooling, caca-producing, gibberish-spouting political twins are born at the national conventions nine months from now.

Missing Andy Rooney

2011-11-07T10:38:00.000-08:00

You know what really bugs me? Writing heroes who die before I'm ready.

That would be a perfect opening for one of Andy Rooney's patented "60 Minutes" pieces.

His topics on TV made him famous, but I admire him because the CBS gig was actually like a side job for him.

Andy Rooney, at his core, was a writer.

In addition to his weekly TV appearances, he also wrote for numerous TV shows, including Arthur Godfrey's "Talent Scouts," an early precursor to American Idol in which the studio audience chose the winners with applause instead of texts.

He was also a newspaper columnist, and wrote a few books. In his younger years, he served as a war correspondent for Stars and Stripes in World War II.

In fact, he often described himself as "a writer who happens to be on TV," instead of the other way around.

I've often thought that, if I could design my perfect job, it would be his. In fact, I've caught myself on occasion writing articles that had a distinct Rooney feel while railing about one thing or another. He was able to walk a fine line, offering views on topical issues without actually becoming a critic or political commentator. His stuff wasn't particularly hard hitting, but it also wasn't fluff. It was always, however, entertaining.

The irascible observationist didn't shy away from his unofficial title as "curmudgeon." But despite his diatribes, I never felt he was truly mean. In fact, he once commented that he hadn't said anything on "60 Minutes" that people didn't already know or hadn't thought.

According to a Washington Post piece, Rooney once said "A writer's job is to tell the truth."

I've always subscribed to that philosophy, and was always pleased that his fame didn't corrupt that approach.

He was a principled man. When CBS refused to run a piece he had written about the Vietnam War in 1970, he quit the network. He later returned in 1973.

He spoke his mind and didn't apologize for being politically incorrect. However, when he was wrong, he was man enough to admit it, as he did when a remark made about homosexuals resulted in his month-long suspension at CBS. (Incidentally it was supposed to be a two-month suspension, but after viewership dropped 20%, he was reinstated early.) In his televised apology in which he talked about trying to do good things for most of his life, he said "Now, I was to be known for having done, not good, but bad. I'd be known for the rest of my life as a racist bigot and as someone who had made life a little more difficult for homosexuals. I felt terrible about that and I've learned a lot."

Rooney also stated frequently that "writers don't retire." He lived that statement, continuing to do his "60 Minutes" segments right up until Oct. 2. Like Alabama football coaching legend Paul "Bear" Bryant who died barely a month after coaching his last game, Rooney died almost exactly one month after his last "60 Minutes" segment aired. He was 92.

While the writer and TV personality said he didn't believe in God, I'm sure he has found plenty of great writers to keep him company on the other side of the veil, including brilliant columnists like Lewis Grizzard and author Michael Crichton.

On this side, he'll be missed. As much as I've dreamed of being like him in some of my writings, I know that there will never be another Andy Rooney.

Insurance Ghost Needed

2011-10-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

I wish my house was haunted.

To be honest, my internal jury is still out on the existence of ghosts. I mean, I've seen some things in my life that can't be explained away by a mere Jim Beam overindulgence, but I also have doubts.

However, I'm a horror fiction writer. A part of me is required to believe. I'm not sure, but I think it's part of the Horror Fiction Writers Union credo that belief in ghosts, vampires, werewolves, zombies, soulless night walkers, Lindsey Lohan, and other members of the undead is a requirement. To give in to the notion that beings from beyond the veil don't exist might call into question my integrity as a professional story-maker-upper.

So I'm going to go on the record here and make the bold and firm statement that I believe ghosts might possibly sort-of maybe could theoretically have the opportunity to perhaps exist. Or not.

That said, if ghosts do exist, I wish one would set up shop in my residence.

It's not that I relish coming face to face with one of Casper's rogue brethren, or that I desire sleepless nights caused by rattling chains. The truth is, I'm already awakened nearly every night around 3:15 a.m. by the rattling chains of my dog's collar, because Cree has this deeply-entrenched habit of wanting to go outside and pee on something at exactly that time. It gives a whole new meaning to the term "wee" hours of the morning. Midnight is the Witching hour, but for Cree, 3:15 a.m. is the Whizzing hour.

My reason for wanting a manifestation infestation is to combat the effects of old age.

Here's what I mean:

I find that some of my personal belongings occasionally become misplaced. Keys, pens, sticky notes, a wallet...these are just a few of the things that I sometimes have difficulty locating.

Because I've been on the planet more than half a century, I'm concerned that those misplaced gadgets could be attributed to my aging, forgetful mind. It's not an alternative I like to consider. It would be much better if I had someone or something else to blame.

Before I got married, missing items such as these were easily chalked up to the reference I made earlier about Mr. Beam. After a night at the bar (I used to be a performing musician), it would be a completely reasonable claim that the bourbon was responsible for my missing keys, missing wallet, or missing car.

Then I got married. One of the advantages to having small children in the house is that they are easy to accuse for objects that have gone AWOL. For starters, they usually did it. And even when they didn't, the precedent has been established, which as any good lawyer will tell you is almost as good as actual evidence or confessions.

Now that the kids are all grown, it's tougher to hang missing goods at their doorstep.

So who do I blame today when I can't find my iPhone, or my toenail clippers go missing?

If I had a good, legitimate ghost to blame, I would feel a lot better.

I could also pawn off other inconveniences on such an entity.

For example, I have left my desk in the morning with a stack of 20 papers on it, only to return in the afternoon to find 40 pages there.

The papers on my desk seem to be multiplying like uncaged rabbits that have nibbled through someone's Viagra garden.

My desk is always a mess, always overrun with books, boxes, paper, pens, and unencumbered office supplies, even after I just finished cleaning it.

I wanted to blame alien civil servants, figuring they were likely candidates to be so obsessed with paperwork that they would come to Earth and inundate an innocent piece of furniture with their paper mill excrement of forms, instructions, and reminders.

Then I remembered that I don't believe in aliens.

It would be much easier if I could claim that the office in my house is haunted by the ghost of a former insurance agent. I've been in that business, so I know how enamored those in the indemnity industry can be with higher and higher piles of paper. In fact, I was in the insurance business back when computers were really taking over and the term "paperless office" became a popular catchphrase. What I remember best about those times was the fact that the volume of printed materials actually quadrupled under the "paperless" mantra. (It wasn't the computer's fault; the PC's evil cousin, The Printer, was to blame.)

An insurance agent ghost would also be a genuine explanation for misplaced items. Whenever my favorite pen isn't on my nightstand where I insist I left it, I could blame the Prudential poltergeist for moving it when the pen turns up on the living room end table the next day.

In a perfect world, the Allstate apparition would be married for time and eternity to an expired laundress, which would explain the thousands of right socks and monogrammed handkerchiefs that have gone missing from our dryer over the last 10 years.

Unfortunately, one of the disadvantages to living in a newer house devoid of ghastly histories involving murder and mayhem is that I can't conjure up tales of headless John Hancock agents wandering the hallway in possession of my always-absent scissors.

So for now I'll have to continue finding new and creative ways of blaming the dog whenever things go missing from my desk, a claim that will have little credence until the next time I find my keys near a wet spot on the lawn at 3:15 a.m.

Kutcher Whining Typical Of Fame Whores

2011-10-25T09:09:00.000-07:00

One of the things you've got to love about celebrities is how they complain about the media.

The latest whiner is Ashton Kutcher, Demi Moore's boy toy.

He has recently taken to the internet to claim that the media needs to work harder to confirm their stories and to be more honest in their reporting.

This comes after reports that he and Demi are on the outs, and further allegations that he slept with a girl on his 6-year wedding anniversary that not only wasn't his 48 year old wife, but also wasn't even half his wife's age.

Any time a Hollywood celebrity complains about how he or she is treated by the media, I can't help but crack up.

Before they are famous, so many of these untalented wannabes hump the leg of every photog in Southern California in hopes that their face will show up in one of the celeb-rags. They will do just about anything to gain a little bit of press, including marrying someone who happens to be just a few years younger than their own mom.

You'll find these fame whores having animated conversations with restaurant doors just because they see the word "press" next to the handle. (They never have anything to say to the side of the door that says "pull.")

On the rise, their reps set up interviews and meetings with anyone who even remotely resembles a reporter, which is how so many up and coming stars wind up visiting homeless shelters on a regular basis. (In Hollywood, as in most places, there isn't a big difference in appearance between a freelance paparazzi and a street beggar. For that matter, there isn't a big difference in conduct, either.)

Once these scumbags (the rising stars, not the reporters) achieve a certain level of fame, made possible only because those paps snapped plenty of pictures and gave plenty of exposure, they suddenly begin treating the photogs like rabid lepers. They save their choicest insults, and occasionally their best umbrella beatings for the reporters that helped them get where they are.

Then when these Hollywood slugs (still talking about the rising stars) break through to legitimate stardom, they all become Marcel Marceau when on the streets, offering silence and occasional pantomimed finger gestures to the flash-photography flock.

Finally, the anointed ones do what all Hollywood trash heaps do - they eventually mess up in a big way, like sleeping with a Highland Park transvestite hooker, or showing up to a gala function sans their Victoria Secrets.

Or sleeping with a 22-year-old bimbette on their anniversary.

When that happens, the celeb hogs who just weeks before were bragging about how many hundreds of thousands of followers they have on Twitter pull a Dick Cheney, going so far underground that steam shovel-equipped prairie dogs couldn't reach them. All of a sudden they're not giving interviews, not taking calls from legitimate media trying to find the truth, not addressing allegations in press releases, and avoiding getting their pictures taken as if their latest gig was on "To Catch A Predator."

With that news blackout from the fame whore, the paparazzi and press are left with no alternative but to talk to other people, like the bimbette, the bimbette's dry cleaners, the fame whore's former stylist, and anybody else willing to do what the former glory hound will no longer do - talk.

Obviously, a reasonable person who has anything resembling a real life would ask "who cares about who so-and-so shtupped?"

Except, the answer is "almost everybody!"

People are so fed up with the lies and spin printed in "legitimate" media about the latest Congressional inaction, and the deeply slanted partisan rhetoric that now passes for "news," that they don't even bother to pick up a newspaper or turn on the TV news anymore. If they're going to hear untruths and fabrications anyway, I guess readers figure it might as well be salacious and feature names they recognize and can pronounce involving places they can actually find on a map.

In the case of Kutcher and his ilk, the paparazzi and credible reporters have done such a good job over the years of building up the celeb to demigod status that they've created a national appetite to know everything about that person. Including their fallacies and weaknesses.

So the celeb goes silent when trouble hits, then wants to complain when the press prints stories that the celeb didn't sanction or spin. They spout snarky little snippets on their Facebook accounts, then bitch when their cryptic messages gets turned into something they didn't want and can't control.

I guess one of the reasons I love these melodramas so much is that this tabloid fare is, sadly, the last bastion of pure journalism. No matter how rich, how famous, how powerful a celebrity might be, it won't stop the minimum-wage Canon jockey from spilling the beans on the front page of the National Enquirer. Unlike "legitimate" media whose silence can be purchased with a full-page ad by a wealthy oil company, the tabloids have no fear in pursuing and printing the story. They can't be bought off, and they aren't intimidated by someone's status or their lineup of high-powered attorneys.

So the celebrity goes down in flames while insisting their privacy has been violated. A celebrity that was created and vaunted by the same people that eventually brought balance back to the world by telling the smelly truth about just how scummy these demigods are.

In Hollywood, it's simply the circle of life.

No matter what Ashton Kutcher may Tweet.

I Want Jon Stewart's Slacker Schedule

2011-10-17T09:21:00.000-07:00

The Daily Show's Jon
Stewart has more days
off than an air conditioner
in Anchorage.

I'm a big fan of Jon Stewart, the host of Comedy Central's "The Daily Show." I'm not bothered by his left-leaning approach to news or humor.

What I am bothered by is his work schedule.

It seems he is doing his best these days to embody and confirm allegations by F0x and the GOP (which are one and the same) that anyone who doesn't wear a red pachyderm on his underwear is a lazy slacker.

To say that Jon Stewart takes a lot of days off is like saying that a contestant on "The Biggest Loser" occasionally eats food.

Stewart gets more days off every year than a California school teacher (with or without government shutdowns), and almost as many days off annually as George W. Bush did during his presidency.

The jury is still out on which guy takes more mid-day naps, as it's a carefully guarded statistic protected by the Secret Service.

For starters, Stewart's show only airs four days a week. On the fifth day, he's a re-run.

To be honest, I'm a little bit jealous that I didn't think of this idea when I was a newspaper editor. Had I been a little smarter, I would have made myself a re-run once a week. The previous week's car crash or house fire would have gotten an "encore" in Monday's online front page.

But I can live with Stewart's four-day work week. The day off gives me a chance to see what else passes for comedy on the inaptly named Comedy Central network. So far, videos of skateboarders taking crotch shots on stairway banisters or grandma losing her underwear at her grandson's wedding reception qualify as high-brow humor on Tosh.0 and similar CC offerings.

Yes, you just can't beat cutting edge humor honed in the crucible of Dick Clark and Ed McMahon's "TV Bloopers and Practical Jokes" circa 1982.

However, it's not just Stewart's short work week that irks me.

It's the fact that he takes more vacations than a travel reporter for Conde Nast.

There are unemployed people who work more than Stewart and his crew.

I'm pretty sure the human resources office at the Daily Show studio plans his work schedule like this: 4th of July = week off. Easter = week off. Groundhog Day = week off. Rosh Hashana = week off. Arbor Day = week off. If there is a traditional holiday, whether Jewish, Christian, or secular, Stewart doesn't take that day off. He takes that entire week off.

Then at the end of the year, he's like a civil servant who's accrued too many unused sick days, taking the last two weeks off like he's going to lose them if he doesn't use them.

It would probably be easier to just figure out which days he DOES work, circle them in red on the calendar, and decorate the office accordingly.

"Jon's gonna be here today! Hooray!"

Newsman Walter Cronkite has been dead for two years, and he STILL has a busier broadcast schedule than Stewart.

He should be embarrassed that Osama bin Laden showed up on TV more frequently while in hiding than the Daily Show host.

To his credit, when he does appear, Stewart is nothing short of brilliant. Sometimes I wonder if he is the illegitimate result of Nobel Prize winner Henry Kissinger sleeping with Lucille Ball.

When Stewart interviews authors, diplomats, or presidential candidates, he's adept and learned. When facing off with vapid Hollywood stars hawking their latest movie, he's funny and quick, able to elevate the IQ points in a room with little more than a raised eyebrow.

Only in my wildest non-sexual fantasies could I ever get anywhere close to being as smart as he is.

I just wish he could figure out how a calendar operates.

Every time I turn on the TV and tune in to Comedy Central in anticipation of getting my nightly news fix, I'm never sure if it's going to be Stewart at his topically comedic best, or a rerun of dated zingers about that nutty President Clinton's latest sexcapade because Stewart was on another vacation for National Jelly Bean Day.

He could be the spokesperson for an old recording tape company, because with Stewart you never know "is it live, or is it Memorex?"

It's indicative of today's America, where some people have to work 50 hours a week at hard, physically demanding jobs just to make enough to scrape by while others get paid millions to sit behind a desk and crack jokes. The higher you go up the socio-economic ladder, the less you work and the more you get paid for it.

But I guess it could be worse.

Stewart could be Bill Maher, the host of HBO's "Real Time," where Maher spends an hour on TV once a week for about 26 weeks a year doing basically the same thing that Stewart does.

Once again, it just makes me wish I was funnier or smarter. Someday I'd like to be good enough that I only have to work one day a year and still be known and loved the world over.

Unfortunately, that job is filled until the next time the guy slides off Tim Allen's roof.

If that ever happens, one thing you can count on: Jon Stewart will be off that week.

Stay Away From Las Vegas

2011-10-10T10:17:00.001-07:00

The famed slogan for Sin City is "What happens here, stays here."

What the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority fails to tell visitors from Des Moines is the reason that it "stays here."

It's because whatever happens here stays stuck on the freeway.

Prepare yourself for a hot news flash.

Ready?

There's road construction on I-15 going on right now in Las Vegas.

Even if you're reading this missive online in 2019, the statement remains as true as it is here in 2011.

The reason someone reading this in Pascagoula won't find this funny is the part that the tourism board never mentions in their four-color brochures:

There is ALWAYS road construction on I-15 in Las Vegas.

Wait, let me rephrase that:

There are always barricades, orange barrels, orange cones, orange signs that say "Road Work Ahead," and flashing signs that read "No, seriously, there's road work ahead, honest"; detours that dead-end at empty shopping malls; and even the occasional pileup of earth moving equipment and paving machinery on a gravelly shoulder.

To be honest, I go to Vegas about once a month to deliver some poor unfortunate rural dweller to McCarron Airport (which has its own half-mile tunnel leading to the terminal that has been under constant repair since about 15 minutes after it opened. I haven't been able to confirm the likely rumor that the project was actually the defect-prone model for Boston's Big Dig).

During these semi-monthly trips along I-15 over the last eight years, I've yet to see an actual construction worker doing anything on the other side of those orange barrels, cones, and signs. I'm pretty sure the Audobon Society has an entire page devoted to the rarely seen "Orange Vested Reflective Striped Hardhatted Pavement Layer" that is rumored to visit a construction site in Vegas almost as often as cicadas make an appearance above ground.

There have been more verified sightings of Bigfoot than reports of someone actually working on a Las Vegas highway.

So as a public service, I'm warning out of state visitors to avoid coming to Las Vegas, unless you're flying in. Customers with United, Delta, and American Airlines have already endured endless holdups and delays involved in getting on an airplane these days, including repeated security stops, crotch grabs, wanding, more I.D. checkpoints than an Iraqi Green Zone, and the incessant "did you pack your own bag?" question that outstrips in frequency and annoyance a three-year-old's fascination with saying "Mommy" 87 times in a row every 60 seconds. Sitting at a dead stop for hours on a six-lane highway where signs saying "Speed Limit 65" will taunt you every 12 feet probably won't be much of a change from the torture of air travel.

For such visitors, I strongly recommend taking a taxi from the airport to your hotel. You'll still wind up stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, ensuring that a six mile trip will take 90 minutes. However, you won't be the one wearing out your horn hand and middle finger (both of which you'll need at the slot machines and craps tables).

To the rest of the country thinking about driving to Las Vegas, I would recommend against it. Goodness knows we need the tourism dollars, but my conscience won't allow me to encourage anyone to endure the Las Vegas equivalent of Chinese water torture, which is the technique of stranding visitors on I-15 near exit 46 where you can see the glittering Strip hotel that holds your reservation, but you simply cannot get to it.

Instead, if you really feel compelled to taste of the Las Vegas experience, do this: Head to your bank and cash your most recent paycheck. Then take your car to the nearest shopping center and park in the busiest section, but leave your car running. Get out and place a shopping cart behind you so you aren't tempted to drive away after being stuck for two hours. Roll up all your windows and turn on your heater to full, or until the thing conks out (which is what most air conditioners do on the Vegas interstate after sitting still in the passing lane for three hours at a throw).

While you're waiting, take out your stack of money and a quarter. Flip the quarter. If it comes up heads, put some of your money on the empty passenger seat. If it comes up tails, put the money on the dash. Repeat 217 times, then take the pile of cash off the passenger seat, stick it into an envelope and mail it to me in care of this website.

Include an extra $10 and I'll send you back a stack of losing Keno slips and a tall plastic cocktail container labeled "Fremont Street" that's used and empty, complete with a circle of dried foam at the top marking how full the thing once was. That way you'll have "proof" you can show your friends of all the fun you had visiting Sin City, and the empty pockets to back up your story.

If you enjoy this experience, ask about our special "Atlantic City" package, which includes all of the above plus we'll send a meth addict to your house to "trow you a good beatin'" and a homeless guy to whiz on your front steps, just so you get the realistic feel of a day near the boardwalk.

Words We're No Longer Allowed To Use

2011-10-03T06:43:00.000-07:00

As a writer, I would like to kick President Barack Obama's butt.

Before the guys with the dark suits and cufflink microphones show up at my door to have a conversation about the idiotic notion that the above statement in any way represents a threat, let me explain.

I'm not mad at Obama for the same reasons that most people in my community and on Fox News are mad at him; namely, for the unforgivable sin of not being a Republican.

I'm mad at him because he has stolen a couple of items out of my toolbox.

Back in the 1970's, George Carlin made famous the list of "seven words you can never say on television."

Today, censors now must add two more words to that list.

"Hope" and "change."

I'm a writer. My livelihood depends on my ability to use words. Because of Obama's actions, or inactions, these one-word phrases can no longer be stocked in my professional toolbox.

Back in 2008, he damn near wore those two words out, so they were already about as useful in my trade as a tape measure with the numbers rubbed off, or a socket wrench with the ratchets all stripped.

Since we're currently on the cusp of another presidential campaign season, the two words are now all but banished from the American lexicon.

Don't take my word for it, go straight to the horse's mouth.

When was the last time you heard the president use either word in public? Three years ago, you would have thought that he invented the terms. Today, if someone handed him a baby with a smelly diaper, he would say that the baby needed to be "re-diapered." No way would he use the "c" word, even in that context.

As for the other word, even farmers have taken to uttering "I'm looking forward to the next instance of atmospheric irrigational precipitation" instead of daring to say "hope it rains soon."

I miss "hope." In the etymological armory, there simply isn't an adequate replacement. The word is just so darn...hopeful.

Now, "hope" is the new communism. If I dare to use it in any op-ed piece, I'll be branded a Socialist and Obama sympathizer faster than you can say "Joseph McCarthy." Paroled pedophiles get better treatment than anyone who refers to the "h" word in this day and age.

As for "change," the only time I can almost get away with using the term is if I'm writing about the money I get back after handing over a dollar for my 99-cent McDouble.

Even the plastic change banks sold at dollar stores are now referred to as "money sorters."

I guess I shouldn't carp too much. In exchange for those now-verboten terms, Obama and his detractors have given us some new ones.

For example, I can't turn on a television these days without hearing about "class warfare."

Suggesting something as outrageous as the notion that billionaires should pay the same income tax rate as the guy who scrubs truck stop toilets for a living has been deemed "class warfare." Ditto for hinting that the same guy should get back any of the money he's been giving to the government over the last 40 years when he retires. If you listen to the new way of thinking, that guy should have been studying and investing in the stock market during the previous four decades instead of sponging up errant pee.

Had he done so, I doubt the eggheads and investment bankers have any clue how that excess excretion would have been taken care of over the last two generations, but I'm sure the answer would involve some sort of government-funded research grant.

In his upcoming re-election bid, I'm counting on Obama to come up with some spiffy new words to refill the trough. But he needs to be careful and select terms that aren't too controversial, or too difficult to comprehend or spell.

Otherwise, the words might wind up being debated and dissected in high schools and college campuses all over America.

And as the Republicans keep telling us, the last thing this country needs is class warfare.

Salt and Pepper Workout

2011-09-19T09:11:00.000-07:00

(Photo by Carlos Porto)

I've noticed a new trend in eating out.

No, it's not the trend of serving clam chowder on Friday at nearly every sit-down restaurant in America. That's been around for a while.

I suspect the clam community celebrates Saturdays as their high holy day each week, thankful to have made it through another blitz of bad soups.

The new trend involves salt and pepper.

Like most annoying eating innovations, this one began in high-end eateries. Just as you were getting ready to dig into the three ounces of unrecognizable beef and two carrot sticks you had waited 90 minutes to receive, the waiter shows up with what appears to be a shoulder-fired wooden bazooka.

"Would you like some pepper?" the server would query.

"Yes, please," you would answer, not because you had any hope that pepper was going to help improve this microscopic little $75 meal, but because you were afraid the waiter would club you over the head with the bazooka if you said no.

Since I've never been rich, I always thought this was the height of luxury; to have so much money that you could pay someone to shake pepper on your food for you.

A few years back, I noticed that this freshly ground pepper gimmick had trickled down to more traditional tables at family restaurants, where every form of seasoning is a blessing aimed at helping you cover the tin can taste that seems to permeate anything that once resided in a garden.

On those tables would be a small, plastic version of the pepper grinder.

I'm not a pepper user; I'm a salt man, so I didn't care about the new fangled gadget.

But now, the problem has reached the epicurean equivalent of the Niemoller quote about "when they came for the communists, I remained silent; I wasn't a communist..."

"They" have finally found a way to mess with my mealtime.

I visited a Red Crustacean restaurant with my family recently, a place that (as the name implies) features seafood. My wife, daughter, and mother were there for the annual "Eat Shrimp Until You Swim Backwards In Your Own Garlic Sauce" promotion.

Since it was a seafood restaurant, naturally I had the steak and baked potato.

Everything was going along swimmingly (sorry about the pun; it's like standing on the bank with a harpoon in your hand and Moby Dick happens to swim by) until I asked someone to pass the salt.

The first sign of trouble was the label: Sea Salt.

I'm not a big fan of sea salt. As the name implies, it comes from the sea. I know what fish, crustaceans, seagulls, and cruise ships do in the water. I don't want any of their excretions on my food.

Sea salt also fell out of favor with me when Wendy's made it the star of one of their commercials while rolling out their "new" french fries. Anyone who has visited a Wendy's in the last year knows just how badly they've botched what were once the best fries in the fast food industry. I still harbor some resentment against sea salt for that debacle.

Call me a purist, but I don't like anyone messing with my salt - not Wendy's, not Red Crustacean, not even the salt police (namely my physician, who began trying to arrest my salt intake about 50 systolic points ago).

I'm not sure where traditional salt comes from, because I can't find a state or nation named Iodizistan on any map. But I do believe that the Morton Salt girl could whip Wendy's red-pigtailed behind in a fair fight, with or without the umbrella.

At the seafood restaurant, I tried shaking some of the sea salt onto my baked potato. Nothing came out. Figuring the top had become clogged with damp salt (a frequent problem when I lived in Florida, before discovering the benefit of putting a few grains of rice in the salt shaker), I tried to twist off the lid. I twisted, twisted, twisted, quietly recited the "righty tighty, lefty loosey" mantra between clenched teeth, and twisted some more. It wouldn't come off.

Then I figured it out.

I had to turn the plastic bottle upside down and twist the top so it would grind the nuggets of sea salt inside and dribble the rock-quarrying results on my meal. So I twisted, twisted, twisted, not-so-quietly recited a few mantras that embarrassed my mother, and twisted some more. I began to feel like a seasoning-deprived psychopath wringing a stubborn chicken's neck. After what seemed like 30 or 40 minutes, I think I counted three white granules on my spud.

Unfortunately, the steak needed a little bit of pepper, too. As you may have guessed, the pepper dispenser was another of those grinding devices.

By the time I got around to actually eating any of the (now cold) food on my plate, I needed a nap and a Power Bar.

I'm not sure whose dumb idea it was to introduce aerobic workouts to the mealtime experience, but if I had to name a suspect, my physician would be at the top of the list. I believe he is involved in a food conspiracy, because the Red Crustacean was able to accomplish something in one hour that my doctor hasn't been able to do in 10 years; namely, to cut down on my salt intake, to exercise more, and to elevate my heart rate.

Lady Gaga Doesn't Live Here

2011-09-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

Where I live, we don't travel in these, we eat them.

I was born and raised in Havre de Grace, a small town in Maryland that has more letters in its name than people in its zip code. How small was it? Small enough that it would qualify for its own "Sa-Lute!" if Hee Haw was still on the air. The town was never actually featured on the 1970's TV show, which is a shame, because it would have been worth the price of admission just to hear Junior Samples or Grandpa Jones try to pronounce "Havre de Grace."

For cultured, educated people, the town's correct pronunciation is "Hov de grah." For those of us who actually lived there, it was pronounced "Havver dee Grayce." And for the rest of the country, it's pronounced "that little town next to Aberdeen."

Havre de Grace is French for "harbor of beauty." It was named by General Lafayette during the American Revolution, a charismatic military man who was best known for having a first name that was too long to fit on any of the statues in this country honoring him. He was also famous because he and George Washington slept together during the war, back before "don't ask, don't tell." I make this statement because in my hometown there were plaques all over the place that said "Washington slept here" and "Lafayette slept here." It's easy to read between the lines, even without an 18th century version of TMZ explaining it to us.

I left Havre de Grace as soon as I was old enough to figure out what the "D" stood for on a Ford Pinto gearshift. It's not that there was anything wrong with the town, it's just that I longed for life in a warmer climate, and in a place big enough to have its own Walmart.

The largest store in Havre de Grace back then was the Acme supermarket. You're not going to believe this, but I used to shop there every week, and was never able to find a single rocket, pair of roller skates, super-sized rubber bands for Y-shaped cacti, or any of the other cool gadgets bearing the Acme brand in Road Runner cartoons.

So I moved to one of the larger cities in Florida.

No, not Miami. Not Orlando, either. Not that Tampa place. Okay, not Jacksonville, Gainesville, or Tallahassee.

It was that OTHER large Florida city no one ever remembers called Fort Myers.

Located on the Gulf coast, the city is best known for not having a fort of any kind. For the record, it doesn't have an inordinate concentration of families named "Myers," either.

After living there for 16 years, my family and I moved on to St. George, a mid-sized city in Utah. It's not a coincidence that the state is a four-letter word. To this day, when my wife gets mad enough at me, she tells me to go Utah myself.

Eventually, we wound up in Mesquite, Nevada. You want an example of how ironic life can be? Mesquite is just about the same size as Havre de Grace, except with no water. Plenty of sand for a beach, but no water. Mesquite also has a noticeable absence of any season except summer.

However, to its credit, Mesquite does have a Walmart.

When I was young, I couldn't wait to get out of the small town where I lived. Now that I've hit the half-century mark, I don't want to live anywhere except a small town.

I've come to realize that I'm simply not mentally unbalanced enough to live in a big city. Believe me, I've tried to be, but have consistently fallen short.

For example, if you showed up in my town wearing a dress made of veal cutlets, or arrived on the boulevard in a translucent egg, my neighbors would waste no time in calling 911 and reporting that one of the beds at the state mental hospital is probably missing an occupant, or another Area 51 escapee is in town. That is, as soon as my neighbors stopped laughing, and maybe took a couple of hits from their supply of O₂.

Hearing the visitor emerge from the egg singing "rah rah, ooh la la, roma ro ma ma" wouldn't help her cause any.

We would describe her as "gaga," accompanied with the hand gesture of a finger circling the air near our right temple.

In the big city, they would give the escapee a record contract, a few kazillion dollars, and the title of "Lady."

That's not to say that I live in Mayberry, the offensive caricature usually hung on small towns by those who dwell in square apartment buildings crammed with about two dozen humans per square foot. We have just as much graft, corruption, political backbiting, and scandal as our big-city brethren, thank you very much. The only difference is that urbanites probably aren't going to run into Mayor Bloomberg shopping for eggs at the Walmart on a Sunday evening.

I'm also going to make the boast that, while small town residents may not be as sophisticated, I'll stack up our collective IQ's against those in any metropolitan community in America.

For example, if someone spray paints weird multi-colored symbols and unintelligible words on one of our bridges, we're going to call Billy over at City Hall and have him remove the graffiti (which he'll do in less than two days). We're not going to throw up our hands, offer pithy critiques, and refer to it haughtily as "art" (unless, of course, the bridge happens to be another Nevada Department of Transportation project).

I like living in a small town where good sense is still in style, and holey see-through clothing isn't.

Let's Turn It All Over To The Mafia

2011-08-29T09:32:00.001-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, we ran a poll on the MorrisWorkman.com website. The poll asked "Which are the biggest villains in the U.S.?" The choices included "Banks," "Congress," "Health Care Industry," "Mafia," and "Oil Industry."

You want to hear the funny part? "Mafia" was the only answer to receive zero votes.

Not surprisingly, "Congress" was the winner by a landslide.

In other words, people like the Mafia more than the four other "legitimate" entities. Of course, that's fair, since the Mob is a lot more honest and steals a lot less than any of the other four.

I've come to the conclusion that what America really needs is a new Eliot Ness and his band of Untouchables, an incorruptible collection of crime fighters prepared to take on the biggest criminals of our time, namely the large collection of Senators, Congressmen, bankers and CEO's who are ruining the country.

Instead of Kevin Costner toting a Tommy gun, the new hero would more likely be the nebbishy accountant played by Charles Martin Smith, armed with a Toshiba laptop computer.

But even that might not work.

One of the problems would be the media.

Back in the most corrupt, dangerous days of gangland Chicago, the newspapers were courageous enough to print stories about the heinous crimes committed by the Windy City's mobsters. Capone and Frank Nitty couldn't intimidate the Chicago Tribune into hiding the truth about their activities. While the paper was often used to wrap fishes, the Trib wasn't afraid of "sleeping with the fishes."

Today, Capone and Nitty wouldn't need to "make the newspapers an offer they couldn't refuse." They could simply take out an olive oil ad or two.

In the 21st century, if a newspaper even hinted about an upcoming expose' on the greed and corruption which permeates the oil and healthcare industries, you'd see Viagra and Shell ads disappear so fast from their pages it would make your head spin. And da bosses at da media conglomerates wouldn't like dat. Today's newspapers and TV news stations capitulate with nary a peep about the price gouging, Medicare fraud, and the wholesale purchase of politicians that take place every single day in America. The Untouchables would become The Invisibles, because no advertisement-dependent news source would dare to report on them (and let's be honest, ALL major news sources today are ad-dependent).

Chicagoans in the 1930's didn't raise much of a squawk about the gangland corruption and blatant crime, believing it was an undeniable inevitability, something you didn't like but had to live with because "what are ya gunna do?"

Sound familiar?

We all know Congress is a collection of on-the-take crooks who don't give a damn about the American people, for sale to the highest bidder; and that banks, oil companies, and pharmaceutical companies always have plenty of cash available to pay whatever a politician demands. Oh, it's all nice and legal with PACs and campaign contributions and "legitimate" junkets, but there's no denying the Payola. We all know it, and accept it as "it is what it is" (which is the new age variation on "what are ya gunna do").

Best of all, like the Mob paying off cops with money earned from gambling, liquor, and prostitution in the 1930's, today's banks, oil companies, and pharmaceuticals are using the money they get from us, the citizens, to pay off politicos and game the system. They're safe in the understanding that if they need more cash to make sure a Congressman stays bought, that increase is just one new penis pill/pretend oil shortage/rigged stock market transaction away. In other words, we always get to pay for the privilege of having these mega moneymakers screw us harder. And as soon as we try to get rid of one of Washington, D.C.'s ripoff artists, another one takes his place with his hand out and his toothy smile at the ready, like a boardwalk game of Whack A Mole.

Or maybe the answer is the Mafia itself. Instead of letting the government pay other members of the government to do "investigations" and then pretend to prosecute the one or two "bad guys" (who never seem to be the really bad guys), let's hire the Mafia.

For starters, sometimes it takes a crook to catch a crook. Second, it gives whatever yakking head happens to occupy the White House at the time "plausible deniability" (as opposed to the current approach of "undeniable stupidity").

When the mob figures out which one of those oil executives is responsible for charging Americans $3.75 a gallon when the actual cost is around 89 cents a gallon, the guy wakes up with Trigger's head in his bed. If some button guys stumble upon a snitch who rats out the fact that thousands of people are dying each year because the medicine which could save their lives is being sold for $80 a pill, when it actually costs the pharmaceutical company 23 cents apiece to research and produce, a couple of heavies invite that CEO out for a nice ride on a boat.

As for the Congressmen and Senators, that's probably the easiest fix of all. Nobody understands bribery and extortion like La Cosa Nostra. In fact, that organization probably still owns a few politicians just out of nostalgia. If we ask the mob to put a few hundred legislators on the payroll with the instruction that from now on they vote only to help Americans and the country, "or else," it's a pretty good bet that the bent-nose bunch would ensure that those purchased politicians would stay bought.

Of course, the Mafia would have to get paid for these things, but I'm confident it would be cheaper than the current set up. And maybe we could trade them these favors for a few extra guns the government has laying around now that we no longer have to supply the rebels in Libya, and we've stopped sending guns to the drug cartels in Mexico.

Also, we'd turn over the entire American banking system to the Mafia's shylocks. For starters, the mob's vig is way lower than the interest rate on your average MasterCard. The shys have also had a lot of success over the decades in lending without collateral, something that would be helpful here in this era of underwater mortgages and depressed property values. And be honest, the mob is also much better at collections.

We'd also turn over the administration of Wall Street to the mob. Most thinking people understand that the stock market is really nothing but a high stakes poker game, complete with card cheats from places like Bear Stearns and Goldman Sachs. If there's one thing the mob has perfected, it's gambling. Doubt it? Then just look at how corporations have wrecked Las Vegas and Atlantic City over the last decade. Believe me, those two gambling meccas were much better and more successful when it was exclusively in the mob's hands.

Yes, this all sounds pretty outlandish. But so does the notion that Americans today think the Mafia is more trustworthy than Congress, banks or industry.

We've had enough of our current crop of crooks. Let's see if some old school criminals can clean up the messes created by the Harvard and Wharton school criminals.

City Hires Unlicensed Contractor

2011-08-24T08:17:00.000-07:00

Mesquite's courthouse.

I've been trying to avoid local politics here in the Workman Chronicles, instead redirecting the focus of this weekly humor column to broader, more national appeal.

But I just couldn't resist a little tweak of the nose to my hometown government.

As some of you know, local governments across the country are cracking down on unlicensed contractors.

Back during the building boom of 2005-2008, most municipalities looked the other way because they were simply too busy trying to remember exactly where the next high-rise or major mall was being built in their town, much less bothering to check I.D. cards on the guys swinging the hammers.

Now all those projects have evaporated, along with the billions of dollars in building permit fees, which means city building inspectors have a lot more time on their hands. In fact, one rumor claims that the guys responsible for knowing how to build sturdy structures have become "Angry Birds" experts, proficient at knocking down video game buildings with feathered kamikaze chickens.
On the other side of the equation is the homeowner, who is trying desperately to keep Wells Fargo and Bank Of America at bay by squeezing pennies wherever possible. One way is to hire unlicensed contractors at a fraction of the cost of licensed, insured hammer swingers to make sure their spit-and-tissue dwelling remains standing long enough for Wells and BOA to remember where they stashed the foreclosure papers. (I find it a satisfying irony that the shorthand name for the second bank is the same as a certain kind of snake, namely a "constrictor" known for squeezing its victims to death).

So municipalities have picked up some spare change by dropping their own "hammer," specifically in the form of fines and punishment whenever they discover a contractor licensed to do framing (putting up walls) illegally doing drywall (putting up walls) without a drywall license. State, county, and city governments are swooping down on unlicensed contractors and shaking their accusatory fingers at the homeowners trying to save a few bucks by hiring them.

At Tuesday's Mesquite City Council meeting, the council had to vote in favor of rescinding a previous bid they had approved on one of their own renovation projects.

The reason?

It turns out that the city had approved a contractor from two states away who did not have a Nevada license.

I want you to hear this again:

The city had hired an unlicensed contractor to work on a city-owned building.

Oh, and the reason?

The unlicensed contractor was cheaper.

To be fair, acting City Manager Kurt Sawyer claimed that the city thought the contractor had the proper licenses.

You know, "the city," the people responsible for issuing and checking licenses.

What makes a funny faux pas even funnier: Sawyer's regular full time gig? Head of the building inspector department.

The icing on the cake is the fact that the building being worked on by the unlicensed contractor is the same building where a third kind of hammer falls, namely the city's courthouse, where other unlicensed contractors are regularly ruled "guilty" by a judge's gavel.

Once more, with flair: the city hired an unlicensed contractor to work on the courthouse where other unlicensed contractors are adjudicated.

There's a sideshow that makes all of this even more comical.

The renovations included several different contractors doing painting, carpeting, counters, and other work, but the actual bid approved by the city council two weeks ago was listed on the agenda as being submitted by Santa Fe Ceramics, a licensed tile contractor.

Who owns Santa Fe Ceramics? Marco Ruelas, a former Mesquite City Councilman.

One more time: the Mesquite City Councilmen approved an unlicensed contractor on a bid allegedly submitted by a former Mesquite City Councilman.

In his defense, Ruelas pointed out that the city made the mistake. He didn't submit the whole bid, only the bid for the carpet work, and that the unlicensed contractor wasn't Santa Fe's subcontractor. After all, Ruelas explained, the contractor couldn't work under Santa Fe Ceramics because while the former city councilman's company is licensed to do tile work, it isn't licensed as a general contractor.

In other words, the city would have been hiring an unlicensed general contractor to supervise an unlicensed subcontractor to renovate the courthouse where unlicensed contractors get their fingers slapped.

My advice to the city?

Next time you want to renovate a city-owned building, make it simple and cut out the middle man. Just have the judge sentence the next batch of unlicensed contractors to "community service" at whatever building the city needs fixed up next.

And if that building happens to be the city jail? Well, that's just Mesquite irony, hard at work.

21st Century Pioneers

2011-08-18T10:24:00.000-07:00

[NOTE: The column below was originally written in 2001, detailing the Workman family's move from Florida to Utah. The column appeared in The Spectrum, the daily newspaper in St. George, Utah, in 2002, where Morris got his first experience as a monthly columnist.]

Traveling from Florida to Utah gave me new respect for the Pioneers who settled this land.

After selling our house last May, my wife and I filled our Conestoga wagon (a Budget rental van) with everything we couldn’t unload at our last yard sale. Then we loaded my car onto a trailer behind the truck. Finally, we packed my wife’s car with suitcases, 2 daughters, a dog, a rabbit, a guinea pig, and a cockatiel.

For those of you shaking your heads and holding your noses, remember that the original wagon trains included smelly livestock. Fortunately, my wife has bad sinuses, so the aroma wasn’t much of a burden.

Our first catastrophe came when the kids snapped the antenna off of their battery-operated TV/VCR during a game of “Gimme That! It’s Mine!”. This may not seem equivalent to a broken wagon axle, but then the pioneers never suffered 2 kids going through cartoon withdrawals. We were rescued when we found a trading post (pronounced “Wal-Mart”) where we stocked up on videos.

We passed through Mobile, Alabama. My olfactorily-challenged wife called on the radio from her small SUV packed with the dog, rabbit, guinea pig, cockatiel, and 2 daughters and asked me what that smell was. Enough said about Mobile.

Like all pioneers, we marveled at the mighty Mississippi. We asked an American Mart convenience store clerk about the river, but like the Paiutes in 1847, he didn’t speak English.

We continued on through Mississippi, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Texas, Texas… (it’s a big state).

Eventually, we hit Utah. The map showed we could take Route 9, drive through Zion National Park, and on into St. George. Unfortunately, the map didn’t mention anything about a cover charge.

We pulled up to the tollbooth at Zion. (The Park Service calls them “Ranger Stations”. That’s a lie.). I rolled down the window of the van and informed the nice man that the blue SUV was with me. He looked at the van, looked at the car on the trailer, and looked at my wife’s car.

“Van and a car, $20 each, $10 for the trailer,” he calculated, “That’ll be $50” .

I was stunned. “You don’t understand. We’re not visiting the park. We’re just driving through on our way to St. George.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied.

I fumed. This was a National Park, which meant my tax dollars had already paid for it once. Route 9 was a state road, which meant the nice people of Utah had paid for it again. And people with tents were paying Ramada Inn prices for patches of dirt. I realized that National Parks are not about preservation or wilderness, they are about money.

“How about this,” I ventured. “What if we promise not to look while we’re driving through?”

The park ranger was not amused. We paid.

Finally, our caravan arrived in St. George. Like the pioneers before us, we were thankful to have survived the long journey, and to have only been scalped once.

McDonalds Music

2011-08-15T09:31:00.001-07:00

I did something last week that I haven't done in a while, and I won't be repeating anytime soon. I ate at a McDonald's.

Don't get me wrong. When it comes to Mickey D's food, "Ba da bum ba da, I'm lovin' it." Grease, salt, grease...what's not to love?

My mistake was opting to go inside and sit down for a meal instead of my normal practice of hitting the drive-thru.

Sometimes while sitting in a restaurant for a meal, you're treated to "mood music," which usually includes a Montovani-esque version of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" playing overhead through low-fidelity speakers. (The jury is still out on whose version is more annoying).

Not at the Golden Arches.

Their "mood music" is the kind that inspires serial killers, probably because it sounds a lot like cat torture.

Here's a short excerpt of McDonald's Music's greatest hits:

"Beep - beep - beep - beep - beep - beep - beep..." Now repeat that 283,000 times.

Another: "beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep..."

For those of you who haven't had the "pleasure" of a recent trip to fast food land, I'll fill you in - they're the warning sounds of the french fry machine, or the hamburger cooker, or the nose-picking timer.

These noises might be innocuous enough if played at a reasonable level; you know, maybe a half a decibel less than an Aerosmith concert.

Unfortunately, to ensure that the beeps can be heard by French fry technicians whose ears have been damaged by years of overexposure to iPods playing Limp Bizkit with the volume turned to 11, the sound is loud enough to land jet airplanes by.

I've heard backup warning signals beep-beep-beeped by tractor trailers hauling 8,300 gallons of gasoline that weren't this obnoxious.

If I was a Panamanian dictator surrounded by protective fences, dogs, and elite armed soldiers, and the American military started playing this sound through loudspeakers outside my villa, I'd surrender in less time than it takes to eat a Big Mac.

Ba da bum ba da, I'm hatin' it.

During my most recent (and probably final) visit to McDonald's, by the time I was down to my last McNugget, I wanted to hop over the McCounter and unplug the McFryer with a McChain Saw, since it was obvious none of the other McHobbits in the food prep area could be bothered to make it stop.

Ba da bum ba da, I'm losin' it.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe that monophonic "beep - beep - beep" is the 21st century version of "Hi Ho, Hi Ho" which keeps the McDwarfs happy in their work.

But I doubt it.

How bad was it?
Bad enough that I was rooting for the untamed four-year-old escapees from the McHabitrail to drown out the sound with their incessant and last-nerve-grinding screams across the dining room because their mom-servants forgot the sprinkles on their McSundaes.

Do you know how far down the ear-grating rabbit hole you've gone when you start considering the unfiltered screams of amped-up sugar-wired children an improvement?

It wouldn't surprise me to learn that someone in the fast food industry had commissioned a scientific study which showed the "beep - beep - beep" noise at a certain frequency and volume helps improve turnover in the dining room, since few carnivores short of Labrador Retrievers can withstand that sound for more than five minutes. The faster they can get the McFlurry eaters out of the room, the more seats become available for the next group of Pavlovian subjects.

It worked on me.

Instead of a nice, luxurious 15-minute lunch under the bright lights of an orange and yellow sky, you could have clocked my stay with an egg timer (preferably one that doesn't go "beep - beep - beep" when the three minutes is up).

The good news is that once outside, I reveled in the beautiful sounds of blaring horns, interstate traffic whizzing by, overhead jumbo jets, screeching tires, and the delighted screams from the next batch of McHabitrail dwellers pulling into the parking lot.

Ba da bum ba da, I'm leavin' it.

Vegas Has Become Nothing But A Circus

2011-08-08T08:24:00.001-07:00

Back when I was a kid, which according to my daughter was sometime in the Paleozoic Era, circuses were already on the decline. You had the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus, "The Greatest Show On Earth," which was usually held in civic centers and arenas instead of the traditional and much-beloved circus tent.

Then you had a slew of also-rans like the one that occasionally came to my boyhood home in Maryland which featured an anemic elephant and a couple of hungover clowns. As for the trapeze artists, I had seen greater aerial deeds of daring at the elementary school swingset, frequently introduced with "Hey mom, look at me" instead of "ladies and gentlemen, tonight under the bigtop..."

Even the sideshow was second rate. I remember being so excited to see the "Spider-Boy." It turned out to be someone inside of a papier mache' spider that didn't move, other than the occupant's eyes. At nine and a student of Havre de Grace Elementary School in 1970, I was something of an expert on papier mache', so I recognized the medium immediately. And even at nine, I had received enough schooling to know that two eyes was about six eyes short for an arachnid.
But it was the circus, and as a child I was required by law to enjoy it.

Through the years, circuses seemed to have pretty much vanished. In my current hometown of Mesquite, a small circus will still roll through on occasion. At least, I guess it's the circus. The posters look very colorful and circus-esque, but they're all in Spanish, so it could just as easily be an invitation to a quinceanera. (If you have any Hispanic friends, you know these traditional celebrations for a girl's 15th birthday have become far more elaborate than any mere circus.)

A small circus visited our town a couple of years ago. How small? It was held in a tent roughly the size and shape of a phone booth. It was probably appropriate, since the highlight was an act that was about as exciting as making a long distance collect phone call with a Mercury dime.

So I figured the circus was passe', a relic relegated to a bygone age.

Then I drove through Las Vegas last week.

It turns out that the only entertainment you can find in Sin City, other than watching homeless guys on the sidewalk passing out brochures for hookers, is the circus.

Cirque du Soleil, O, Ka, Mystere, Zumanity...it appears that if Elvis and Sinatra were alive today, the only way they would appear on a Las Vegas stage is if they could juggle. According to comedienne Kathy Griffin, even the show at Caesars Palace should be called "Cirque du Celine."

I've never been to any of these shows personally because, well, I'm no longer nine. But judging from the ads, somehow we've reached a place where topless showgirls are out and androgynous men in full body suits jumping on each other is in.

Personally, I'm not impressed. If I wanted to watch a terrifying act where someone does death-defying feats high above the crowd, I'd stop in at the VooDoo Lounge atop the Rio at 2 a.m. (although with admission charges as high as $300 at the lounge, an evening at Cirque du Something-Or-Other would probably be a lot cheaper).

I'm also skeptical of the claims made at these three-ring copycats. Let's be honest, it's Vegas. People occasionally drink there. After 14 or 15 Alabama Slammers, even the watered-down variety served at the slots, seeing pink elephants dancing on a miniature polka-dotted piano isn't much of a trick. You could tell a well-oiled tourist from Philadelphia that the show he just saw had involved a purple monkey swallowing its own face while balancing on a drum swinging from a flaming trapeze. Not only would he believe it, he'd be recounting the astounding details of the act to his buddies back home after 18 or 19 Rolling Rocks at the next Flyers game. (Note to the Cirque people: if I see an ad next month on the big outdoor screen at Treasure Island featuring a purple monkey swallowing its own face while balancing on a drum swinging from a flaming trapeze, I want royalties.)

Someday, I'm hoping entertainment in Las Vegas will return to featuring big name, talented acts. And no, Mirage, a guy from America's Got Talent with singing Muppets doesn't qualify. Of course, by the time that happens, it will most likely be a septuagenarian Lady Gaga performing in a pair of Depends, oversized glittering blacked-out louvered tri-focals, and a sequined bra hanging somewhere around her knees. (Wait...that's the outfit she wore on "Good Morning America" last month).

I guess I'm just a traditionalist, wishing Vegas would go back to the old ways of music, nudity and sleaze to be found somewhere other than the sidewalk.

The Art of Political Procrastination

2011-08-01T09:28:00.000-07:00

I used to think of myself as a pretty talented procrastinator. I didn't invent the mantra "never put off until tomorrow what you can put off until the day after," but I certainly subscribe to it.

Writers are usually great procrastinators, especially news writers who are cursed with deadlines. Journalists are often the adult embodiment of their college alter egos, staying up all night to finish a term paper that is due tomorrow, one which was assigned two months ago.

In American history, the icon of procrastination has been Scarlett O'Hara of "Gone With The Wind" fame, who famously said "I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."

Procrastinators now have a new hero in their struggle for societal legitimacy:

The 2011 United States Congress.

Congress (which watermelon-whomping comedian Gallagher once noted is the opposite of "Pro-gress") has been skirmishing with the President for months now over the looming debt ceiling.

For those who don't exactly understand what all the fuss is, imagine you have a MasterCard you've been trying to melt every weekend at Neiman Marcus. Like most credit cards, there is a credit limit, the maximum amount you're allowed to charge. You're almost at that limit, but Neiman's is about to have a big sale on go-go boots, and you've just realized your closet is currently go-go bootless.

Unless you can convince the minimum-wage phone jockey on the other end of Chase Bank's customer service line that your very life depends on the acquisition of those $2,000 pink and purple zebra-striped thigh-highs you saw in the window last week, you're probably going to have naked knees next weekend.

In the name of equality, here's a scenario to which men might better relate. It's your turn to host the annual "Super Bowl Party and Drunken Brawl" at your house this year. You are out of beer because last weekend happened to include a Saturday night. You have only $3 available on your credit card, and even less than that in your checking account.

If you happen to have a Capital One card, issued by the company whose commercials feature the partying, room-smashing Vikings asking "what's in your wallet?", you might not have a problem getting a debt limit increase in time for kickoff.

Otherwise, your only hope is to persuade the MasterCard monkeys that you just got a promotion to Assistant Head French Fry Cook at the Burger King where you work, and can easily handle a $10,000 increase in your credit line (which should keep you and your buddies in beer until approximately next weekend).

That is the problem faced last weekend by Congress; that they had reached their MasterCard limit. The difference is that real humans have to beg customer service reps sitting in a cubicle in Bombay for a credit limit boost, while the debt ceiling for the United States government is set by...the United States government.

How serious of a problem was it? Serious enough that the members of the House and Senate chose to work through Saturday and Sunday instead of their normal weekend itinerary of taking golf junkets to Singapore (paid for by oil lobbyists), sleeping with women they're not married to (paid for by oil lobbyists), or an afternoon of toe-tapping in an airport bathroom stall.

The eyes of the financial world lasered in on Congress throughout the weekend to see how they would handle this critical decision, specifically what measures they would take to reduce their shopping sprees at Bridges-To-Nowhere-R-Us and which American pockets they would pick to increase government revenues.

The answer from Congress?

They'll think about it tomorrow. Or actually Nov. 30.

Congress decided to go ahead and increase their credit limit by, oh, $1.5 trillion or so. As part of the deal, they're also going to appoint a 12-member "super committee" to hammer out the details of where they're going to cut the budget and what taxes they're going to increase, and tender their plan by the end of November.

Yeah, right.

They couldn't find that solution over the weekend, when the pressure was on. The chance that they'll reach any kind of agreement on such weighty and politically charged matters four months from now (which is half a century in Congressional lapdog years) is roughly about the same as the likelihood Bank of America is going to increase the credit limit on my Visa by a mere $100 million.

Ordinarily, this kind of political fumbling by our elected officials would make me furious.

But I can't think about being mad today. If I do, I'll go crazy. So I'll think about being mad tomorrow.

Or the day after Nov. 30.

Pole Dancing Fitness

2011-07-25T08:33:00.000-07:00

I recently saw an ad on TV for a workout center in Las Vegas.

It wasn't a Gold's Gym or a come-on for the Las Vegas Athletic Club.

It was a 30-second spot for a pole dancing fitness studio.

Yes, pole dancing, that All American activity conducted in gentleman's clubs from coast to coast.

While the studio claims it was founded and owned by a woman, I know that this concept had to have been originally conceived by a man. And men everywhere should stand up and applaud.

Somehow, a man has convinced a significant number of women that they should give up Pilates and Zumba, two regimens that most men can neither understand nor pronounce.

I'm pretty sure that if one of my friends signed up for a Pilates class, they'd show up with an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder, answering every question with "Arrr, matey!"

As for Zumba, most guys simply think it's the latest sports car offering from Mazda.

Instead of these two exercise programs, a man has managed to convince women that they should sign up and pay for a class that will teach them how to become strippers. I mean, "exotic dancers." (I've always been amused by that term, as if showing up somewhere as naked as the day you were born, something every single one of us has experienced, is somehow unique and exotic.)

This guy is a genius.

I would love to have been in the room when this idea was pitched.

"You wanna lose weight? Wanna firm up those abs? Become a stripper."

To be honest, I think the guy may have the cart before the horse a little bit on this, but I admire his moxie.

I can just see me trying to talk my wife into doing stripper routines as a form of exercise. I'm sure it would improve her arm strength, particularly from lifting all those pots, pans, rolling pins, and other weighty items she would use to conk me over the head repeatedly for even bringing up such a topic at our dinner table.

However, other women are obviously buying into this. They are signing up to take a class in pole dancing, which has to make their husbands and boyfriends happy (not to mention saving those guys a fortune on Friday nights).

I can see another advantage to this phenomenon.

For those men not fortunate enough to have a spouse or girlfriend enrolled at the pole dancing fitness emporium, they can now attend the kind of establishments where pole dancing takes place without lying to their loved ones.

"And where do you think YOU'RE going at this hour on a Saturday night?"

"Honest, honey, I'm headed over to the gym. You know, the workout place."

I suspect it will take Under Armour, the athletic apparel company, all of about five minutes to start selling a new workout outfit for pole dancing athletes complete with crotch pockets to hold the 10 dollar bills.

I'm excited about some of the additional opportunities this will create.

By legitimizing pole dancing as an athletic endeavor, it won't be long before it's added as an event at the Summer Olympics.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, representing the U.S. team, it's Sugar Flame."

It will be worth the price of admission just to see the entry from the American Samoa Olympic team put the vertical bar to the test.

It's also going to be interesting to see the Olympic judging panel made up of guys in trench coats and refugees from all-night bachelor parties.

Being curious by nature, I actually checked out the website for the pole dancing school in Vegas. I can tell the studio is operated by learned fitness professionals by the introductory statement which claims their classes will help you "loose weight, change your body, shrink your waste line and feel great!" (Notice the spelling of "lose" and "waist.")

I learned that they also offer a variety of other fitness courses, including (and I'm not making this up)...lap dancing.

I haven't seen the FDA's bulletin on how many calories are burned while engaging in this workout routine, but I can tell you that for the first time in a while, I'm thinking about getting in shape.

Or at least volunteering to "spot" someone at the gym.

Taking My Clothes Off For Sarah Palin

2011-07-18T11:06:00.000-07:00

I'm not usually a big fan of Russian politics, anymore than I'm interested in WWE wrestling. I don't like fixed competitions with rigged results.

However, based on a recent story from the Reuters news service, my attitude is about to change.

According to the story, a movement is gaining traction in which women are taking off their clothes in support of the 2012 campaign to elect Vladimir Putin president of Russia.

To American men, this might sound like a brilliant campaign strategy, one which would certainly get the attention of that all-important demographic of males aged 18 to dead.

But when you think about it, maybe there's a different message afoot in the home of the Kremlin.

Instead of the treat we might intuit, the idea might actually be the reverse in Moscow, where it's pretty likely voters will vote for Putin just to get these women to put their clothes back on.

After all, we're talking about Russian women. Not the most attractive collection of females on the round blue marble. Oh, to be sure there are notable exceptions, with gorgeous Russian models and actresses like...well, okay, I can't think of any at the moment, but I'm sure they exist somewhere.

The point is, I advocate taking one's clothes off as a political statement and vote-getting ploy. There's a whole host of female movie stars who would influence my vote in the direction of their desired candidate with just the show of a little skin. I won't name those movie stars here, because my wife would use the names to compile a list of all the upcoming movies I won't be allowed to watch in the next few decades.

I suspect I'm not alone in this group, and there are millions of registered male voters whose ballot might be swayed by their favorite Hollywood hottie in the buff.

Because I'm a patriotic American who loves his country and is rabid about the democratic process, I encourage this notion. Anything to improve turnout rates at the polls, which are currently less than the weekly voting for such TV shows as "American Idol" and "America's Got Unlimited Access To Prescription Drugs." (I might have the name wrong on that last program, but if you've seen the recent lineup of acts on the show which features Piers Morgan, Sharon Osbourne, and Howie Mandel as judges, you know my observation is dead-on.)

So if the trick of taking off clothes to influence votes will work in Russia, it should certainly work here in the birthplace of campaign gimmicks.

And to be fair, this isn't limited to nekkid women.

If Brad Pitt agreed to take off his clothes to get women to vote Foghorn Leghorn for president, I suspect the inaugural address on Jan. 20, 2013 would begin "My fellow, I say, my fellow Americans..."

And if nekkid hotties will lead people to vote in favor of certain candidates, I believe the reverse must also be true. There are times when moral decency would demand that Americans should vote against candidates if it meant certain people agreed to keep their clothes on.

It's in this spirit that I make this announcement:

I don't know who will or won't ultimately make it onto the presidential ballot for 2012. I don't have any favorites in either party. But if Sarah Palin is elected president of the United States, I will appear nekkid in downtown Mesquite at noon on Jan. 21, 2013.

If you've seen me in person or looked at any of my publicity photos, you know what a horror show this would be. How bad? Let's just say that, unlike the periphery of most public spectacles, there won't be any vendors selling food items from carts on that day. In fact, it's possible that people could lose their appetites for weeks afterward, adding undue pressure on the local food service economy.

If Palin wins, I'll be forced to follow through on my promise. I'll probably be arrested immediately after for indecent exposure, and assault with an ugly weapon (my enormous belly).

But I must do what I must do to keep my country from making a bad decision. I've learned that when speaking up and speaking out in favor of certain candidates, a lone voice gets lost in the babble. Electing Palin as president would be catastrophic for the country I love, although it would mean a permanent eight-figure salary for Tina Fey's weekly return to Saturday Night Live.

So I'm making this stand in the best interest of my nation.

Please don't let this happen.

Vote "Anyone But Palin" in 2012, so I can keep my clothes on. It's a win-win, because a successful result means Americans will sleep better at night. For both reasons.

Nap Time

2011-07-11T07:24:00.001-07:00

When I was kid, I hated nap time.

It wasn’t necessarily the physical act that frustrated me.

A big part of it was knowing there were still plenty of Hot Wheels races to be run, G.I. Joe adventures to be undertaken, and thousands of innings to go before I should have to sleep.

I suspect there was also a part of me that believed I was missing out on all the best things in life which were going on while I was wasting hours in my bedroom, envisioning the toys which sprang to life while the nightgown-clad toymaker was asleep upstairs in the Merrie Melodies cartoons on TV.

I distinctly recall getting into trouble with Elizabeth, the Colombian woman who served as my day-care provider in the 60’s, over sneaking out of bed when I was supposed to be snoozing.

(It wasn’t until I was older that I realized nap time for kids is less about letting the children rest and recover from their morning activities, and more about letting the adults rest and recover from the child’s morning activities.)

My day care center, which was actually Elizabeth’s house, didn’t involve foam pads and half-pint cartons of milk and festive colors on drab white concrete block walls surrounded by licensed professionals.

My day care center involved trees for climbing, mud, bugs that would actually sting (and which to my childish surprise were never poisonous), sharp pieces of metal, mud, dogs that would occasionally bite, forts, pointy sticks, gumball and pine cone fights, mud, and enough sports-related injuries to fill an orthopedic surgeon’s appointment book for a year.

I don’t remember a lot about the inside of Elizabeth’s house, mostly because I didn’t spend much time there outside of the mandatory mid-day nap times.

I do recall the few times I was indoors and enduring some remedial behavioral modification.

Elizabeth wasn’t big on positive reinforcement, time outs, or other child rearing psycho babble aimed at preserving my fragile child psyche.

When I messed up, I would hear about it.

When she was mad, Elizabeth would go off like Ricky Ricardo on crystal meth, rattling loudly at me in unintelligible Spanish.

Occasionally, my corrections would involve a switch, which Elizabeth could wield like a practiced vaquero on the pampas.

She could slice through the air with it and make it snap like a green bullwhip, which in my memory is way worse than the few times she actually spanked me with it.

Elizabeth was a huge believer in nap time for youngsters.

As I got older, into my teens, I didn’t enjoy nap time any better than I did as a kid, and for many of the same reasons.

My adventures involved girls named Robin and Judy instead of plastic warriors named Joe, but innings and football quarters were still a big part of my waking day.

Into my early 20’s, I still hated going to sleep.

As a musician, 3 a.m. was prime time after a show if you knew where to look, even in a small Maryland town of less than 9,000.

I became a big advocate of the phrase made famous by Sam Elliot in the movie “Road House,” which was that “I’ll sleep after I’m dead.”

Now, I’m old.

For me, sleep is no longer part of the daily journey.

It’s a beloved destination.

I find myself checking the clock not to see whether I should chance trying to stay up all night like I did in my pre-marriage years, but to ascertain whether the clock is giving me digital permission to close my eyes.

On weekends, I find excuses for taking naps, instead of excuses for avoiding them.

I’ve even been known to take out the trash on a Sunday afternoon just so I can claim exhaustion and Z-out on the sofa for the rest of the day.

Today, I dread sunrises the way I once despised nightfall.

Fortunately, as I get older, mid-day naps have become more socially acceptable.

I’ve even threatened to move to Mexico in order to partake in the custom made famous in Speedy Gonzales cartoons, known as the afternoon siesta.

When I reach retirement, I will finally be able to catch up on all the sleep I lost when I was a kid and a teen.

And believe me, I won’t engage in retirement-age endeavors like Bingo, shuffleboard, and golf.

Instead, I’ll close my eyes and dream about them, where I’ll yell “Bingo” every 10 minutes in my sleep, bat the shuffleboard disc out of the park like the backyard home runs of my youth, and hit 18 consecutive holes-in-one without ever getting my plaid pants dirty.

This column originally ran in MesquiteLocalNews.com in October of 2008.

Sleeping With A Movie Star In Kanab

2011-07-06T09:17:00.000-07:00

Don’t tell my wife, but a few weeks ago I slept in a movie star’s room, and woke each morning to her stunningly beautiful face staring at me with her piercingly sexy eyes.

Okay, so my wife already knows. In fact, she was also in the same bed. And if you ask her, I think she’ll even admit that she liked it, and would do it again in a heartbeat.

Before this turns into an MTV reality show, let me explain.

During the last few weeks, my wife and I made two trips to Kanab, Utah, also known as “Utah’s Little Hollywood.”

With more elevation than people, listed at 4,909 feet above sea level versus a population of 3,803, this quaint little town has capitalized on their movie past and wild west roots.

That past includes a slew of western movies filmed in the area surrounding the town, including John Wayne’s “Stagecoach,” Frank Sinatra’s “Sergeants Three,” Clint Eastwood’s “Outlaw Josey Wales,” and parts of the Mel Gibson film “Maverick.” Some of the scenes from “Planet of the Apes” were also filmed in the area. At a movie set built outside of town, it was also the filming location for TV shows like Gunsmoke, Have Gun Will Travel, F Troop, Daniel Boone, and even a few episodes of Lassie.

When you think about it, the image of the American west that most people hold in their hearts is actually the scenery surrounding Kanab.

The movie business became a cottage industry for the town, as local residents welcomed the Hollywood glitterati, provided services for the visitors, and even worked as movie extras and stuntmen.

When the world’s love affair with westerns on the silver screen faded in the mid 1970’s, so did the steady stream of movie stars and film crews.

For a lot of communities, this would have been the death knell, with the main streets becoming as deserted as the abandoned movie sets that today feel like stumbling upon a ghost town.

But just as the films depicted the hardy stock to be found among the inhabitants of the old west, the citizens of Kanab and the surrounding area persevered, survived, and prospered. And they did it in a proud way. They didn’t try to repackage their town as a destination for alternative energy projects, or pretend to be an option for new industry.

Instead, they embraced their heritage as a film location and the essence of the old west.

Along route 89, the main road which cuts through the middle of town, building facades hint at a western theme. At Houston’s Trails End, a restaurant on that thoroughfare, the waitresses actually wear leather gun belts and carry the occasional six shooter.

On both sides of the road, dozens of metal plaques have been erected with the names and photos of movie stars who spent time in Kanab, and the movies that were shot there. That includes “The Duke,” John Wayne.

On the Fourth of July, the town holds a parade filled with plenty of reminders from the boom days when the old west on film WAS Kanab.

Every August, they hold the Western Legends Roundup, featuring stars from old movies and TV shows like Clint Walker and James Drury, as well as the families of other western stars like Roy Rogers, Jr.

At the heart of the town, both geographically and metaphorically, is the Parry Lodge.

It’s the place where most of the movie stars stayed while shooting the more than 100 movies filmed in the region.

Built in 1931 by the Parry brothers, it became the headquarters for many of the movies thanks to relationships developed between Whit Parry and producers in Hollywood, back when deals were made based on handshakes and friendships instead of low bids and production contracts.

Today, many of the rooms at Parry Lodge bears the name of a movie star that once stayed there. In the dining room, autographed photos from the stars who broke bread there adorn the walls.

In June, my wife and I stayed in the Julie Newmar room, a tribute to the curvaceous actress who appeared in a number of westerns including Mackenna’s Gold. Most people also know her as the original Catwoman on the old Batman TV series.

Each morning, after sleeping in Julie’s room, I awoke to a large and stunning black and white photo of the actress in an Indian costume which hung on the wall next to the bed.

To say the least, I enjoyed our stay.

This week, my wife and I hit the jackpot. We spent two nights in the John Wayne bungalow, located next to Julie’s spot.

Unfortunately, while there were a couple of movie posters from The Big Trail and Stagecoach hanging on the wall, there was no life size photo of The Duke for my wife to swoon over each morning, so I don’t think we’re quite even yet.

It’s obvious the rooms are old, but maintained with care and love. It’s a thrill to imagine sleeping in the same room where John Wayne once kicked dust from his spurs, or sitting in a dining room where Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. once swapped jokes. According to the lodge, the rooms bearing names match up and were actually occupied by their namesakes. It’s fun to see the names of Ronald Reagan, Maureen O’Hara, Telly Savalas, and other screen icons written on wooden plaques above each entry door.

The grounds are gorgeous, with a pool that was allegedly suggested by Wayne himself, according to local legend. In fact, according to the lodge staff, Wayne put up half the money for the pool.

Behind the AParry Lodge is an old barn that has been converted into a theater where every night they show one of the old movies filmed in the area. My wife and I enjoyed “Trooper Hook” while there in June, an old 1957 flick starring Joel McCrea and Barbara Stanwyck. And of course, while wandering the property later, we found the rooms bearing the names of these two legends.

Best of all, the lodge and the peaceful yet bustling town are filled with friendly, welcoming people.

My wife and I enjoyed both stays, although each was too short. In addition to the fun of sharing in these throwbacks to a golden era, the solitude of the lodge allowed me to do a lot of writing, so it’s guaranteed that we’ll be back.

Until then, as a way of showing the welcoming nature of my hometown, I’d like to offer an invitation.

In an effort to return the favor, Julie Newmar is welcome to stay in my room any time she happens to be in the Mesquite area. I’ll even provide the Indian outfit. It will be great to once again see her face every morning, as true beauty remains no matter what the age.

Of course I’ll be offering my “good morning” from the living room sofa, which is where I’ll probably be sleeping once my wife reads this, but it would be a restless sleep worth having, complete with visions of movie stars, chases on horseback, gunfights, and the spirit of the old west that can still be found in Kanab.

Being Treated Like A Bank Criminal

2011-06-27T08:09:00.000-07:00

I remember the good old days when criminals who robbed banks got fingerprinted, photographed, and forfeited their money.
Today, those activities are actually part of the joy of being a bank customer.
I recently cashed a check at a bank in town. I don't want to embarrass the bank by using its actual name, so I'll just refer to it as the Bank of Shamerica.
I had received a check that was drawn on that bank. Since it was their check, I thought the decent thing to do would be to let them process it and save all the hassle of waiting for it to clear my bank, work its way through the electronic network, and finally arrive in the mail.
I have no idea what banks charge each other for these machinations, but I guarantee there's a cost involved. I know this because banks today are like the Mafia shylocks of old; they don't do ANYTHING for free.
I was rewarded for my momentary attack of Boy Scout-itis by being treated like an uncommon criminal.
For starters, I was fingerprinted. I wish I was making that up for comedic effect, but I'm not. Because I didn't happen to be a Bank of Shamerica account holder (which to me would be like becoming a member of an exceptionally uncool nerd gang, a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone), they took my fingerprint and put it right on the check. I'm telling you this so that if you read a story in the next few weeks where my fingerprints were found on a murder weapon or at the scene of a crime, you'll know where it came from. Maybe I've watched too many episodes of NCIS on TV, but I've learned they can do incredible things with fingerprints these days.
In addition to the fingerprinting, I noticed the cameras which have become standard for all banks today. I realized that, just like a drunk following a DUI arrest, I was being "booked," complete with fingerprints and mug shots. The only thing missing from this lockup-like experience was the sweet smell of drunk-tank vomit.
Because adding insult to injury is always the way of the Mob and today's banking industry, this bank piled on the pain after taking my fingerprints in front of everyone in the lobby like I was John Dillinger's illegitimate stepchild by requiring me to pay a $6 fee to get my money. I'm surprised I didn't hear a voice over the loudspeaker system announcing "untrustworthy not-to-be-believed shady character, line three."
Remember, this was a Bank of Shamerica check. Their check. Drawn on their bank. After saving them money by taking the check directly to them, and enduring the humiliation of being fingerprinted and photographed, they thank me by keeping part of the pile.
Because I'm old, I remember the days when banks gave away toasters and calendars to curry favor with potential customers, hoping to turn them into account holders.
Based on my recent encounter, I suspect today's bank customer recruiting drives must involve whips and chains, and signs that say "Open an account today, and we'll bust your kneecaps for ya!" And because of the "adding insult to injury" rule, the teller will be required to charge you $20 for their phone call to 911.
The part I find most ironic in all of this is the way banks in the 21st century want to treat individuals like criminals, while the banking industry has pulled off swindles with credit default swaps and other shady financial deals that nearly collapsed the world's financial system. Not only did the crooks in the high offices behind this large scale thievery not get fingerprinted and have their mug shots taken, they received bailouts from the federal government. And again, because of the "insult to injury" rule, some of those bankers used the bailouts to give themselves million dollar bonuses. Right now, there are mafiosos in Las Vegas scratching their heads and saying "damn, doze guys is good!"
I suspect banks in the next decade will begin requiring actual blood samples when doing transactions with the unwashed un-customers. Any day now, I'm expecting to read about a technological breakthrough where scientists can use your DNA to determine that you're broke, a bad credit risk, and pick your nose.
Until then, I would suggest this pitiful little protest. I noticed that, when going through my "booking" process, the teller didn't specify which finger I had to use.
The next time you're subjected to this humiliating and offensive practice, I'll leave it to you to figure out which of your 10 fingers would be most appropriate.

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