Company Lies

I guess there is some truth to the myth of “Truth in Adverstising,” even for some of the big boys.
Advertising giants Blockbuster and Kentucky Fried Chicken recently felt the sting of government regulators, who were responding to claims of false advertising by duped citizens.
In this country, Blockbuster was recently lambasted for their “No Late Fees” campaign.
I remember when this one first came out.
I wondered out loud, “how are they going to stay in business without late fees?”I envisioned a run on “Spiderman 2” DVDs where people rented the flick, then lapsed into bouts of amnesia that might run three or four months, maybe years.
Since then, word is out.
If you’re more than 7 days late, Blockbuster simply bills you for the price of the tape or DVD.
Now to their credit, if you return the tape you now technically own within 30 days, they will “refund” (wipe the amount off your bill) the cost of the tape.
But they will add on a “re-stocking” fee, even though there really isn’t any activity that might resemble re-stocking, like tearing cellophane or opening a cardboard box.
The leader in home video agreed to pay a $630,000 settlement, which will probably wind up as a profitable move, since the “No Late Fees” scam lured in more new subscribers than any ad campaign in the last two years.
Meanwhile, in London, ads for KFC’s new chicken sandwich were cited and removed from the airwaves because the size of the sandwich shown in the ad was misleading.
Apparently, there have been a number of complaints from hungry Brits flocking to the Colonel’s nearest franchises only to find that the sandwich is about the size of a credit card (although a bit thicker).
Allegedly, the hands of the model used to display the munchie are on the smallish size.
KFC representatives claimed it was just a “coincidence.”
In any event, the English version of the FCC banned the ads, wagged their finger, and said “tsk tsk tsk,” which is the English version of a huge fine.
While it’s disheartening to know that “caveat emptor” must now apply to well known multi-national corporations the same as time shares or credit repair programs, it’s good to know that someone in authority is paying attention.

Sneaky Easter

Published in the Desert Valley Times
March 29, 2005

Did you notice that last Sunday was Easter?
I certainly didn’t.
The holiday snuck up on me like the Easter Bunny with mugging on his mind.
Where were all the ads for big Easter blowout sales that usually announce the impending arrival of this evasive holiday?
What about the sappy TV commercials with the bunny rabbit laying chocolate eggs?
How does anyone expect the populace to keep track of Easter without these not-so-subtle reminders?
Maybe the advertising industry was caught off guard as well.
It’s understandable, considering that the holiday is such a confusing moving target that bounces around more than a garden-destroying Easter bunny avoiding the business end of Farmer John’s 12-guage Remington carrot protector.
Maybe that’s how bunny rabbits became the secular symbol of such a holy holiday.
Unlike Christmas, which is always on December 25, and the Fourth of July, which is, oddly enough, celebrated every July 4 (except in Utah, where it kind of vacillates between the third and the fifth, depending on whether or not the fourth falls on a Sunday), Easter never settles down on one particular date.
Sometimes it is celebrated in April.
Sometimes in March.
I even seem to recall celebrating Easter in May once, although I might be mistaken.
(I was only four at the time and had a legitimate struggle with that whole March and May conundrum.)
Today, I’m an adult, and I still can’t figure out when Easter will appear each year without a calendar, a calculator, and a Magic 8 ball.
(“Will Easter fall on April 9?” Shake ball. “Doesn’t look good.”)
I’m pretty adept with a computer, and the formula used to determine the holiday even stymies my Dell.
Actually, I believe the correct formula is known only to the Pope and a handful of ecclesiastical scholars who use ancient artifacts to determine the date, including the Dead Sea scrolls, an abacus, an Urim and Thummin, and maybe even a Ouija board or two.
I’ve had people try to explain the method used, but it comes out sounding like a physics quiz, or stereo instructions printed in Aramaic.
I’m not sure, but I think it has something to do with Ash Wednesday, the square root of pi, and months where i comes before e, except after c, and sometimes y.
Basically, I would recommend that you just close your eyes and point to any Sunday on the calendar.
You have a one-in-52 chance of being right, which is better odds than you’ll get on the Double Diamond slot machine at your favorite casino.
Of course, figuring the correct date for Easter is still more complicated than the dice game “Craps,” which has to be the most intricate gambling game ever conceived.
(Did you know the “Don’t Pass” section of the Craps table has nothing to do with handing the dice to the next player? I do now. But I digress.)
Maybe someday a courageous American President will stand up and say “From now on, Easter will be celebrated on” and pick a date.
Hey, a President was powerful enough to change time a few years back, with Daylight Savings time, another confusing calendar hobbit, so this should be a snap.
Until then, if we have any ecclesiastical scholars out there, please send me an e-mail with an explanation of how to figure out the correct date for Easter so my daughter can get a fair shot at a chocolate bunny next year.
Try to limit the e-mail to 10,000 words or less.
And e-mails with the message “Buy a 2006 calendar, you doofus” will not be appreciated.
Morris Workman can be reached via e-mail at mworkman@dvtnv.com.

Just Call Me Mo Rass

First it was The Game and 50 Cent.
Now it’s T.I. and Li’l Flip exchanging slaps for fun and profit.
I’ve decided that it’s time for me to hang up this writing gig and become a gangsta rapper.
Okay, strike one, I’m white.
Strike two, I’m old.
And strike three, I’m the epitome of uncool.
But I figure just one dustup with P. Diddy or an exchange of rude lyrics with Eminem on my upcoming CD “As Chubby As I Wanna Be” will lead to the talk show circuit, plenty of inquisitive press, and of course, astronomical record sales.
I already know that I don’t need any talent to be a rapper, as long as I’m able to “sample” from a song with a really good “hook.”
I’m thinking of busting rhymes with a track of the Beatles’ “Eleanor Rigby” behind them.
Check it:
“Ah, look at all the homely people...” (heavy synth-cello work) “Ah, look at all the phony people…”
Then I say something offensive like, “P. Diddy, you’re so ugly, I’ll bet Jennifer Lopez would never go out with you.”
(Yes, I know, cutting edge snaps, huh. I hate to be so mean to somebody who has never done anything to me, but this is the music business, baby.)
And it gets worse.
“Eminem, you’re so dumb, you have to use your initials because you can’t spell Marshall Mathers.”
(Ouch! I’m really getting the hang of this!)
All I have to do now is come up with something cutting to say about someone’s mama, and I’ll have armed record executives beating down my door.
“Yo, I know which “game” yo mama named you after…Sorry!”
Wait, maybe I should delete that line.
After all, I understand The Game uses real bullets to sell his records.
But such is the hip hop life of another Chubby-G in da hood.
Now I just have to hang in the ghettos of Mesquite looking for my crew, or my posse, or my homeys.
Or a rap interpreter to explain the deeper intricacies of “fashizzle.”
Peace out, ch’all!

My Muse

I’m sometimes asked where I get my story ideas.
(Okay, what they really say is “what the heck is wrong with you?”)
The short and obvious answer is, from my head.
But that’s not tangible enough for some people, so I’ll be more specific, scientific, and geographical.
I get my best ideas in my shower.
Whenever I’m stuck for an idea and my deadline is less than two hours away, I jump into the shower for a good soak.
To be more mystical, I would say that the shower is where my muse lives.
A muse is a mythical creature responsible for creative inspiration.
If you’ve ever seen the movie “Xanadu,” Olivia Newton-John was a muse, who happened to live in an old concert hall that was transformed into a skate bar.
In the movie “Dogma,” the muse was played by Salma Hayek.
Stephen King refers to his muse in his writing memoir “On Writing,” referring to him as a “basement kind of guy,” so I’m not a complete crackpot.
(I wonder what it means when I point to horror impresario Stephen King as my example of normal…)
I haven’t actually seen my muse, but I’m pretty sure he lives behind the shower nozzle.
It took a little while to get comfortable with the idea of an unseen entity in my shower, particularly the way my body looks without clothes (no, please don’t try to imagine), but he’s the one with the great ideas, so I have to accept it.
I hope this doesn’t mean my muse is a peeping tom.
If you’re not comfortable with the idea of invisible creatures, I have another theory.
I’ve read that Lewis Carroll wrote great whacks of the book “Alice In Wonderland” while under the influence of LSD.
Perhaps my enhanced creativity in the shower is the result of a chemical reaction.
If so, I suspect it’s that explosive combination that occurs when the Zest soap interacts with the Alberto VO5 shampoo.
I’m not sure if my results would change if I were to try a different soap/shampoo combination.
Maybe Cameo and Pantene would give my writing style a more sophisticated lilt, or I could purify my content with Ivory and Johnson’s Baby Shampoo.
To get in touch with my feminine side, I could abandon soap altogether and try some of that body wash stuff and a scrubby.
And to improve my horror fiction output, I could try Lava soap and a shampoo of Easy-Off oven cleaner.
But for now, I’m sticking to my muse theory.
It’s more “out there,” which is expected of people who make their living with the written word (we’ve all been led to believe that most writers are artsy, flaky folks with weird lifestyles anyway, so I’m not going to try and swim upstream on this one).
So now, if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to finish toweling off and go dry my hair.

Rising Gas Prices

We have a new addition to the fatalistic phrase “Nothing is certain except death and taxes.”
Now we can amend the idiom to read “Nothing is certain except death, taxes, and rising gas prices.”
The price of a gallon of gasoline has been steadily climbing for months, with plenty of economists (aka “price tag fortune tellers”) predicting that the prices this summer will be even higher.
This week’s explosion at a BP gasoline refinery in Texas guarantees that the price of gasoline will basically equal the amount paid for a gallon of Jim Beam at your nearest liquor store.
The good news is that this pricing parity is sure to cut down on drunk driving, as those who are forced to choose between the two liquids will certainly select the bourbon.
A gallon of gas may get you to the other side of town.
A gallon of good bourbon can get you to the other side of the cosmos.
Besides, when the gas is gone, you just have an empty gas tank.
When the bourbon is gone, you often have new stories to tell that begin with “you’re not going to believe this,” a pretty clear bottle you can fill with colored water as a dining table centerpiece (yes, I was once a bachelor living with another hetero bachelor, and this was a part of our décor), and extra pairs of underwear you can’t explain, although you now have a new indentation in your forehead that says “Hanes” when you look in the mirror.
Drivers today are like the cigarette smokers of the eighties.
These are the folks who said “when cigarettes reach $2 a pack, I’m going to quit,” then “when cigarettes reach $3 a pack, I’m going to quit,” then $4, $5, etc.
Some of the hard-core smokers whose cigarette habits have resulted in their being evicted from the office, forced out of California bars, banned from all restaurants in Utah, and even exiled from their own living rooms by reformed non-smoking spouses, are still offering up that weak promise.
“When cigarettes reach $80 a pack, I’m going to quit.”
American drivers are the same way, according to recent reports.
The surge in gas prices hasn’t dissuaded drivers from cruising their gas guzzling SUVs to the supermarket to pick up that 12-pack of Q-tips, or driving to their mailbox a half block away.
The obsession with consuming vast quantities of fossil fuels to feed our octane addiction is approaching crack head proportions.
It doesn’t get any better when you consider our main-line dope dealers are swarthy turbaned men from the Middle East who would rather see us dead, but just can’t turn down the cash and long-term entertainment of watching our country sell our collective grandmothers for just one more hit of mid-grade, or “87” as it’s known in the streets.
Just like the never-ending supply of cocaine which pours across our borders each day, no amount of government suggestion or intervention is going to stop America’s craving, for as long as there is a demand, there will be a country willing to provide it.
Our only hope is that the Columbian cartels will become so furious with their shrinking profits when customers use perfectly good drug money to buy gas for their Honda Civics that the drug lords will declare war on the Middle East.
Or that they can invent a car that runs on bourbon.

Royal Titles

It seems they’re having a bit of a row across the big pond these days.
Prince Charles is getting ready to marry Camilla Parker-Bowles, the love of his life and the woman suspected as the catalyst in the famous break-up between Charles and Diana.
The problem is what to call Parker-Bowles in the event that Charles becomes king.
I find it ironic, since the people and the British press have had no problem in deciding what to call her for the last few years, usually a title featuring an upper-case “B.”
Apparently, the British subjects have collectively accepted the nuptials, but are adamant that she should not be referred to as “Princess” anybody, and most importantly, never gets to wear the title of “Queen” should Charles do the unthinkable and actually outlive the Queen Mother.
(My money is on Liz.)
Charles has had a rough time, spending his life preparing to wear a crown that his mommy absolutely will not allow him to play with.
Okay, he’s put his foot in it a time or two, an ugly divorce and the Parker-Bowles affair, but overall he’s been a pretty patient guy.
You’ve never seen a picture of the Prince in the royal limo, surrounded by royal concubines, putting royal white powder up his prodigious royal nose.
He’s probably got as many skeletons in his closet as your average B-list rock star, but he’s put up a good front.
I’m not sure why the queen won’t let him take over.
She has witnessed recent historical examples of what can happen when someone rules a country, then is forced to sit by and watch how things turn out when his son takes over.
She might have a point.
It’s tough in this country to grasp the whole issue of titles when we can’t even handle something as simple as adding a prefix of “Mr.” or “Ms.” when addressing elders, but apparently it’s important to the Brits.
It appears the ruling family has landed on the title “Princess Consort” for Camilla.
Funny, since it actually sounds like the title of a royal concubine.
So the wedding will go on, not in a big church like the first go-round, but with more of a Las Vegas flavor, with the ceremony taking place in a Town Hall.
Now, if we could just get Elvis to perform the vows, it would be perfect.
A Prince getting married by The King.

50 Cent’s Beef With The Game

Published in the Desert Valley Times
March 22, 2005

A war broke out recently that, for a change, had nothing to do with Iraq, Afghanistan, or any other oil-bearing desert region.
The war was between 50 Cent and The Game.
Sounds like the tale of a kid in an arcade, doesn’t it?
No, children in an arcade have far too much intelligence for this particular brand of conflict.
You see, for those like me who are terminally unhip, “50 Cent” is the pseudonym of a rapper.
Not to be confused with a 50-cent wrapper, which is a paper tube used to gather pennies.
It’s not the name of the rapper’s group, it’s the dude’s moniker.
If you’re going to say the name in public, you need to know that it’s not pronounced “fifty cent” unless you want to get laughed out of middle school.
It’s “fitty sint.”
I’ve heard this gentleman’s music.
For my money, 50 cents would be about twice what the CD is worth.
But apparently the kiddies like his music about murder and pimping and the ‘hood, so who am I to judge.
Anyway, it turns out that there used to be a member of his “posse,” which is rapper shorthand for those who choose to share his company, named The Game.
(Doesn’t anybody name their kid “John” or “Freddy” anymore?)
The rumor is that The Game “dissed” fitty cint, expressing loyalty to a rival performer, which evoked cint’s ire.
Now let’s not get too high and mighty here.
I’ll admit I liked Elvis Presley when I was a kid.
I’ll also admit to watching more than one Elvis movie where the king opened up a can of whoop-butt on a rival fishing boat captain, a rival race car driver, a rival treasure hunter, and even a rival cliff diver.
So musicians beating each other up isn’t a novel concept.
But unlike a mere Hollywood thrashing solved by somebody getting the girl, the conflict between 50 Cent and The Game broke out in gunfire at a radio station.
Very un-Elvis-ish.
Afterwards, the two “gangstas” postured and howled at the moon about wounded pride and vengeance.
But then, somebody got in their ear and explained that maybe killing other musicians isn’t the best way to promote an album.
No, it wasn’t the police. (Does ANYBODY in the entertainment industry listen to them anymore?)
Most likely it was somebody WAY more important, like a record producer or a publicist or the guy who drives the limo.
So, fast forward a few weeks, and we see 50 Cent and The Game making nice in public.
Neither of them came right out and said who did what to whom, but it’s all better now.
In fact, they fixed it the way most celebrities and not a few liberal Democrats fix things: by throwing money at it.
Each of them pledged a few hundred thousand dollars to the other’s favorite charity, and now life in the ‘hood can go on.
Nobody’s going to jail (which is for mere mortals like taxi drivers and home improvement divas), nobody’s going to court, and everybody’s CD gets a sales boost, which is about as close to a happy ending as it gets in the hip hop world.
It sure gives a new meaning to such music industry expressions as “the song is number nine with a bullet” and “this song killed them at the radio station” and “this is his first shot at the big time.”
Which is why I’m sticking with country music, where all you have to do is avoid lights going out in Georgia and black-eyed peas consumed by guys named Earl.

Food-O-Nauts

America is known for blazing new trails and riding the cutting edge of all things trendy and chic.
But while everyone knows the name of the first man to walk on the moon (Lance Armstrong, wasn’t it?), no one remembers the pioneers of the palate.
I’m talking about the brave souls who were the first to partake of certain culinary delights, with the survivors helping usher in a whole new world of tasty treats.
For example, you know that somebody had to be the first to grab the mammary glands of a large, ugly critter, squeeze it until white liquid came out, then turn it into a breakfast staple.
(I’ve often wondered what prehistoric man put on his cereal before milk was discovered.)
And how did we settle on cows as the primary source of milk?
Almost all female mammals have the ability to produce milk.
Why isn’t Haagen Dazs ice cream made of horse milk? Or platypus milk?
I think that the person who finally made cow’s milk the dairy standard should be recognized, or at least have a Ben and Jerry’s flavor named after him.
Then consider the myriad choices for meats.
Americans have expressed their preference for beef, (it’s what’s for dinner, according to the Beef Industry ads), chicken, pork, and fish.
Why don’t you see any Alabama Fried Possum fast food places, featuring a bucket of the deep-fried marsupial prepared with the Lieutenant’s secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices?
Somewhere in the history of the species, someone with a fast club decided that one of those three-pound flying-impaired feather bearers would make a good take-out product.
Why isn’t he memorialized in the annals of culinary lore?
Then there was the guy, alive before Jesus’s time, who was sitting on a fence one day watching a filthy, curly-tailed critter eat its own feces and decided that it was exactly what was missing from his lettuce and tomato sandwich on toasted bread.
For over 2000 years, we’ve been ignoring the professionals at our nearest Jewish deli and insisting on adding a dozen different thinly-sliced versions of this on rye.
And how about the very first guy who test-tasted wine?
I can just hear his buddy the monk explaining the production of this libation.
“See, what we’re gonna do is take these grapes, stomp all over them with muddy feet, (monks weren’t known for good podiatric care), put the squishy mess into these half-rotted wooden casks that we previously used for our semi-annual baths, then let it sit in the dark for a few years. Wanna try some?”
Of course, to me, the ultimate hero of nutrition has got to be the guy who discovered that eggs were good to eat.
The first Neanderthal daring to whip up an omelette after watching where that egg came from is far braver than Superman, John Wayne, and Evel Knievel all rolled into one.
And there’s not even a Las Vegas casino restaurant named after him.

Redneck Weekend Ends

Published in the Desert Valley Times
March 15, 2005

Well, Mesquite survived another redneck weekend.
Now before you pick up that pitchfork and break out your Zippo to light the torches, understand that there are some red-ringed branches on my family tree.
My dad was raised on a farm in the mountains of West Virginia, rode a Harley until I was too big to continue riding on the motorcycle’s gas tanks, and used to beat people up for sport as an amateur boxer at his high school.
After he turned pro, (which means he joined the local police department in the rural Maryland town where I was born, where he got paid to beat people up), he wore a blue uniform over a white t-shirt every day, but there was still some red under the collar.
I guess that red, white, and blue combination makes him something of an American hero.
He certainly was one to me.
Which means I have some redneck blood running through my veins.
Fortunately, my mom comes from a family of bluebloods, which sort of cancels out the recessive redneck gene, so I think I turned out pretty normal.
(Although I do occasionally let go with a “Yee-hah” after writing a particularly pleasing passage at four in the morning, and I’ve caught myself referring to my wife as “Sis.”)
So for those who consider themselves rednecks and are still able to read, don’t take offense.
Besides, as this weekend proves, everyone wants to be a redneck these days.
Bolstered by comedian Jeff Foxworthy, who defines redneckism as “a glorious lack of sophistication,” and fellow blue collar comedians Ron White, Bill Engvall, and Larry the Cable Guy, being a redneck is in vogue this year.
(For my redneck brethren, “vogue” is more than just a chick magazine filled with half-nekkid women.)
This weekend, Mesquite became Dogpatch West as NASCAR fans filled the hotels and restaurants in between jaunts to the Las Vegas Motor Speedway for the big Busch series and Nextel Cup races.
(I find a lot of irony in the fact that NASCAR’s premier series is sponsored by a cell phone company, a device that is just about useless in the mountains and hollers where NASCAR was born.)
I ran into a few of these race fans on Saturday night at the CasaBlanca, where guys with gold chains and Rolex watches camouflaged inside their $200 western shirts practiced their “Yee-hahs” and honed their beer-drinking skills at the “Little Texas” show in anticipation of Sunday’s UAW-Daimler Chrysler 400.
(Another irony. When was the last time you saw a Mercedes Benz doing 190 around turn four of a NASCAR track? And yet, the German luxury car maker which bought Chrysler a few years ago is now sponsoring a stock car race. Personally, I think they should use a Mercedes as a pace car. Is there anything more entertaining than the vision of 43 good-old-boys chasing a snooty rich flatlander around the track?)
I saw one redneck-wannabe stepping out of his Jaguar at the valet parking area adorned in a Dale Jr. racing jacket.
Is it just me, or is there something wrong with that picture?
Anyway, it was good to have so many nice folks in our town, and I look forward to their return next year.
Yee-hah, y’all!

Campaign Sign Time

Published in the Desert Valley Times
March 8,2005

It’s city council campaign sign season where I live.
Personally, I like the explosion of color serenading me from every street corner, with plenty of reds, whites, blues, Bulldog greens, and even hot pinks screaming for my attention.
Also, I like the innocence of the signs, which manage to proclaim the munificent virtues of their sponsoring candidates without the vitriolic mud-slinging which tends to accompany most other forms of electoral come-ons.
You never see a sign that says “Vote for Joe Smith because Bob Brown has bad breath.”
The candidates save such cerebral exchanges for their brochures and anonymous phone solicitations.
As far as being a barometer to our sociological evolution as a community, this year’s signs show a certain sophistication, with most printed on plastic signboards with professional silk-screening.
It’s quite a leap over the hand-lettered or badly-stenciled hunks of whitewashed plywood that once lined the boulevard.
It’s good that the signs are more aesthetically pleasing.
It’s bad that the improvements are underwritten by bigger campaign warchests, because of the insidious nature of campaign contributions from special interests.
There is a real concern in some quarters because of the amount of money being poured into the campaigns by developers.
Fortunately for the citizenry, many of the developers dislike each other, and are funding opposing candidates, so we have some balance.
Since most of the signs are printed on materials that won’t decompose until well after George W’s great-great-granddaughter takes the oath of office, it’s a safe bet that we don’t have any “green” candidates on the city ballot.
We’re a little out of balance on the ecological issues since we managed to run that dunderhead from Phoenix out of town who threatened to sue us over our creative reconstruction of the snot-nosed slime-eared tail-wagger pinfish habitat. (Most of us don’t refer to it as “habitat.” The maps call it “The Virgin River.”)
While I have nothing but disdain and loathing for almost every variety of tree hugger, I recognize that, like the slug and the mosquito, a certain quotient of whacked environmentalists is necessary to maintain some sort of natural yin and yang in a civilization’s growth cycle.
Behind the scenes, there’s a lot of pushing and shoving regarding the locations of the signs.
One candidate got his fingers slapped for being an overachiever, erecting his signs just a few days before it was technically legal, but you can’t hate a guy for wanting to get his post-hole digging out of the way early.
Another candidate’s spouse has been whining about signs that are in violation of various homeowner association rules, threatening to sic the HOA Swat Team on the perpetrators.
Fortunately, there are so many conflicting associations that they’re having trouble figuring out who gets to conduct the first beheading.
As for individual homeowners, it’s easy to figure out which ones belong to HOAs and which ones don’t.
The free expression of a preference for a particular candidate is only permitted in neighborhoods which don’t have CC&R’s, since the American right of free speech is one of the first casualties of those who sign the loyalty oath required by most associations.
(I live in an association neighborhood, so I don’t really hate HOAs. In fact, our board is pretty good, although they still won’t allow me to post a “Martha Stewart for City Council” sign in my front yard.)
We’re still about a month away from election day, so the sign terrorists and guerilla campaigners have yet to appear.
Sign terrorists are the evildoers who sneak out in the middle of the night and tear down the signs of opposing candidates.
Guerilla campaigners are the ones who surreptitiously park their signs in front of other campaign signs.
I’m also looking forward to the one-car campaign parades, where candidates dress up their personal vehicles, pickup trucks, and ATV’s with blaring signs, plastic streamers, and endless bumper stickers then drive around town like they have somewhere important to be.
They usually leave their vehicles in conspicuous places, avoiding the city’s sign laws by claiming they’re just innocently parking their car.
(Like there’s so much business being transacted at that plot of dirt on the corner of Mesquite and Pioneer.)
As for me, I can hardly wait for the bumper sticker salvos to begin.
I consider bumper stickers to be a community service, and a vehicle maintenance tool.
I have a few spots on my car where the paint is coming off.
I have to either get the car repainted, or choose a candidate whose bumper stickers I can use to cover up the rust spots, including the scratched area in back where a “Vote for Perot” bumper sticker used to hide my close encounter with a shopping cart.
(For the record, I voted for Perot. I figured that if the guy could help me save $299 that otherwise would have gone to Earl Scheib, he could probably figure out how to beat this deficit thing.)
Now, if I could just find a way to hide that patch of dead grass on my front lawn…

Simon Cowell for Defense Secretary

While I like our President well enough, I can't say I'm particularly enamored of his Secretary of Defense.
Wait, that's too weak.
I believe that he should be named the chairman of Ford, Chevy, and Chrysler, because there's never been a used car salesman born who could out-lie Uncle Rumsfeld.
But unlike the game-plan in Iraq, where we dumped one despot only to create this enormous despotism vacuum, I have a plan for 'ol Rumpots replacement.
I give you Simon Cowell.
Yes, the kindhearted escapee from a Dale Carnegie course who appears eighteen times a week on American Idol.
While some people might be uncomfortable with his direct style, I think he would be the perfect guy to lead our troops.
First, there wouldn't be any pussy-footing around. You would never have to worry about what he’s REALLY thinking.
"Hey, Iran, I think you suck and I'm not impressed. Really, appalling."
There would be no questions about where we stand with North Korea.
"Kim Jung Il, you're a fuzzy headed little moron, and I don't care what Paula says."
He would have some good advice for the folks in France and Germany.
"You need to do a better job of picking your songs, and try sticking with a song once you choose it. You're just not good enough for this level of competition."
Of course, Russia would run right out and hire Randy Jackson as their diplomatic envoy.
"Yeah, but yo, comrade dawg, you just need to be keeping it real."
(I know, it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s still more intelligible than the vacillating communiqués coming out of the Kremlin these days.)
At least, if we were permitted to follow the American Idol formula of voting on our cell phones, we would get a chance to have a say in how things turn out.
My only fear would be Ryan Seacrest landing a job as the White House Press Secretary.
Yes, there is someone more annoying than Scott McClellan.
Peace out, ‘dawg!

Greetings from the Cerebral Vortex

There was once a bizarre TV show in the late 60's starring William Windom as cartoonist James Thurber.
(A gold star and a smiley face to the person who can name the show).
Each week, the show opened with a monologue, punctuated by the tag line "This is my world, and welcome to it."
It is the perfect greeting for this 'blog.
I am a writer. A real, honest-to-goodness, get-paid-for-my-words columnist.
Notice that nowhere in that little intro did I include the term "well-paid."
However, as I have been reminded repeatedly by my peers and colleagues, and has been converted into a daily mantra by my boss, professional writers do it for the love, not for the money.
There is an incredible amount of truth in that perspective, but it's still hard to convince the electric company that they should accept some of my "psychic income" (my boss's term for positive karma) as payment for last month's power bill.
But the fact remains that I love to write.
I've always loved to write, starting in fourth grade where I wrote my first "book," which was a collection of 2" x 4" strips of paper where I wrote some dull little fourth grade tale, then stapled the pages into a ten-page manuscript.
After graduating high school with numerous "bon voyage" messages scribbled in my yearbook by classmates, with offerings of premature congratulations on my pending future as a world-famous writer, I embarked on my pre-destiny.
The first stop was in a chemical factory, where I worked for a decent wage wading through floor wax and window cleaner, with the promise/self-delusion that this was a temporary pit stop to gather money for the journey.
Then I met a girl, got married, got a car, car loan payments, insurance, and rent.
My mistress, (the written word), continued to wait patiently as I worked my way through a string of ever-improving salaries needed for the new mortgage, and the furnishings, the pool, the new new car and it's twin sister, the new new car loan.
Then, a divorce, a move to a new state, a new life, new friends, a new wife, kids...
One day I woke up and I was 41.
It had been so long since I had even flirted with my mistress that I had forgotten her face.
Frantic to ensure that she hadn't abandoned me, I answered an ad in a local Gannett daily newspaper.
They were looking for volunteers to write a column once each month.
For free, of course.
I applied, was one of the 20 lucky applicants chosen from a pool of over 60, and began my menstrual monologues, writing a new column every 28 days.
I learned that my mistress hadn't abandoned me. In fact, our relationship blossomed and became even stronger.
Like most amorous obsessions, and all sexual ones, I discovered that once a month was not enough.
So at 42 years of age, with the blessing and backing of the most wonderful wife a man could ever hope for, I did the unthinkable.
I walked away from a high-paying vice-president's position with an insurance firm to answer an ad for a sports writer at a small weekly newspaper two states away.
For about half the salary.
Now, a year later, I'm broke but extremely happy with my place in life.
I've been recognized twice by the Nevada Press Association, I'm now the sports editor of that little newspaper, which has grown to a circulation of nearly 9,000 and publishing twice a week.
More importantly, I've started writing a weekly humor column, with an eye toward national syndication within the next year.
That weekly column, published in the Mesquite, Nevada newspaper called the Desert Valley Times, will be the basis for this 'blog, along with other seminal and urinal scribings posted every day.
As you may have already surmised, brevity is not one of my shining attributes.
However, I assure you that all postings outside of the weekly Workman Chronicles column will be less than 350 words.
Or maybe less than 400 words.
Definitely no more than 500.
My challenge is to make those obese scratchings worth enduring, with the stated aim of making you smile, making you laugh, and making you think.
I’m honored that you chose to click on this site, and I hope you find it worth a return visit.
With a noble nod to Mr. Windom, I open this door to the swirling funnel cloud which tosses twisted thoughts and convoluted perspectives around the Kansas trailer park that is my mind.
I hope you like it.
It’s my world.
Welcome to it.