Up Against the Wal-Mart

I had to do a story tonight about yet another fight between Wal-Mart and people who live near the site of a proposed Super Center. "They're a nice place to visit," I wrote. "But who wants to live near one?"

People at the upscale apartments and the housing development behind the empty site don't want the "riff-raff," as one woman described Wal-Mart customers, to spill into their streets. It will lower property values and raise crime rates, residents told me. Never mind that Wal-Mart is even offering to pay millions to widen public roads near the site, has shrunk the size of its planned store and made other concessions in the face of the opposition. "It doesn't fit with this neighborhood," another woman said.

But the dog track and the strip club across the street do? Wow! There must be more excitement going on in Wal-Mart than I ever noticed.

What's really going on is a kind of elitism. "Have you ever seen the people in Wal-Mart late at night?" a pretty blonde who works in the apartment complex' office asked me. Obviously not the kind she wanted to associate with.

That was before the property manager came and unceremoniously evicted us from the premises. I guess we were not the kind of people they want to associate with, either.

They want to think they're better than Wal-Mart customers yet how many of them do you think are Wal-Mart customers? If a Target or a Publix (a grocery chain based in Florida) wanted to move in, would that be a problem? Probably not. But Wal-Mart is somehow beneath them, a place in which only the rabble would admit shopping.

The super center is no sure thing yet, though one woman I interviewed said she was moving her family in part because she wants to beat the onslaught of people selling their homes if "they (Wal-Mart) somehow weasel their way in there," she said.

If enough of them shout about falling property values, it will become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It must be a crappy place, people will think, just listen to what those who live there now say about it.

Don't get me wrong. I don't love Wal-Mart. I think the company is growing too big for its britches and could use the cutting down it's getting in communites that send it packing.

But worse than a strip club? Get real.

Relative Virtuosity

Workouts feel great. When I'm done. This one wasn't much but it was exercise. First workout in at least two weeks. I can't do that to myself any more, even if I kick my new Krispy Kreme habit, which I won't for any length of time.

Though I did tonight. I'm getting my late night sweet fix from a cup of fat-free lemon yogurt. Nothing like a glazed donut topped with fudge and sprinkles but something. My great restraint leaves me feeling virtuous.

Of course, an old friend of mine recently ran the Boston Marathon for the second time. The whole thing! Knowing her, she'll grouse about not finishing in less time. And it won't help to remind her that most people have not run 26.2 miles in their lives let alone done it in one afternoon.

Desperate for Housewives

The title's misleading. I'm not desperate but, just so you know, heterosexual males like ABC's hit show too. At least one of them does, anyway. And the show following it Grey's Anatomy is worth the hour of your life it takes too. For now. Sometimes these shows get off to a fast start and then run out of ideas or has a premise that can't sustain itself no matter how clever the writing.

Ed was one of those. The bowling alley and all that stuff were ancillary. The crux of the show was Ed's pursuit of the cute blonde girl. That works great for a two hour long romantic comedy movie. But once he either gets or fails to get the girl, the story's over. And dragging out the "will-they-or-won't-they" for too long wears thin.

I don't watch a lot of television. That might sound odd considering I make my living from it but it's like working in a restaurant. Once you know how the food's made it's a lot less appealing. Occasionally a show will catch my eye and I get hooked. Buffy the Vampire Slayer was one. Smallville had me for a while but that's another one that relies too heavily on the unrequieted love between Clark and Lana. Either date or don't date, already, and leave me alone.

Or, as it turned out, I'll leave your show alone.

It has not escaped my attention that TV shows that draw my attention invariably star one or more beautiful women. Shocking, huh? It's TV. It's escape. If I want reality, I look out my window. When I watch TV, I want shows with sappy happy endings where the guy gets the pretty girl. And, yes, when the big kissing scene comes at the end, I'm the one putting the liplock on the starlet.

I feel no guilt about my mindless pleasure tonight because I earned it. I've been working on a DVD for which I decided I was going to design the artwork myself. Only I'm not a graphic designer. I don't even play one on TV. So you can see why designing a DVD cover might present a challenge.

Turns out if you play around on Photoshop for two days straight you'll do a lot of things over again. If you're lucky you'll come up with something that you'll like, though it might come by complete accident. If you're smart, you'll tell people you meticulously planned it that way.

Even if, in truth, you were completely desperate.

Lo-cal Kremes

Gotta love the discount donuts. Krispy Kremes came two-for-one when I bought some late tonight. Many places cut the price after a certain time, figuring they're not as fresh.

It's a little-known but well-established fact that food on sale has fewer calories than its full-priced counterparts. Look it up.

Public Privates

I had no idea that you would see this. Now I know that you might, it changes the way I write here. First of all: no detailed sex scenes. OK, OK, I confess: The reason for that is that my last sex scene happened so long ago that I can't remember the details. She enjoyed it, though. I remember that. So did I.

Actually, the details are starting to come back to me now.

But you know what I mean. You write differently when you think someone is going to read it. It's not that I'm nervous writing for an audience; it's that if I'm going to have an audience, I want them to like it. Sure, I write for myself but who doesn't want people to think they're more brilliant than they are? Especially if they can affect nonchalance as they do it? Probably only slightly more than the number of people who think themselves more brilliant than they are.

Random aside: Am I the only one who bangs into things, drops, crinkles or crunches things when he's the only one awake in the house? I get home from work late tonight and the house is dark. I try to be quiet and the harder I try not to make noise, the more noise I make. No, I did not mean to kick the metal table!

Where was I? Oh, yes, writing for my audience on a page that was not supposed to have one. I don't mind that you're here. I'm flattered, really. But now instead of merely tapping out whatever random brain riffs I have here, I feel obliged to entertain you. You've been kind enough to visit; it's the least I can do.

(Sure sign of someone overthinking what is supposed to be freewheeling thought: two semi-colons in one paragraph. I might have even used them properly.)

Sometimes my off the cuff thoughts are off the wall funny. Other times they look like they come from a guy who has some issues he needs to work out but doesn't know where to start. Most of the time they fall somewhere in between and I can't tell the difference.

I wasn't lying earlier when I said you are welcome here. You are. As if I had a choice anyway. But you have to forgive my selfishness. You're going to have to wade through some neurotic slough to get to the funny neurotic slough. If you're OK with that, cool. Hang around. Or better, scroll down. The page works better that way.

Dogma or Catma

I look over at my cat and wonder if I'd trade lives with her.

She wakes from her nap long enough to yawn and stretch her legs before settling back down to sleep. She's content right now so I don't exist. She'll call if she needs me. When she's hungry, I feed her. When she's cold, I cuddle her. When she's bored, I amuse her. When she pukes, I clean it up.

Her end of the bargain is to pee in the litter box.

No, she's not shavishly affectionate like a dog. But I also don't have to take her for a walk in a rainstorm. Heck, in most places now, when you take the dog out to do his business you have to take his business back in with you. None for me, thanks.

It's a fair trade. I like to watch her, whether she's rolling around on a spot where the sun has found the floor, darting her eyes to follow a bird she has spotted outside the window or simply walking around the house "on patrol." She is a beautiful creature. And I might never feel more comfortable than when she crawls under the covers on a chilly night, curls up next to me and starts purring.

Does the cat think she is getting a good deal? She has a relaxed life, if not a luxurious one. She's never had a job. Never had to survive office politics. Never been fired. Never had to worry about health insurance or rent payments or food bills. Never gotten a speeding ticket.

Does she know she has no worries as long as she stays off the living room couch?

Does she know what she's missing? She's never kissed. Never had sex. Never talked on the phone. Never eaten pizza. Never swam in the Gulf of Mexico. Never won a race. Never read a book. Never played guitar.

Would I trade places with her? It depends on the day. Ask me again tomorrow.

Rhyme

I'm wander back through pages in my mind.
I'm wonder how doing so little takes so much time.
Why is it so easy to forget those who have forgiven our trespasses?
And so hard to forgive those who trespass against us?

Gunshot Geese

"When a man stops liking this, it's time to bury him."

I agreed with the voice coming from the TV. Then I realized the guy wasn't talking about gawking at naked supermodels. So what was "this," the thing so critical to being that no man should live who must live without it?

Shooting Canadian geese.

Flipping around the TV before going to sleep last night, I happened upon OLN, the Outdoor Life Network. It looked cool. Birds in formation silhouetted against the early morning bright blue sky of Alberta, Canada.

Then the video cuts to two guys lying in coffin-sized boxes camouflaged with leaves and brush. You can see the tops of their heads as they lay on their backs, ready. They look obvious to me but I know nothing about the visual acuity of geese. Besides, not knowing they are going to appear on the Outdoor Life Network how suspicious can they be?

When the geese get close enough you can hear their honking, the two guys undercover join in with fake geese calls. Then one of the guys yells the signal. The double doors of their boxes fly open. They sit up, raise their rifles and take aim. The video cuts back to the flying geese as we hear the gunshots. Suddenly one of the geese stops flying and drops like a feathered stone. The gwo guys hoot and holler like it's the greatest thing they've ever done.

Maybe it is.

The guys fetch their prizes then climb back into their boxes to wait for the next flock. The scene repeats itself several times: geese approach, honking starts, boxes open, gunshots fly, goose falls. This must be a particulary good day, if you're not a gunshot goose. One time the guys don't make it back to their boxes before the next wave approaches and they drop to the ground, looking as inconspicuous as two guys with rifles lying on the ground can look, I suppose, and bag another one.

Much male-bonding gaiety ensues after each kill. It doesn't look that fun to me. It certainly doesn't look like such a life affirming event that when you stop liking it that you should stop breathing too.

Yet oddly I can't turn away. I watch again and again as they cut to that shot of the geese flying where one of them suddenly stops flying. I'm not enjoying it, really, but I watch, waiting for the killshot, glued to the moment at which something dies.

I'm not a hunter. Never have been. My momentary fascination with watching it did not make me understand what its recreational value must be. I'm no bleeding-hearted tree-hugger. I don't oppose game hunting. I just don't get it.

When a man stops liking this, it's time to bury him? You shot a bird, buddy. What's the big deal?

Comments Welcome

Let's be honest: Blogs are for people to spill their thoughts onto Information Superhighway. Most of them amuse no one but their authors, which is perfectly OK. That's their purpose.

That's why I write mine.

In that spirit, I'm scrolling down this page, admiring my handywork, when I see that someone has posted a comment under one of the entries. "What in the world...?" I think as I click to read it. Holy cow! Somebody has read this! Not only that, the person has been inspired enough to respond in writing. So it's no Herculean task to tap out a few words in an Internet message but still!

I wanted to hug somebody. I don't know why. Maybe we bloggers busily type out these things, secretly (or not so secretly) hoping to reach the world. Or at least one person in it. Are we people who don't get enough traditional human interaction in our lives that we reach for it here?

Again with the recreational thinking. I ask questions. I don't have to answer them.

But you are welcome to. I have no illusions that anyone who finds this site will do so in any way other than by complete accident. Until today I wrote here thinking that I was not only this blog's author but its only audience. But if you feel so moved, I will gladly read your replies.

Soft Jesus

"Jesus was soft on crime. He would never have been elected anything," writes Anne Lamott in her new book Plan B.

I haven't read the book. I saw the quotation when I stumbled across a review of it in the St. Petersburg Times. I was looking for the Sunday crossword puzzle. I liked the quote, though, and wrote it down. What a wonderful bit of wisdom. Good authors make observations like that.

Sometimes not-so-good writers get lucky and make them too. When I do it people mistake me for being more literate than I am. I'd like to read more. Really.

I'm sure I would if I could ever finish the puzzle.

Woo Hoo Dew

I once drove 470 miles through the night to visit a girl I was seeing.

Figured it would be good enough to spend the next day sleeping together even if it involved nothing more than actual sleep.

Found out that copious amounts of Mountain Dew consumed to stay awake during the trip produce a Viagra-like effect.

We stayed delightfully awake the next day.

Shooting Slowpokes

I blog therefore I am. Forget thinking. If you click on the "Next Blog>>" button in the upper right corner of this page, you'll probably see what I mean. You might be seeing it right here.

(For fun, I just clicked "Next Blog>>." It took me to a site called "The Skinny Epicurean" authored by a food enthusiast that -- I kid you not --- included the quote, "I am definitely suffering from baking withdrawal symptoms. I NEED to bake, soon!!")

It doesn't take thought to form an opinion. You'll meet a lot of people happy to tell you what they think who have done no thinking before they say it. Parroting something they heard on talk radio doesn't count.

The Florida legislature has passed a measure that would punish people who drive slowly in the left lane of multi-lane highways. In what may or may not be related, lawmakers also approved a bill favored by the NRA that would allow people to defend themselves with deadly force in any place where they had a legal right to be. Gone would be the duty to retreat, even in one's own home, when threatened. Now the gloves, or more precisely, the safeties, are off.

The next logical step, of course, is to combine the two bills into one law allowing people to shoot slowpokes who clog the left lanes of highways.

"We" won.

So much for my plan to do this every day. I wish I were more disciplined. I've been working steadily lately, which should provide more interesting fodder for this endeavor. If only I could push myself to do it.

Last night my alma mater won the NCAA basketball tournament. Yay! I do not know any of the team's coaches or players. My only connection to them is that the name on the front of their jerseys matches the one on my college degree. Why can complete strangers elate me simply by putting an orange ball through a hoop while wearing the same colors sported by my favorite baseball cap?

Fandom is a strange thing, isn't it? I think it was Mitch Albom who noted that the era of free agency in pro sports left their teams' fans "rooting for uniforms." Isn't that what college basketball fans have always done? Even while I attended college I didn't know any of the players. Still the outcomes of their games affected the mood of the entire campus.

Someone suggested to me today that the players on the team represent the school so and, by extention, me as an alumnus. I don't think so. That doesn't explain why people who never went to a given school can grow such a strong rooting interest in its sports teams.

I'm sure a psychologist could explain it. It must have something to do with a need to belong to a community and how a sports team gives us a rallying point around which we can unite. There are probably territorial and tribal aspects to this, too. We root for teams based near us, again regardless of whether any of their players come from or live in the town. If "our" team wins, our city is better than the suckers who rooted for that loser across the state. Hah. Hah.

All I know is that it felt good watching the final seconds tick off the clock. I threw my arms in the air and pumped my fists in joint celebration hundreds of miles away from either the game site or my old campus. I had nothing to do with it. But I'm glad we won.

Commencement

Pope John Paul II lays dead or dying at the Vatican -- depending on who's reporting his condition -- fed through a tube. Here in Florida, Terri Schiavo died yesterday. She withered away after her feeding tube came out by court order.

To begin, I write about endings. The Schiavo case brought us talk about the right to life. Never mind that her case really focused on money. Terri's parents, Bob and Mary Schindler, never forgave her husband Michael for not sharing the settlement he won from doctors treating Terri.

The heat of one family's drama made Terri Schiavo a national cause celebre for causes she might never have abided. Who was she to argue when the usual suspects lined up to advance their agendas using her name? Operation Rescue founder Randall Terry, Jesse Jackson, U.S. Rep. Tom DeLay and countless sign bearing crackpots all camped, literally or figuratively, on the lawn of the Pinellas Park, Florida hospice where she lived.

They came to protect Terri's right to life, they said. Forget that seven years of litigation had determined that if a persistent vegetative state was all the right to life she had, she didn't want it. Who says we have a right to life? Who guarantees it? If we have this so inviolable right to life, why do we die? Why are there accidents, diseases or deformities that kill people prematurely?

We're in denial about death. We treat it like it's this freakishly unnatural thing that no one should ever suffer when it's the only life event that every single one of us on the planet will someday have in common. We celebrate people who cheat death. They beat cancer, we say. Hooray! But they didn't change the outcome. They only delayed it.

We don't have a right to life. It can end at any time. And it will end sometime. That doesn't make it easier if you or someone you love is staring it in the face. We need to erase this idea that we have to squeeze every last breath from our bodies, even when it's the only thing left we can do. We credit people's strength and courage if they survive cancer. That doesn't make the people it kills weaklings or cowards.

Part of life is facing its end. For us and those we love. Terri Schiavo died in 1990 when her heart stopped and starved her brain of oxygen, not this week when her body failed from lack of food or water. It is natural for us to want to hang on to whatever part of a person is left after a devastating illness like hers. There comes a point at which we hang on for our sake not theirs. It's not compassion any more; it's selfish.

When Terri Schiavo left, it was long past the time to let her go.