Columns - Commentary
Dave
Kiffer: Forsooth!
- We live in a small town, sometimes - amid all the summer hustle-bustle
and thousands of visitors milling around in the middle of the
street - I forget that.
The other day I was standing
in line at the downtown post office sub station listening to
the summer folk grumble about the cost of sending stuff back
to the "real world." Behind me in line was a passing
acquaintance, a man who I know well enough to nod to on the sidewalk,
but have never really had a conversation with.
"Hey, Dave," he said.
"How you doing?"
"Just peachy," I
replied. "Not peachy keen, but definitely peachy."
He nodded.
"How's that political
stuff going" he continued. "You doing okay on the Assembly?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Some weeks are better than others but it's still going
pretty well."
He paused for a few seconds.
"That's good to hear,"
he said. "I thought it was starting to get to you."
"Really," I replied
back. "How come?"
He paused a little bit longer.
"Well," he said.
"Lately, I've been seeing you talking to yourself as you
walk around town."
I was shocked. Had I become
one of those "charming" local characters who wanders
the streets engaged in furtive monologues? Without even realizing
it?
Then it suddenly dawned on
me what he was talking about. - More...
Sunday - June 25, 2006
Ben Grabow: Our
new affliction: 'Intermittent Explosive Stupidity Disorder' -
I do not have a rage disorder.
A new study suggests that when
I beat my head on the steering wheel and tear chunks of upholstery
from the passenger seat to throw at an idiotic motorist, it is
due to "Intermittent Explosive Disorder." The disorder
is characterized by multiple angry outbursts that are out of
scope with the situation, and it's estimated that 16 million
Americans are afflicted.
Road rage is considered one
such outburst. And I will not pretend that I do not occasionally
express rage on the road.
If you cut me off in traffic,
I will make elaborate offensive gestures at your car that sometimes
require both hands or even a foot. Through my open window, I
may loudly question the nature of your relationship with a maternal
figure or specific barnyard animal. I might even remove my headrest
and bang it against the dashboard while foaming at the mouth.
But this is not a rage disorder.
This is, if anything, a healthy rage. And this is America, so
the real disorder must belong to someone else. - More...
Sunday - June 25, 2006
Steve
Brewer: No
way we men could ever catch up to moms - As my family unit
munched its way through a matinee of "Mission Impossible
XVI" recently, we were agog as a swoopy aircraft fired missiles,
blowing up a whole smoking causeway full of vehicles, trying
to hit tiny Tom Cruise.
(They're cruise missiles! Get
it? Huh? Here, America, let us hit you over the head with our
collective wit.)
One of those strange hiccups
of silence breached the Dolby SurroundSound just as an older
lady behind us wearily said: "Right, and who's going to
clean up that mess?"
Spoken like a veteran mom.
One who's mopped up too many spills for one lifetime. One who's
scolded so many sloppy teenagers, she's tired of the sound of
her own voice. A frazzled woman just happy to sit still for a
change in an air-conditioned theater on a hot summer afternoon.
She couldn't quite relax into
the moment. Actions still have consequences. Somebody's still
got to clean up every mess. And, like many of us, she's worn
out by the real world. One telecast disaster after another, all
the bombings and tsunamis and hurricanes. And you just know,
her tone said, that our tax dollars will be wasted, rebuilding
the causeway that Tom Cruise blew up.
Which brings us to the cost
of things. - More...
Sunday - June 25, 2006
|