George and Rose in the 21st Century

I

George Helmstetter looked up at his wife. She was, as always, enjoying her Penne Vodka with a meticulous solemnity usually reserved for monks at chapel. George smiled inside, but outwardly showed no emotion and returned to his own dinner plate. They ate together in comfortable silence. After many years of marriage, their daily routine now bore all the precision of a Swiss time piece, perfectly crafted in form and function, and priceless.

After her fourth bite and swallow, Rose spoke of the weather, and George replied in kind. The second hand ticked effortlessly. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin. The waiter, an unobserved ghost, refilled their water glasses then drifted off to other tables.

George remembered the first time he and Rose had sat down in this small Manhattan Trattoria. It had a different name then, maybe eight or nine owners ago. The war was over. The world was weary and peace sounded like permanence. He looked at Rose again, then back down at his dinner. Maybe next time he would order the Risotto and clams.

George was handsome in his youth. The young girls of Heidelberg would attest to that with easy smiles and secret kisses behind their father's shops, back in the days when Hitler was just another ambitious politician. Germany still lay wounded then, its pride fractured from the first world war. His father, assigned to the German Sixth Army, had died in the trenches at Vimy Ridge. George was only one month old. His mother never fully recovered from her loss. "Mutti", he would say, "You must let Oppa go and move on with your life." She would only shake her head. "Hurry along Georgius, or you will be late for your lessons." She will never love another man, he thought to himself as he grabbed his violin case. What a waste of life not to have love in it. Mutti watched with soft eyes as Georgius ran out of his father's house, late for his lessons again.

When he was thirteen, his mother told him a fabulous story. "Your Aunt Hildegarde is a Princess and your great, great, great Uncle Maximilian Joseph, was once King of all Bavaria. We don't talk much of this in these times. Many blame our family for the great war, but we had little to do with its beginning or its end. Your father, God rest his soul, would never allow the word Prince or Princess to be spoken in our house. Nicht während Ich bin lebendig, he would say. I should not even tell you this, Georgius. Someday, we will sit with Aunt Hildegarde and you will properly learn your heritage." George smiled inside as he remembered again his mother's words. Rose mentioned the Frosts would be arriving for cocktails at seven, as usual. He nodded, as usual.

George thought back to the last time he saw his mother alive. George had just turned twenty-one and was looking forward to completing his studies at Heidelberg University. One evening, George returned home to find a strange man in the house with his mother.

"Georgius, this is Herr Ferdinand, your cousin from England. You remember playing with him at Modena when we travelled there? You were very young. He is here to take you to England for a vacation. I have packed a bag for you." George saw both fire and fear in his mother's eyes.

"Mutti, I have my studies to complete. I can not vacation now."

"Your studies are at an end. Hitler will take us to war soon. All young men will drafted into service. I lost your father to war, I will not lose you. Now you must go and go at once." Mutti suddenly looked formidable, not to be denied.

George pleaded, "Mother, please do not do this. I must stay with you. Germany is my home and I must defend my home if war should come."

"You would disobey your mother and die in some filthy trench in France? War comes because Hitler brings war upon us. We have learned nothing from the great war, fachkundig nichts. Now go, Georgius, and promise me you will write. Finish your studies in London. You can stay with Ferdinand there, is that not so, Cousin Ferdinand?" Mutti managed a weak smile.

"George, there is plenty of room in our home. Come join us. I have a friend at Oxford. We will speak to him about your studies." Herr Ferdinand smiled warmly as he patted George on the shoulder.

It was clear all had been decided well in advance. George hugged his mother tightly for a long time, then he softly kissed her on top of her head. He hadn't realized how much taller he had grown these past few years.

"I shall do this out of love for you, Mutti. But you must promise me you will stay safe until I return." They stood there, holding each other as his father's clock ticked loudly in the next room, George's heart racing twice as fast, and Ferdinand standing by the door, watching the road. As soon as darkness fell and was deep in all the shadows, George and Ferdinand left Heidelberg, by train bound for Switzerland

"How is your Penne this evening?" George said to Rose, his voice barely a whisper.

"Al dente, but I don't mind. We should mention to the waiter, however." Rose briefly looked up, her dark hair in colored denial of her own advancing age. George gingerly poked a fork at his food as the silence settled in around them, like snow.

(to be continued)

Your Friendly Neighborhood Lawn Gestapo

We live in a strange neighborhood, one of perfectly manicured lawns and repeated routines. Our dead end street is full of retirees. I've known a retired couple for many years and they travel from one golf course to another, sport excellent tans, get their skin cancers removed with tidy regularity, and throw wonderful pool parties. They define the word "retired" for me. If you have enough cash to quit your job, travel to Africa, Egypt, and China for excellent rounds of golf- you have earned your retirement stripes. When someone comments about how lovely your yard looks, you can usually reply, "Oh, we have people for that."

My retired neighbors have a different approach. Their golf clubs are neatly stored away in the attic. They don't have foreign nationals clipping their hedges. They don't have Manny mowing their lawn. My retired neighbors are doing it themselves. Each front yard requires a full-time effort. My neighbors have replaced their old jobs with a new one - maintaining a perfect lawn and neighborhood.

I noticed something unusual not long after we moved here in February of 2005. It was Monday night and Tuesday was trash day. I put a few plastic bags of garbage out by the street. The next morning, there were remnants of my trash all over my yard. Raccoons, I thought.

The following week, the same result, except the trashmen, who collect on our street in loud, crashing fanfare at 5 a.m., were late. I left the house at 7 a.m. to drive Sweetie Angel to school. The trip takes about 15 minutes. When we left, the plastic garbage bags were intact. When I arrived home, the bags had been ripped open and trash spread across my lawn. I was shocked. Rabid raccoons, I wondered? The neighbor's Collie sat in their front yard - cute, innocent dog. Couldn't have been the Collie- no way.

The following week, my bags were trashed again. There sat the Collie. Across the street, Herr Stripedlawn smiled and waved to me. Another retiree. He walked over and introduced himself:

Herr Stripe: You may want to put your plastic bags in a container.
New Renter: I was planning on buying some this week. I'm really getting tired of cleaning up after the raccoons.
Herr Stripe: It isn't raccoons. It is that Collie over there. The neighbor lets
him out in the morning.
New Renter: That's weird. I only see that Collie on trash days.
Herr Stripe: Isn't that something? *grin*

The neighbor was sending his dog out to feed on my trash bags? Let's take this to an even more disturbing place. The man letting the dog out doesn't live there. It's his mother's Collie. Imagine waking up every Tuesday at 5 a.m., getting dressed, walking over to your mother's house before the garbage people get there, then letting her dog out to feast on your neighbor's trash. Are you in need of serious counseling? Sure you are.

When I told Waterbunny about this, she didn't believe me. "You're the most paranoid man I have ever met." she exclaimed, all Doctor Phil-like.

The following week, I looked for that dog every morning. No Collie anywhere. The next Tuesday morning, there was my trash scattered across my driveway, and there was Collie sitting in her front yard. I got the point. I drank the kool aid. I bought sturdy trash containers - with hinged locking lids and little wheels on the bottom. My containers are the nicest in the neighborhood.

After a few weeks, I began to notice something else. My neighbors had their trash at the curb by 9 p.m. Monday night. OK, that is fine, they are retired, maybe they go to bed early. But the next morning, after the 5 a.m. departure of our sanitation engineers, many trash cans had been quickly retrieved and spirited away. By 7 a.m., half the cans in the neighborhood were pulled back. By 9 a.m., my containers were the only ones still at the curb. I mentioned this to Waterbunny one evening while talking to her on the phone. She lived in Fort Worth, Texas at the time.

Rooster (me): Babe, there is some sort of competition in the neighborhood.
Waterbunny: Oh really? What?
Rooster (me): See who can get their trash cans back from the curb fastest. Or maybe the goal is to see who will be the last slovenly deadbeat to leave his empty cans out there - or maybe it is a retirees beat the renters game. Either way, it is freaking weird. People are running out of their houses at 5:30 a.m. to get their empty cans off the street.
Dr. Phil (wb): You are the most neurotic man I have ever known.

Waterbunny came to visit. On trash morning, we went out to breakfast. The engineers were just arriving for their collection. We returned an hour later. Half the block had rescued their empties from the curb. Within the hour, my containers were the only ones left. Waterbunny began to believe.

Waterbunny: I think you are right about your neighbors. They are obsessed with getting their trash cans back from the curb. It looks like a competition. No one wants to be the last can standing.
Proud me: See, I'm not neurotic.
Dr. Phil (wb): I wouldn't go that far.

But the most amazing act of repetition is the caring for the lawns. Across the street, Herr Stripedlawn mows in a single direction to the street. Then he turns off the mower, empties the mower bag into trash can. He drags the mower back up the hill and begins the next strip, same as before. He has to make perfect straight lawn lines. His 1/8th acre front yard takes all afternoon to mow. Every week, from early April till late November, we observe the same pattern of behavior. His lawn definitely has a pattern too.

The retiree to my left has a riding mulcher. He cuts and mulches his grass several times a week. He drives the mower more than his own car. On the property to my right, Mr. Collie, has a vacuum on his riding mower. He vacuums his lawn like a carpet.

I told my friend (and landlord) I would mow our front yard if he would mow the back acreage. I bought a used push mower for 40 dollars. It takes 45 minutes to mow my lawn when I fly at it. I always fly at it. Dust and smoke and grass take to the sky like a demolition derby in a drought. I've gotten 3 years out of that lawn mower for a cost of 13.33 dollars per year- not including gas.
When I pull my mower out of the garage, all my neighbors disappear inside their homes until the dust clears. Oh yeah, I'm the Marquis De Sade of lawn care.

Other than their lawn obsession, their trash can obsession, and their snow removal obsession, they are nice people to talk to, to trade carrot cakes with, and to smile and wave at.

This Autumn, my work kept me away from the yard. Besides, I like to wait until all the leaves have fallen off the trees before I rake. Autumn was late this year. I barely noticed that my retired neighbors were on the prowl, vacuuming, raking, and mulching their leaves with intense determination. I barely noticed at all.

Last year, Mr. Mulcher told me not to bother to rake. He drove his favorite mulching vehicle all over our yard. That took care of the problem. Our leaves were mulched up within minutes. This year, I was hoping for a repeat performance. The leaves piled up in my yard as I waited. They blew over into his yard. They blew over onto the striped lawn. There were a lot of windy days.

Day after day the retirees tried to control the ever-increasing leaf pollution. Rakes, vacuums, and mulching mowers were overhwelmed. My leaves had become a danger to the neighborhood. The community was on the brink of destruction. Something had to be done. Finally, Herr Stripedlawn stopped me in my driveway.

Herr Stripe: I hope you don't mind me asking. Who is responsible for raking the leaves in your yard?
Non-Raker: I don't really know. I guess my landlord is. One of us usually gets around to it.
Herr Stripe: They are blowing all over the neighborhood.
Non-Raker: Last year, the guy next door mulched them for me. I thought..
Herr Stripe: He didn't tell you but last year he broke his mower on your leaves. It was out of commission for 12 days. He was very upset that he had to pay to get it fixed.
Non-Raker: He never said a word to me about it.
Herr Stripe: I know. You really need to rake them. The last tenant was a real creep, but at least she raked her leaves.
Shamed me: I will try to get to them this weekend.
Herr Stripe: Thanks. I don't mean to complain.

If they didn't mean to complain, they wouldn't complain.

On Saturday morning, before I left for work, I spent an hour raking leaves. Made nice piles. Got about half the front yard finished. After work, we drove to a birthday party on Long Island. Gold Coast. Great Neck. Folks there have oodles of cash. Women at the party were wearing 5-carat Tiffany diamond rings. Swanky neighborhood all around. And darned leaves were everywhere. Leaves in the yards, in the street, in the gutters and no one was doing a damned thing about it! There wasn't a vacuum truck in sight. Incorrigible rich people. "There must be no retirees living here!", I exclaimed.

This raises an interesting point. Who decided that perfectly cared-for lawns meant anything at all? It made me wonder about my own retirement one day. I think I will volunteer my time at the hospital or a homeless shelter. I think I want my yard to look like the yards in Great Neck- full of unraked leaves, homes that look lived in and not on display. I want to live where yard chores are "something to get around to", not something to obsess over and to insult my neighbors about. I want to live in a land without the lawn gestapo. Not that I'm complaining, not at all.

Now, if I lived in one of those big mansions in Newport, Rhode Island, and 1000 people a day were touring my property, I'd have those neat stripes in my lawn. All my leaves would be cleaned up. We'd have people for that.

Thank goodness it snowed yesterday. All my leaves have disappeared. Problem solved.

James Harold Stranger and the Maniac Prophet

Most of the week my computer is infected with the blank Google posting screen. It isn't writer's block. I want to write. I love to write. I just am not sure what it is I want to write about. So I leave the blank screen up there, a temptress, a whore sitting in the window waiting for me to walk by, stop a moment, admire her sensuous curves, fantasize for a few seconds, then open the door and walk in. Make love to me, she whispers. I oblige. I know I will pay for this sin. Her hand is outstretched, naked beast. Pay me, she demands.

Yesterday, I started writing a book on her lovely face. The first paragraph hung there for hours, like a skinned possum over a fire, slowly burning up. We will not eat what was burned tonight, my temptress tells me. As I gaze into the fire, an ember flies up on the wind the fire has created. It rises high above my head, shimmering like a star. A new character is born.

All day today, I considered his fate. Not his hair color or the crooked smile on his face, but his fate. Will he live or die? Will he be a flawed hero or not a hero at all? Other embers danced around him- more characters. They took shape, burned hot, lit fires on the hillside and burned the ground all around me.

Soon I was dancing around the fire, shaman writer conjuring up people, places, scenes, dialogue, stories of life and death. I had become a witchdoctor of the tale-mad medicine and even stranger- his name suddenly chiseled in fire upon the rock of time- James Harold Stranger. Most folks call him Jimmy.

The first paragraph was now burnt and lifeless. The story would not begin this way. The story with no ending, no outline, and the whore waiting for me to place it upon her moist lap. James Stranger is alive and finding his way in the world. His story will soon begin- after the first paragraph has been viciously edited.

Away from Google and further into the day Waterbunny and I made an offer to buy a house. We met our Stephen/Jason in court this past week. He remains in jail. One day he will be released. I studied him in that small courtroom. He will burn this house to the ground. It is there in his eyes- dead eyes of a dead soul.

Stephen's dark ravings outside our home have become ironically prophetic.

It is time for us to leave.

My Father and the Crickets

Yesterday was "take your father to work" day. Mom said he needed to get out more. He has been driving to the town dump 4 times a week, making small deliveries of discarded household items. Nothing stays on the floor very long in my father's house.

Dad is a 79 year-old retired Junior High Phys-Ed teacher, and an avid Philadelphia Phillies and Eagles fan. Mom is younger, not retired, and was recently appointed Dean of a local college. She works and, more often than not, he is home alone. When your father decides the town dump is the best place to keep returning to, it is time to give him some serious attention.

Men of my father's generation don't talk much. They say what needs saying and not much more. But I was excited about helping dad. We were going to bond, he was going to see his son at work, it was going to be something special. I picked him up at his house at precisely 830 a.m. and our day of conversation began...

Son: "Are you guys going to come to our house for Thanksgiving?"
Dad: "Don't know. Your mother hasn't told me what we are doing yet."

*crickets*

Son: " I'm reading Flags of our Fathers. Did you see the movie or read the book?"
Dad: " No"
Son: " You were stationed in the Pacific during the war. You might enjoy it"
Dad: "Been there, done that."

*Yessir, I hear crickets*

Son: "Everything OK with you at home? You feeling OK?"
Dad: "I'm fine"

*Many fine crickets indeed, Sir*

Son: "I'm going to stop for coffee. Do you want anything?"
Dad: "No"

*More crickets than I ever thought possible*

Son: "That guy up ahead keeps breaking on every curve."
Dad: "Know what is wrong with people? They're afraid to die."
Son: "I'm afraid to die. I have issues with that."

*Crickets, lots of them, just about everywhere*

Son: "I can't believe how much the price of gas is now. It's getting ridiculous"
Dad: "That Bush is an idiot."

*Millions of crickets chirping in a lovely chorus*

Son: "I'm stopping for lunch. Would you like a hamburger?"
Dad: "I usually eat half a peanut butter sandwich"
Son: "Do you cut it in half or fold it?
Dad: "I fold it."
Son: "How about a Chicken Salad sandwich?"
Dad: "I don't eat chicken. I'll have a hamburger."

*Deafening cricket infestation*

Dad: "Don't turn here."
Son: "But it's faster."
Dad: "No it's not."

*Can't you hear the crickets now too?*

Son: "There is Twin Willows where you like to go for dinner!"
Dad: "I eat there every Monday night....alone."
Son: " Why?"
Dad: "Your mother goes to Weight Watchers and doesn't get home until 8. So I go to Twin Willows every Monday night...alone. It's OK tho, I talk to the bartender. He's a Mets fan. He's also a Giants fan."

*chirp chirp chirp chirp........*

Dad: "Thanks for the hamburger."
Son: "Thanks for helping me."
Dad: "I didn't really help you."

And with that he gets out of the truck, grabs his mail from the mailbox, and waves without ever looking back as he walks up the driveway to his home. And I'm driving through a sea of silence, lost in my thoughts, the crickets chirping quietly from somewhere deep inside me, in the field of my youth, long ago.

Autumn in Vermont (Part 3)

We drove South on 95 and then north on 91 - straight on for Brattleboro, Vermont. As we made our way North. the weather improved. Rain gave way to cloudy skies and then peaks of sun. The cold front had stalled along the coast, but further inland, cool winds were blowing down from Canada.

Within a few hours we had reached the Vermont border and the Interstate 91 Welcome Center. In Delaware Water Gap, Pennsylvania the state recently re-built their welcome center in the floodplain of a tributary to the Delaware River. They graded all around it to give the landscape a nice, bowl affect. Then it rained. Several months later, after it dried out, transplanted NYC gangs "tagged" it with graffiti.

The Vermont Welcome Center was everything the Pennsylvania center was not. The architecture was similar to a barn, with post and beam construction. There were plenty of exhibits inside and outside, even a sign that instructed pets to "Walk Your Owner Here'. Under a separate pavilion, there was a volunteer organization offering hot cider, coffee, brownies, Vermont apples, and other treats for a donation. Sweetie Angel tried the hot cider. "It was the best hot cider I've ever had." Waterbunny walked up with a huge, red apple- half eaten. "I haven't had an apple this good since Washington State." Welcome to Vermont, the state that never disappoints.

I hadn't been to Vermont in over 30 years, yet was hoping the best cure for a terrible road trip would be one day in Vermont. Yes, I was hoping for a miracle. After Brattleboro, we drove West towards Bennington on Scenic Route 9, and the true beauty of Autumn in Vermont began to reveal itself. The view from Hogback Mountain was tremendous. We also wanted to stop in Wilmington, the town looked eclectic and fun, but this was a one-day tour and the Skipper had a plan- West to Bennington, North to Burlington, then West again across Lake Champlain on the ferry. After that, the New York Thruway on a beeline for home.

We reached Bennington late morning and began our journey North on Route 7. Beautiful mountains and quaint villages passed by as we stayed on course until our hunger pangs outgrew our desire to keep moving and we found the Silas Griffith Inn in Danby, Vermont and they were serving lunch! What an excellent family-run place, with sisters and brothers and parents and kids all putting their resources together to purchase and operate the Inn. We found the restaurant nearly by accident (it is always OK to drive around the bend in the road). The food and service was excellent and our spirits brightened considerably. One sister knits colorful scarves and sells them for a good price too. Rhode Island? Where was that, anyway?

North of Rutland, we found the Pick-Your-Own Pumpkin patch. Sweetie Angel went happy-crazy, running through field looking at hundreds of pumpkins, and wanting to bring home all of them. We settled for two large ones, a few tiny ones, and a pint of fresh cold apple cider. Sweetie giggled when she read the manufacture date- Sunday, October 7th-the same day we were buying it. You can't buy fresher apple cider than that.

All through the trip North on Route 7, the green mountains of Vermont loomed to our East and the Adirondacks of New York beckoned to our West. As we neared Burlington, we would catch small glimpses of Lake Champlain. Once in the town, we were surprised to see hundreds upon hundreds of young people, students from The University of Vermont and Champlain College. We drove around and looked at the campuses, which were lovely. We drove downtown and realized this was a true college town- with a view of the lake and mountains that was simply stunning.

Burlington, Vermont is tucked onto the side of a hill facing Lake Champlain. The colleges are at the top of the hill with center of town down the hill, and closer to the lake. The lake shimmers and shines in the sunlight, with the distant Adirondack mountains rising up from its Western shores. The mountain air is crisp with a hint of moisture from the lake, the air temperature is cool off the lake, with a steady breeze blowing from the North. This was the coldest air we had felt on our faces since April. It was a delicious, a gourmet meal for the senses.

Sweetie Angel saw the possibilities - a college near skiing, close enough to home to drive to, yet far enough away to have freedom and personal space. A town that was dominated by kids her own age, with cafes and bookstores, skateboards and bikes, boys and more boys. She smiled as she looked around. Perhaps, just perhaps this crummy trip to Rhode Island had a greater purpose? Is it possible we suffered and sacrificed in order to discover a new direction that far exceeded a single weekend trip?

Life is like that. You take a trip and are forever changed in ways you could never expect or realize before you began your journey. You expand your horizons and new possibilities are laid before you- like pumpkins in a field.

We drove to Burlington because Angel had pointed out, way back in Newport, that she had never been on a large boat longer than the Jamestown ferry River in Virginia- a quick ten minute trip. She wanted to sail on a schooner, and there were plenty of those available for hire in Newport. It wasn't meant to be, but the next morning, while driving North on 91, I provided an alternative. The ferry across Lake Champlain takes an hour. It is no schooner, but it will be a lovely boat ride. Sweetie angel agreed and so we ended our day in Burlington, Vermont, a college town, with our mood completely reversed. We were falling in love with Vermont.

It was 6:00 p.m. when the ferry pulled out from the dock. After watching an incredible sunset over the mountains, we braved the cold wind at the bow of the boat and talked and laughed and bonded. We may not have had the best trip, but we bring our home of serenity along with us and all it takes is a moment of discovery or natural beauty, and we are snuggled tight again within our love. Parents who choose not to share these moments with their children only live half a life- a mere existence- for there is no greater joy on Earth, friends.

We arrived at Port Kent, New York at 7 pm and began the torturous 6-1/2 hour drive home. It was dark and we were tired. By the time we arrived in New Jersey, we caught up to the stalled front along the coast. It was cloudy with a light drizzle, and the air was warm and muggy, just like we left it in the morning. Just like Connecticut and Rhode Island. Was Vermont a dream?

In retrospect, we have laughed over the lowlights, and talked in awe over the highlights. We sure do cram a lot into a two-day trip, sort of like putting 10 pounds of manure into a 5 pound pail. It always seems to be worth it. A review of Champlain College's degree programs is encouraging-plenty of majors in the area Sweetie Angel wants to study. Earlier this week, she was wearing her University of Vermont tee shirt (bought on the ferry). She looks awful good in Vermont green.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Rhode Island, 15 foot waves are battering an old clam shack as the remnants of Hurricane Noel slam ashore. The paint peels off from the spray of sand and salt, the sand erodes underneath. The local folks huddle by the fire, waiting out the storm, and the one coming after that.

Rhode Island in Real Life (Addendum to Part 2)

We, the three mutant mousketeers, went off to the movies this weekend. After much discussion and a reading from rotten tomatoes, we decided on Dan in Real Life.

When Dan packs up his three daughters and heads North on the Interstate, the sign looked familar. When the car was driving along the shoreline, also familiar. Next camera shot was an aerial view of that bridge, the really scary one we had just crossed ourselves a few weeks ago, and we knew - Dan's parents lived in Rhode Island.

Yes, North of Newport, along the harbor. We watched and laughed. It was completely unexpected.

When the Dan gets pulled over by the local police, he mutters under his breath "Welcome to Rhode Island." Our thoughts exactly.

In one scene, Dan (Steve Carrell) drives to the beach. You see him standing by a run-down clam shack that has been closed for the season. Looked like Misquamicut- probably just South of where we stayed, across the Westerly boundary line. There was the bowling alley and the water slide, circa 1975- we saw signs for the waterpark near our motel. Scary, very scary.

In their defense (just briefly), it is easy to understand why Rhode Islandites have a major chip on their shoulder. When the California wildfires were raging last week, CNN reported the area burnt was "half the size of Rhode Island." Think about that for a moment- our national newscasters were trying describe how incredibly large the fires were by comparing them to the smallest state in the Union divided by two.

Recently, an alternate lifestyle devotee from England got himself killed while engaged in extreme sexual play in Lynn, Massachusetts. His Dominant partner (who has since committed suicide) wrapped him head to toe in cellophane, stuck a straw in his mouth and locked him in a closet. He suffocated. His play partner panicked and, with a friend's help, dumped his body in, you guessed it, Rhode Island! Could they have picked a smaller, more obvious place?

My last thought on Rhode Island is a sentimental one. It really wasn't a bad place, it just wasn't our kind of place. There are some beautuiful vistas, amazing mansions, lovely shops, kind and generous people- including the owners of the Seashell Motel who have tried very hard to improve their property- and they deserve special mention.

If you are filthy rich (or bought a sailboat with the profits you made from pumping out Pocono Foods septic tanks every day for three years), the sailing looks very fine in the harbor. Just watch out for the fog- it comes in quick on little boogie-board feet.

Welcome to Rhode Island (Part 2)

Westerly, Rhode Island is a quaint town on the border of Connecticut. When you arrive there on Route 1A, you will be directed down a one-way street. We had been driving for 7 hours and a one-way street was like walking 7 hours through the desert only to discover a 100 foot cliff at the end of it. Please turn right and follow the edge of the cliff to the next intersection.


My navigator (Waterbunny) and I began arguing over the directions, the first of many tense mapping discussions while in Rhode Island. I wanted to continue on Route 1A North, she felt 1A south was the correct route. So I relented and turned around. Besides, Mapquest appeared to back up her argument. Never argue with Mapquest directions. We drove back into Connecticut. I saw the sign. It said "Welcome to Connecticut". I turned around again. We drove back into Westerly, Rhode Island. We went down the one-way street again. This time I simply followed roads that connected to one another, like a mutant mouse in a maze looking for the cheese. No more Mapquest tonight. To hell with Mapquest.

Finally, we found the turn-off for Misquamicut and headed for our motel. The Internet advertisement showed a normal looking seashore motel and the price was right. What I expected to see was to see a nice path across the street from the motel that led directly to the beach. They advertised online there was a pond behind their motel (and there was) and the ocean just off the front corner of their property, directly across the street. They even had their own sandy path to the ocean! We pulled in to the parking lot. Across the street was a motel. Just off the corner was another motel. Our motel was a motel. The Ocean was a half block away, across another street, behind a motel.

Everyone knows that feeling when they first arrive at their shore destination- the shops, the sound of the breakers, the salt air, the seagulls laughing in the breeze, and that sweet, tidy, perfect place to stay where you can enjoy all of the above. You aren't expecting a Hilton, but you are expecting the bathroom sink to actually be in the bathroom. Our motel? Our bathroom sink was in the bedroom. There was no mirror.

After driving 7-1/2 hours, how did I rate my first impression of this motel? One star, I'd give it one star. One lousy, crappy 1965 motel star. We had to hang a blanket over the shades to keep anyone walking by from looking right in at our bed. We had to hang the blanket to keep the street light from shining into our room . We had to hang a blanket which stopped all air flow. There was no air-conditioner. There were no curtains. There was no space. There was no privacy. Everything was very teeny and oh-so tiny. Welcome to Rhode Island.


At this point I will mention Booth Bay Harbor, Maine. In 2006, Waterbunny placed her finger on the map and it landed on Booth Bay Harbor, Maine. A beautiful, magical destination. *sigh*

But that was last year. We would try to get the best of out of Rhode Island. The next morning, we drove to Newport (warning:tourist trap with scary bridge) to look at the indecently large mansions of yesteryear. By the time we arrived in Newport, both Water bunny and I were having stomach troubles and we lurched from public bathroom to restaurant bathroom, sightseeing in between.

We also stopped by their million dollar visitor center and grabbed a few maps, courtesy of the Rhode Island Chamber of Commerce- and used the bathroom. It was hot. There was no wind. Perhaps another time Newport would be worth exploring - in dockside's and alligator shirts.

We retreated back to Misqumaicut-once owned by Native Americans and called "Pleasant View"- until it was sold cheap to whitey in the late 1890's. The white folks later renamed it, cough, after a Native American phrase-something about a good place to catch red salmon- I don't know, maybe you should read about it. In 1954 a hurricane wiped out most of the town. Native Americans pray to their Gods too. Actually, Westerly, Rhode Island's Indian name was Misquamicut, so that means the folks out at Pleasant View actually stole Westerly's name and used it for themselves. Once you visit here, it all makes perfect sense.

Thanks to the warm day, we changed into our bathing suits and drove to a nearby beach. We went swimming in the Atlantic (Block Island Sound, actually) on Columbus Day weekend. Who says global warming doesn't have its benefits!

Body surfing was the highlight of the afternoon. The waves and the beach were perfect for catching rides. Until.....during one of our better rides, a fog rolled in alongside us. Immediately, the beach became a surreal landscape, as if we were in a time warp, transported to an earlier era, like a faded postcard. It was downright eerie. People began packing their belongings and leaving. We soon followed.

That evening, we piled back into Roxy (WB's Ford Escape) for an hour's drive to East Greenwich and dinner at a restaurant called Lobstermania. Earlier in the day we asked the locals in Misquamicut if there was a good lobster restaurant nearby. We had read adverts for Lobstermania but didn't know if it truly was a cream de lobster establishment.

Me- " Are there any good seafood restaurants around here? We want to try Rhode Island lobster."

Salesperson - " Most restaurants are closed 'round here this time of year. Can't think of any unless you go to up to Providence. Plenty of restaurants in Providence. There is Champlains nearby, but they are take-out only"

Waterbunny - "Any restaurants you could recommend in the area that have lobster?"

Motel Owner - "There is Champlains, mostly take-out, but they also have a small dining room. If you don't mind the drive up to Providence, there are plenty of restaurants there."

Waterbunny - "What about Lobstermania? Ever been there?"

Motel Owner- " No, but I hear they have good food. We really don't have many seafood restaurants around here." Ah, a recommendation - of sorts. And now let's take a moment to read from an advertisement, courtesy of the Misquamicut Business Association, "Misquamicut has a wide array of great restaurants, lodgings, and fun activities. The nightlife is the best to be found along the shoreline."

After an hour's drive to East Greenwich, we found the restaurant alongside a small marina, climbed the stairs to the second floor dining room, and was escorted to a table for six. There were only three of us. Actually, it was two tables pushed together. They were two different heights too. Thankfully, the extra table provided the additional room we needed for the dirty dishes.

The dining room was long and appeared to lean slightly towards the marina. That made my vertigo-anxiety crackle nicely. The tables were typical, square fake-wood Formica tables with those cheap, wooden captain chairs that every dive seafood house in America uses. Your Uncle Leo has those same chairs in his basement- good enough for playing poker. Welcome to Lobstermania, one of Rhode Island's premier seafood restaurants.

The service was fairly decent, the ambiance charming enough for the nursing home crowd, the calamari was delightful-truly excellent, but the lobster was twice as expensive as Maine and half as fresh! The lovely state of Maine easily won the competition!!!

After dinner, we grabbed our new CoC maps and headed for Providence, just 15 miles to the North. Avoiding Interstate 95, we religiously followed the CoC map until we ended up at a dead end in a run-down industrial park. The map wasn't very good. It reminded me of an Internet map service I've used.

We backtracked to Interstate 95, and headed north. A few exits later, we again decided to try to follow the CoC map and exited onto a local highway. It wasn't long before we were lost in the slums. It was dark, the neighborhood was dirty, the windows on the stores were barred, and our nerves badly frayed and getting worse.

Waterbunny and I began discussing- let's call it an argument, shall we?- the directions. I could not believe the map was that incompetent. Where was the center city? Where the hell were we going? What does the map show now? You can't find this street on the map? It HAS to be there! We have to be somewhere on that map! There is no way I'm stopping in this hood and asking for directions. WB dumped the map in my lap. "You figure it out!" she exclaimed.

I was about to turn around when I saw the skyline ahead. Determined more then ever to get there, I drove us right into the heart of Providence-and right into the middle of a enormous Columbus Day event-The Umpteenth Annual Ring of Fire for Breast Cancer Awareness All-Night Boogie. The city's center was solid with cars, buses, and people. Tens of thousands of people roaming the streets- live music bouncing off the pink buildings, little kids wearing glow-in-the-dark necklaces. Cops trying to direct traffic. It was 10:30 on the busiest Saturday night of the year. Welcome to Providence, the capital of Rhode Island.

An hour later we were flying south on Interstate 95, racing back to.....our one-star motel..and the blanket over the window, It was at this low point in our trip that an idea began to form in my crazed, numbed-out brain.

"I have an idea. Why don't we get up early tomorrow and leave Rhode Island , drive north through Connecticut, straight through Massachusetts and into VERMONT!"

There was a moment of silence, a pause that can be described as 'the pause of incredulity'.

"You aren't serious", said WB.

We pulled into the crappy motel parking lot. We climbed the crappy stairs. We adjusted the crappy blanket over the window. The new people in the next room had little kids. We listened as their children chased each along the crappy, narrow balcony. Finally, we fell asleep in our crappy double beds.




The next morning dawned. It had rained. Everything looked wet. Everything smelled wet. Waterbunny spoke. "Let's get out of here." She smiled, Sweetie angel smiled, I smiled, and I think Vermont smiled too.


Next post- Welcome to the Always Awesome,Always Amazing Excellent State of Vermont (Part 3)

How to Find Rhode Island Using Mapquest (Part 1)

I got lost. Somewhere in Connecticut (Connectapit). We decided to save a few bucks and time and spend our Columbus Day holiday discovering a new wonderland called Rhode Island. Last year we started the tradition with a Lobster and Chocolate weekend in Maine. Last year we also had three days vacation. This year, Waterbunny's new employer didn't recognize Chris Columbus as deserving his own day of honor. We had two days to make it work. Maine is 8 hours away, Rhode Island is 4 hours away and boasts their lobster is as good as Maine lobster.

Our mission: lobster comparison

My favorite web service, Mapquest, provided a nice map, adequate directions, and a 4-hour timeline to get from Eastern Pennsylvania to Missquamincutttttt, Rhode Island. At this point it might be a good idea to point out that the Internet is an excellent tool for locating mediocre places and barely adequate directions. That is why priceline.com is very scary to me . What exactly are you getting for 99 a night? Don't expect that sweet, beautiful actress behind the counter. Her name will most likely be Ahmed and she will have short, black hair, olive complexion, and speak with a funny accent. She will look exceptionally male. Her brother runs the 7-11 next door.

Still, if we can cut the travel time in half, get a cheap room, and eat succulent lobster at Maine prices we are "in like Flynn". Ah, what tempest dreams we mortals have.

I preferred to take a more Eastern then Southern route but mapquest pointed us to the Tappanze bridge and Route 95 North. and as we already know, mapquest is never wrong. We had smooth sailing on Interstate 80 East and Interstate 287 North and East to the bridge, hit a slight backup before the bridge (why can't people drive on an Interstate without bumping each other in the behind?), and then had smooth sailing again- until we reached Connectapit- then everything ground to a complete halt. The traffic advisory sign said, "Warning, Traffic Delay Next 25 Miles". The road ahead was a sea of red tail lights. We weren't driving to Rhode Island anymore, we were marching, one, two, three, four, ahead ten feet you mapquest whore.

"Waterbunny, we need an alternate route." She looks at the map for several minutes.

"We could try the Merritt Parkway. That parallels 95 and might not be as crowded."

I negotiate the car to the next exit and Waterbunny gives excellent directions through Greenwich Connecticut and onto the Merritt parkway- or parkinglot way, as I am fond to call it now. We drove 3 miles in 45 minutes. We were able to observe a few things about Connectapit while cruising at an average of 4 miles per hour. The parkway is beautifully landscaped. They have rabbits. Golf courses too. Oh, that shot was a little fat. Nice putt, Sir. Rap music in Connectapit sounds like everywhere else. Excuse me, Sir, could you play that song again? There is lovely metal artwork on the overpasses, but they are rusted and need to be restored. This state doesn't seem to be in a hurry to repair their crumbling bridges like every other state. Guess they didn't see the news about the collapse in Minnesota.

"Captain, if we get off the next exit, we will have to backtrack to get to 95."

"Make it so, Number 2"

So we drove back towards Greenwich and 95, but found Route 1 instead. It was full of cars, trucks, shopping centers, intersections, and traffic lights as far as the eye could see, yet was clearly faster than the Interstate and Parkway. We had been in this state for 1-1/2 hours and had travelled about 25 miles. We were weary and hungry when we found a classic-looking Diner. This Diner had a big sign that boasted they were the "Best of the Best", and Lord knows big signs in Connectapit are worth trusting. We found a booth, ordered some Diner food, and I began scouring the maps. With the exception of Route 1, Interstate 95, and the Merritt Parkway, all back roads in this state go South to North. The only way to get to Rhode Island was to follow the merry red lights of the cars and trucks in front of us.

After the worst of the worst dinner, we popped back onto 95 and braved the traffic, finally reaching the reason for the backup- another fender bender - that backed up an major Interstate for 25 miles. How is that possible? Well, I have it on good authority that in this confused and confounding State of Connectapit, fender benders require that the police, benders and bendees, and tow truck operators stand around for a couple hours in order to figure things out. No dragging the darned cars off the road- who cares who bent who's fender- just get the junk off the road and keep the traffic flowing. Sorry, no. Standing around is the policy.

Finally free of the jam-up, we raced forward to the next traffic sign that said, "Warning, Traffic Delay, Mile marker 42-47, Accident". Oh my God. Not again.

"Waterbunny?" There was a desperate edge in my voice.

"I'm sorry, but there are no alternate routes I can be certain will be faster." Waterbunny was right, we would have to have a steely resolve and see this through.

Finally, we broke free of the clogged arteries and got our speed up to an acceptable rate. After sixty more miles, we found our exit, provided to us by mapquest-thank-you-very-much, and drove across the State line into the quaint town of Westerly, Rhode Island.

Then we got lost.

Serenity For Sale

I bought a small bumper sticker that reads " Don't hassle me, I'm local" and taped it to my office door. The next day it was altered to read "Don't hassle me, I'm crazy." Teenagers.

My ex-wife believes that I brainwashed my 17 year-old daughter and 20 year-old son. That is because we practice the theory of love and serenity in our home. A home is a sanctuary, as sacred as a house of worship- a place where anger and negativity is forbidden. You wouldn't yell at your kids in the middle of your church, would you? But I'm a crazy old fool, please don't hassle me.

I would like to offer my brainwashing services to parents everywhere. Here's how it will work. I will come into your home and spend a weekend with you and your kids. We will establish rules of operation- I like to call it "The Serenity Guidelines". You should be expected to purchase certain items, the first item being house paint. The second item will be a home star runner poster and accompanying frame for your dining room. The third item will be more house paint. I will explain this when we meet. If I tell you more, you won't pay me for my services.

Speaking of payment, I will require the following: $10,000 per family per weekend, paid airfare to your home with rental car, free meals-please have cheese, steak-umms, onions, and hoagie rolls, eggs, Texas toast, cinnamon, milk, white bread, and tomato soup available as I will cook these myself. Cooking lessons cost extra, dearies.

I may decide to bring along my brainwashed associates who will walk around your house in a happy trance. Hope you don't mind.

By the end of the weekend, your teenagers will be brainwashed into lovely shapes of self-expression, passion, and identity. You will also be transformed- crazy as I am, embracing love and serenity while removing the ball and chain from teenage ankles. You might even feel a little younger yourselves. And there will be tons of serenity in your house-and laughter too.

However, if I decide that one or both of you are not capable of administering all the serenity guidelines, then I will have to ask you to leave the project and live on your own at least 20 miles away from the rest of us happy trancers (notice how I am already creating a feeling of inclusiveness!). There is hope for your family after all.

I know my price is a bit expensive, but there are only 52 weeks in a year and I need enough money to take my girlfriend to the Finger Lakes region of New York and show her a good time. They don't call me Mr. Moneybags for nothing. Contact me right here at the mousy place website, where our trained, brainwashed staff eagerly await your call.

Disclaimers: 20% discounts for single parents. No, I don't know how to put my brainwashing technique into a bottle. If I did, I would have more money than Gates. Yes, I prefer to fly first class and yes, I hate flying so I hope you live close by. No, I do not know how to get teenagers to stop wearing black and to stop listening to heavy metal. Yes, I remember Slade. This service is not available in Germany, or anywhere there are German Lutherans, including but not limited to members of private German Lutheran resort communities. You folks need a fool with a college degree to help you. No DNA will be removed from your children even if you believe it is absolutely necessary. Cash or American Express only(Don't leave home without it).

Time Bomb and The Great Hobo Adventure

Things are beeping in the office. That is always a bad omen. When I was a kid, we didn't have beeping things. We had time bomb. You twisted the top counter-clockwise (I think) and then it ticked..tic..tic..tic...tic...tic.. and made a blow-up noise when the ticking stopped. I am fascinated by the fact that, as a kid, the toy I loved the most was time bomb.

When mom and dad punished my brother and I for opening the chocolate chip package without permission and then lying about it (we didn't lie, it wasn't us and that was confirmed by our oldest brother thirty-five years after the event), we decided to run away from home.

We had been sent to bed without our dinner and we were angry and hungry, a miserable condition for any 8 and 6 year old, respectively. Our first problem was how to escape from the upstairs bedroom. The upstairs bathroom was a dormer and so there was ample roof below it. We decided to exit the bathroom via the window, drop to the roof below, slide down to the porch roof and drop to the ground at the corner closest to the hard-packed earth, and furthest away from the dining room window.


That decided, we each made a hobo pack, since we intended to ride the trains and be hobos. Of course, there wasn't a train track within 5 miles of our house but that part of the plan we would piece together once we were on the run. We decided we would need an extra set of clothes, two pairs of underwear (whitey-tideys), two pairs of socks, and our favorite toys. We didn't need any money because, well duh, we were going to be hobos and they don't need money, they eat beans and drink water from the creek or whatever.

When it came time to pick our favorite toys, my brother chose some dumb action figures and his favorite beloved baseball cards. I chose time bomb. I was the weapons man.

I stuffed time bomb into the top of my pack, which was a flannel shirt with the arms tied together. Flannel shirts look an awful lot like hobo packs. My slightly older brother, whose name now escapes me because I am still mad at him over something, looked at me with the most incredulous eyes and whispered, "You aren't gonna take that stupid toy, are you?"

My feelings were hurt. I knew that there were bad men in the world (didn't know about bad women yet) and I wanted to be prepared. "Mister, you better back away now or I will blow you up...tic..tic...tic...tic..."

Goofus (my brother) wasn't impressed. "That is a dumb toy and you know it."
"It is better than those stupid baseball cards. What are you gonna do? Flick your Sandy Koufax at him?" I angrily whispered back.

Then we heard the booming voice of father from downstairs. "I better not hear another peep from you two or else!" It was the "or else" that was the scariest part of that proclamation. We sat in stony silence for about, oh..say...thirty seconds and began again our silent move to the bathroom...which was directly across from the stairs...and freedom, which was off the porch roof.

Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe, TIC....TIC....TIC....

That darned time bomb, what a dumb toy. We scurried back to the bedroom. A gigantic voice shook the floor, "ONE......TWO....." We waited for THREE for a really long time but all was quiet. We waited even longer. Then we, two little church mice, quietly slipped out of our beds, crawled on our hands and knees to the top of the stairs, and moved like ghosts in the manor to the bathroom. We carefully, oh so carefully, closed the bathroom door and locked it.

As we had crawled past the stairs we heard the sounds of forks on dishes and laughter and merriment and we got even madder and hungrier than before. We are running away! We reject you mother and father and you too, oldest brother. We don't know how you did it. You messed with the timeline, you ate the chocolate chips and lied about it, and now you are sitting there eating dinner and we are STARVING!!!! You connivin' , lyin', Nestle' Chocolate chip stealin' good-for nuthin' jerk!

Once we were in the bathroom, Goofus took over, he had snuck out the bathroom window before and had the whole routine down pat. I was the follower, and was quite frightened when he dropped down onto the steep house roof and wildly slid down the remaining 6 feet to the porch roof. I hesitated.

"Come on!" he whispered. "Come on, what are you, chicken?"

The magic word was spoken- chicken. l was overcome by a tidal wave of reckless courage and soon was sitting on the porch roof with a slightly scraped elbow and my dignity intact. Now for the easy part- the porch roof to the ground. We walked over to the corner and hung over the side, our feet hanging as we slowly inched our way down until we were each holding onto the roof by our fingertips.

"You first." I whispered. "OK" he replied and disappeared from sight. Next thing I knew he was pulling on my feet and I fell in a heap to the ground with Goofus sitting next to me, pointing and laughing.

We got up, dusted ourselves off, checked the packs that were strung with our belts to our backs, and began to walk to the front yard and the sidewalk heading out of town (figuratively speaking- our sidewalk went down the street and met another sidewalk which travelled awhile and met another sidewalk and then another and another).

Once we made it to the sidewalk, it was time to plan again. We huddled under a streetlight in front of our neighbor's house. It was dark and a chilling Autumn wind blew in our faces. The world suddenly loomed large. There WERE bad men out there, in the dark, in the cold, hiding behind the hobo fires, ready to slit our throats.

"Which way?", I asked.
"I dunno, I guess we will go up the street. Did you bring your time bomb?"

My time bomb? MY TIME BOMB? It was a DUMB TOY!

"Ummmmmm...nooooooo, I was afraid it would start ticking again so I put it under my pillow."
"Oh great, now we have no weapons." Goofus was clearly upset. "We will have to go back inside."
"How are we gonna get back up on that roof, huh? We ran away. We have no where to go. We can't go back" I was flabbergasted. Who was chicken now?

"We will walk right through the front door,up the stairs and to bed." He was matter-of-fact about a certain whippin' we were soon to get. "You can run away if you want, but I'm going back to bed." That was his final word.

So we walked across our very familiar and safe front yard to our very familiar and safe front door, opened it, walked inside our very familiar and safe home, said "goodnight!" in stereo to the shocked faces sitting at the dinner table, walked up the stairs, climbed in our beds, and waited for sounds of heavy feet on the stairs. They never came. I listened while my tummy rumbled. I listened while my mind tumbled. Goofus fell asleep.

I was wide-awake, adrenalin still flowing, my little heart still pounding. I was amazed at our incredible journey. We had run away. We had taken righteous action! We stood up to the despotism of unfair parents! We had won a moral victory! We swam into new, uncharted waters!

Then I realized I had to pee. I quietly tiptoed to the bathroom door. It was locked.

I casually walked back to my bed, twisted the cap on my time bomb, and placed it underneath my sleeping brother's bed...

tic....tic....tic...

Who Will be the Next News Anchor Star?

We were watching the cross dressers on Larry King and then it was time for Anderson Cooper 360. There was supposed to be a special report about our Marines in Iraq, but it was postponed by the Utah mine story- breaking news - nothing new on finding them, alive or dead breaking news - the owner of the mine lets reporters go inside so he can keep the camera focused on his side of the story - breaking news - Soledad O'Brien will be our host tonight.

The Internet transmits the story faster to us. We already had checked the net and learned of the drill bit either missed the mark or the microphone was broken. We already know the cave-in was either caused by an earthquake or caused an earthquake. All depends on who the reporters talk to.

We already learned there was either enough oxygen for everyone to survive or not enough for anyone to survive. We already learned the part-owner, Mr. Murray, is either a very caring boss or so uncaring the he would fire the first miner who complained about safety. All depends on who the reporters talk to.

We have already learned that this type of mining, the removal of columns that supports the mine ceiling is either very safe or the most dangerous type of mining known to man. All depends on who the reporters talk to.

So far, for all the special coverage and breaking news, the miners are stilled trapped in a tomb of coal and rubble and their chances for survival depend upon who the reporters talk to.

Not wanting to disparage the families of those men who suffer while they wait the good or terrible news, depending on who the reporters talk to, but I would like to see the story of our Marines in Iraq. I would like to see a story of our troops in Afghanistan. I saw one recently, from BBC World news and learned more about the difficulties there than from all the American television reports combined.

What is it about American News that prefers the controversy of opinions over the reporting of facts? Why is our country so celebrity driven that our news reports are more about the news anchor being right there to show us how awesome he or she is?

I liked Anderson Cooper because he showed true heart in New Orleans. He was real. Then the media execs labeled him as the voice of the people, guaranteeing he will have his own show on prime time with a totally cool televisiobn set. Now we spend more time watching him host the show than the stories he is supposed to be reporting about.

Hey Lou Dobbs, you listening? Get off your ass and go out and report the news instead of interrupting your own reporters with your own opinion. I can say that, they can't.

Hey Chris Matthews, stop being so rude to your guests and get your camera and producer and go play hardball in the streets of Baghdad. Hey Wolf Blitzer, get out of your situation room and find real situations and report on them. You guys are a disgrace to good journalism.

Hey television network execs, get your simple minds out of the overnight ratings reports and give us the news. That's all we want. We deserve better. If you want to keep us wathcing, you will have to go back to the basics- report the news - and stop promoting your shows, especially you, Wolf Blitzer.

My father has always said, "You can always turn the tv off." And we will. We don't need celebrity reporters reading us the news on the inernet. You guys will be out of a job. And the only ones you will be able to blame is your inconsiderate selves. Thanks to you, newspapers will never go out of business.

And that's all the news that's fit to print today.