The VP Who Stole Christmas

Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man.

Took an ambien last night, so did not experience my typical "jingle jangle morning."

Arose at 6:15 a.m. to award myself one silence-filled hour...have you heard the noise noise noise? It's not coming from those Whos over in Whoville, but rather, from the site of my demolished garage, which is now a shell in various hurricane-challenging stages of reconstruction.

At approximately 7:15 a.m., a local biker gang conceals its true colors (more or less--apparently some people feel naked when devoid of a filthy bandana), assumes the identity of a foul-mouthed, yet fun-loving construction crew, and arrives at my mild-mannered abode.

Where did Bruce Wayne turn when the batcave needed repair?

I haven't experienced this sort of throbbing headache since my monthly (no, not that one, you sexist) high school orthodontic visit.

Imagine sitting in the passenger seat of the family car, feeling exactly like the dog does when he's being driven to the vet while your mom lectures you about how expensive this soon to be excruciatingly painful procedure is and how you are so very lucky to be able to wear braces while you wish, most earnestly, that you had the dog's hind end-licking ability because it might stave off the inevitable dental torture.

Oh, how awful it was to sit in the waiting room with those same old mags, waiting for "Susan" to call your name, thus prompting the long, gut-wrenching walk down that short, dark hallway.

Still, my orthodontist liked me. He once asked me, after using the force of his entire body weight to increase the tension on metal bands assigned to erase a dozen fulfilling years of thumbsucking, if I thought my braces were tight enough.

"Oh, they're about as tight as my hands are going to be around your throat." I casually replied.

Dr. Hunszinger (emphasis on the "Hun") laughed so hard he nearly knocked over his ghoulish plaster mouth mold collection, which he prominently displayed in order to announce to the world the original buck and snaggle-toothed state in which he'd found his thankless patients who, once he'd finished with them, would be perfectly qualified to become Miss Americas or used car salesmen.

I know "Attila" liked me because he sent me Christmas cards. He only sent cards to "in crowd" patients whom he liked, thus providing an early lesson regarding the burdens of popularity.

"Attila's" Christmas cards, unlike the baby-Jesus-bedecked numbers we received from our brothers and sisters at Flairfield Baptist Church were, well, a tad sadistic.

My favorite Yuletide greeting (honestly, I swear) featured a small, braces festooned fish. Inside the card the nondescript aquatic schoolster blossomed into a festive great white shark with sinister snags and a killer smile.

You know, I think that card contained a subliminal message because ever since I received it, I've wanted to attend law school.

Meanwhile, summer's dog days are humping the fun out of life in humid, old Williamsburg.

Still, it must be better than an incarcerated existence in St. Elizabeth's, since John F. Hinckley Jr. petitioned for and received the right to unlimited parental visits here in the 'Burg.

Luckily, the judge's decision regarding Jodie Foster's biggest fan came early enough for Tom Hanks to think twice before casting little Dakota Fanning in his upcoming John Adams movie, due to begin filming sometime in January, unless the paunchy producer devours too much Christmas candy, and falls into the sort of sugar-induced, cavity ridden coma Dr. H. always warned us about before Easter, Halloween, and twenty-five December.

Word on DoG St. is that Paul Giamatti will portray our portly second president, whom history records as never having set foot in Williamsburg (Hollywood's accuracy rate never ceases to impress).

Our similarly statistically-challenged neighbor "Ken", encouraged by the apparent success of his Fourth of July festivities, has decided to mount a Labor Day celebration certain to include as much political commentary and macho manmeat as friends and flies can consume in one patriotic afternoon.

Pardon me if you will, but I'd like to pause here and extend a brief LD tribute in honor of VP Dick Cheney's amazing 20 percent approval rating. You may recognize the following lyrics usually applied to a certain Grinchy someone, but darned if they don't fit Mr. Cheney, as well.

"You're a Mean One, Mr. Cheney."

You're a mean one, Mr. Cheney.
You really are a heel.
You're as cuddly as a cactus,
You're as charming as an eel
Mr. Cheney.

You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel.

You're a monster, Mr. Cheney.
Your heart's an empty hole.
Your brain is full of spiders,
You've got garlic in your soul
Mr. Cheney.

I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole.

You're a vile one, Mr. Cheney.
You have termites in your smile.
You have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile
Mr. Cheney.

Given the choice between the two of you I'd take the seasick crocodile.

You're a foul one, Mr. Cheney.
You're a nasty, wasty skunk
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk
Mr. Cheney

The three words that best describe you are and I quote:
"Stink. Stank. Stunk."

You're a rotter, Mr. Cheney.
You're the king of sinful sots.
Your heart's a dead tomato splot with moldy purple spots,
Mr. Cheney

Your soul is an apalling dump heap overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of
deplorable rubbish imaginable, mangled up in tangled up knots.

You nauseate me, Mr. Cheney.
With a nauseaus super-naus.
You're a crooked jerky jockey and you drive a crooked horse
Mr. Cheney

You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce.

HUZZAH!

Since Williamsburg's air is always heavy with eccentric zeal, I think I'll go outside and give the work crew Dr. Hunszinger's lecture regarding the damages tar and nicotine wreak upon dental enamel and gums, and remind them about the horrors of George Washington's dentures.

Perhaps afterwards we can all join hands and sing Whoville's "Welcome, Christmas."

Da-who-dorays, ya'll.

Huzzah.

Star Spangled Bummer

Tourists stink.

I'm serious. They righteously smell.

There's nothing worse than jogging Duke of Gloucester St. in the 95 degree heat (with a humidity index of 105 slapping your lungs), and encountering a crowd of freshly scrubbed tourists.

Unruly armies of shampoo, deodorant, lotion, lip balm, perfume, and sunscreen assault your senses. These battling aromas linger in the haze until defeated by a festering pile of horse manure, or a rebellious libertarian smoker.

Angry smokers of all stripes who feel deprived because they've been stripped of their legal right to puff their fragrant cancer sticks amongst the pristine lungs of day-tripping elementary students, must surely love Colonial Williamsburg's "by, for, and of the people", anti-government message. Cigar smokers in particular seem emboldened by cries regarding "no taxation without representation."

Sometimes I ignore smokers and sometimes I emit a loud cough. Considering the combined, unfriendly to the lungs effects of humidity and phlegm, I figure I can out run the worst offenders.

First week of the month, here in our neighborhood, everyone stood in front of their closets and agonized over the selection of appropriate seersucker attire to wear to a sweltering, outdoor venue.

Ken's annual Fourth of July BBQ started with a bang. He greeted guests by extending his usual hospitality, and the viewing pleasure of his pro-Rush Limbaugh t-shirt, which he announced he'd "worn just to rile the liberals."

After positioning himself behind the grill, spatula in hand (looking every bit the reincarnation of Julius Caesar), Ken launched into a rigorous and humorous defense of Mr. Limbaugh, who had recently been arrested for carrying a (then said to be) illegally prescribed bottle of Viagra.

Since it's only appropriate that parties in the former colonial capital contain a bit of soapbox grandstanding, no one bats an eye at such demonstrations. Lack of sweet tea could cause a riot; but political commentary, no.

Still, one factor (other than fear that my dress would reveal a giant, sweaty butt stain once I rose from my lawn chair) annoyed me...the presence of "the Panglers."

The Panglers are social climbers of the worst kind and from what I've seen of their efforts, not very successful; but you've got to hand it to them because they keep on trying.

If Mr. Pangler spies someone important whom he fears hasn't had the benefit of his Rolex, he'll corner the poor soul and begin telling his life's story, including the fascinating part about his career at Perdue (think chickens, not the university), and he'll stand, like an insane orchestra conductor, waving his heavily tanned, black-haired thicket of a wrist in the listener's face. It's quite an experience, especially if Pangler is wielding a fork.

Although I know it isn't true, it seems like only minutes after we'd watched the fireworks display and sang, "by the rocket's red glare" that bombs were exploding in midair over Beirut.

This latest snafu prompted international statesman extraordinaire, George W. Bush, to share his diplomatic wisdom with fellow G8 Conference attendee and perpetual tail-wagger, Tony Blair: "...what they need to do is get Syria to get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit and it's over."

Blair responded by saying, "Just a sec. Hold that thought. I'll be right back as soon as I put the kettle on."

He then slipped out a back door, boarded one of Sir Richard Braniff's Virgin Galactic spacecrafts, and blasted himself to Pluto (cost to the British taxpayer: 10 million pounds and a year's supply of salt and vinegar crisps).

Meanwhile, back at the Kremlin, Vladimir Putkin was unable to comment on the startling diplomatic remark, as he was busy in his office, listening to R. Kelly cds and interviewing prospective, male preschool candidates who looked "unable to defend themselves, yet hungry for love."

How bizarre are the times in which we live? Just a few weeks ago we celebrated the joys of American citizenship with a display of patriotic fervor.

Now the Bush administration is telling American citizens that they must pay or sign IOUs in order to be evacuated from a war zone. Like, what, Triple A?

Seriously, do you think any government official will cross check the passports and IOUs?

Sometime In The Future At The U.S. State Dept., 007 Foggy Bottom Rd.: "Okay. Now here, we got us a passport that says 'Ralph Smith,' and an IOU that's signed, 'Muhbalzishari.' Them don't match."

I feel a presidential news conference coming on:

"Take that and stuff it up your Sallie Maes, you elitist study abroad students. As for the rest of ya, that'll fix ya for visitin' yer elderly, near to death A-Rab relatives. Spend your next vacation in the good ole U.S. of A., maybe down in New Orleans, where you'll be safe."

"As for complaints about our slow-movin' evacalation...ejaculation...I mean, evacuation efforts, I think Brownie's doin' a great job! Good work, Brownie! Bring it on! Mission accomplished!"

One wonders what evil Dick Cheney is brewing while we citizens are monitoring the space shuttle with one eye, and the Middle East with the other...um, did the space shuttle land?

Okay, maybe ten people watched the space shuttle stuff. But still, one wonders. I especially wonder if the French regret calling us a "hyperpower."

Shoot, ya'll! We can't even transport a boatload of people to Cyprus, never mind their luggage. You know those suitcases are going to end up in Beijing, don't you.

And poor Condi Rice is going to have to travel to China and sit amongst the cig-loving communists and swallow raw fish heads and barter for the battered luggage's release by trading top secret stealth satellite laser technology, which the Chinese will immediately improve and sell to the rest of the world at bargain-basement prices which will cause more wars to commence and pharmaceutical stock to rise due to the increased need for Viagra.

Shew!

Maybe it's a good thing those smelly, old tourists are safe and sound here in Williamsburg.

Plus, they keep the property tax down.

"Let freedom ring!"

Huzzah!

Bread of Heaven

"Thanks be to god!"

The Episcopalian General Convention and Bake Sale opened with a pump of the denomination's secret handshake, and the hip performance of a rip-roaring version of the bunny hop.

The limbered conventioneers then rolled up their sleeves, fortified themselves with a stiff brandy, settled down to business and elected Nevada tree-hugger and gay & lesbian-blesser Katharine Jefferts Schori as the controversial denomination's first female Grand Pooh-Bah.

Huzzah!

Episcopalian "flat earth" conservatives, still stung by the church's 1976 decision to ordain women, and by subsequent diversification efforts, thumbed their noses at the latest, leftward heave ho, and promised to identify and blackball "Jeff Scho" supporters from all the best cocktail parties and alumni club presidencies.

When contacted in the U.K. and asked whether or not he believed biblical scripture prevented the ordination of women, homosexuals and other nervy degenerates to Grand and Lesser Pooh-Bah status, the Anglican Church's Right Honorable Reverend XXX, III, stated that such a precedent indeed existed.

He also hinted that beloved American golfer Phil Mickelson lost the U.S. Open due to his left-handedness, "Which we all know is the mark of Satan."

The RHR XXX, III, also revealed concerns about Rev. Jefferts Schori that he claimed to be more important than her gender or embracement of gays.

"We understand that Rev. Jefferts Schori, prior to her ordination, worked as an oceanographer. Since viewing candid Internet photos showing her prancing about wearing a bright, red wool cap, we have every reason to believe that she may be not only a Francophile, but also a dues paying Cousteau Society member--behavior totally unacceptable to the Church of England."

Only time will tell if this historic, or rather, "herstoric" election will lead to international schism.

History occasionally leaves us with hurtful physical reminders of controversial actions.

Such is the case regarding Bicentennial Park's Confederate Soldier Memorial, a plain, large monument bearing the sentiment, "Least we forget. Least we forget."

Although the marker is visible from the road, its dedication isn't legible unless one walks through the park, so its purpose is largely concealed. It's certainly not a neofascist shrine, and is mainly visited by dogs on their daily strolls or the odd Frisbee throwing student.

Since I pass by the monument at least twice a day, I quickly found myself contemplating its place in the modern world. It doesn't seem to be a glorification of slavery, so why the fuss?

I guess because Williamsburg, as lovely and cultured as it is, seems to harbor, in my opinion, long-held racist tendencies. And somehow, for some unfair and irrational reason, to me the monument seems to represent the tip of an iceberg. It stands there, silent, while underneath lies something deep and hidden.

But, as is usually the case, time softened my negative feelings about the marker. When I read its words and thought about all the dead, I began to see it more as a reminder of the horrors of war and not as a controversial conversation piece.

Still, before every Memorial Day, when members of the Sons and Daughters of the Confederacy visit the monument, and drape it in Confederate flags and flowers, I'd get a bad taste in my mouth.

So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when von Nanstein and I reached the park one morning prior to Memorial Day, and discovered that the Confederate Memorial had fallen victim to a graffiti attack.

It stood covered in swastikas and foul language and messages directed to the local constabulary ("pigs") and I guess we Caucasian citizens ("hypocrites").

Do you think the event triggered any meaningful conversation (other than between myself and the police dispatcher)?

No.

Someone came and scrubbed-off the graffiti as best could be done (faint traces can still be read); then the following day, the Sons and Daughters arrived and festooned the poor monument with its annual array of defunct flags and red, white and blue garland.

At least the Episcopalian conventioneers are communicating, and, one hopes, respecting the past while evolving into the future.

At this point, all we Williamsburgonians can do is sit and hope for a visit from fertile international statespersons Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Maybe they can achieve peace and harmony right here in the 'Burg.

Well, one can dream.

Huzzah!

Bohemian Rhapsody

"Thunderbolt and lightening
Very, very frightening thing.
Galileo. Galileo. Galileo. Galileo.
Galileo, Figaro--Magnifico!"

Saturday night before Easter, about 5:30 a.m., Zeus returned home from a late night out with the demi-gods, and encountered a very angry Hera.

In an attempt to punish her wayward spouse, the angry goddess hurtled a lightening bolt at Zeus, which he managed to deflect onto an 80 foot oak tree behind our house.

KABAM! The poor hardwood exploded; sent bark-shrapnel crashing through our French door windows, and caused our house and heads to quake with fear.

Accompanied by the sounds of thunderous squabbling, amputated tree limbs bounced off the upstairs balcony railings, bent wrought iron, and landed in the yard.

Yours truly sat up in bed, screamed like a bloody lunatic, and groped around for some clothing.

We wandered, dazed, through darkened rooms and discovered thousands of glass shards and big bark projectiles..."There's a tree in the house!" I exclaimed, like a modern-day Socrates. "Great Scot! Looks like downtown Mesopotamia in here!"

Well, not much like Baghdad, really, but the terrifying event made me ponder the hell Iraqi citizens face on a regular basis (not that Rumie is a god, or anything).

We're still waiting for repairs to be finished, which is a delicious slice of Hades, in its own right.

You know what Winston Churchill said: "When you're going through hell, keep going."

Or, if you're a secret service agent assigned to provide safe passage past John Hinckley Jr.'s house, "Speed up! Oh my gawd! Put petal to the metal! Ieeeeee!"

Our local news beacon, the Williamsburg Gazette, recently blared the following, front page headline: "Hinckley in Kingsmill as caucus met Explains why buses sped up."

Apparently oblivious to the famous would-be assassin's presence, 125 brave Democratic House members convened a private congressional B-S session at the community/resort, and invited Al Gore to speak about the current administration's "domestic spying policy."

What a grueling security assignment. Can't you imagine the secret service radio chatter?

Agent One: Red Riding Hood to Grandma. What's the Three Little Pigs' status? Over.
Agent Two: Huffed & Puffed, but still standing. And Humpty Dumpty? Over.
Agent One: Roger that, Grandma. Lockbox Tipperdy-Do. Do you read me? Send all the
King's men and horses. Over.
Agent Two: Gottcha Red Riding Hood. Snow White, what's the Big Bad Wolf's twenty?
Agent Three: The forest is clear. I say again, the forest is clear. Load the Seven Dwarves
and Hansel and Gretel on the bus.

Given Rep. Patrick Kennedy's latest driving incident (which he's blamed on that nectar of the gods, Ambien), I really shouldn't stoop to a cheap political joke; but sorry, cause I just can't resist.

What is golf's worst foursome?

Monica Lewinski, OJ Simpson, Bill Clinton, and Ted Kennedy.

Why?

Monica's a hooker.
OJ's a slicer.
Bill can't remember which hole he just played and
Ted can't drive over water.

Awful!

Meanwhile, Wm & Mary News reported that during her chancellorship ceremony speech, Reagan-appointed Supreme Sandra Day O'Conner read the following poem when describing the U.S.:

"Old man, said a fellow pilgrim near,
you are wasting strength in building here.
Your journey will end with the ending day.
You never again must pass this way.
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?"

"The builder lifted his old, gray head.
Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followeth after me today
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me
to that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building the bridge for him."

Excuse me, boys and girls, but can you spell "Socialism?" We are so gonna miss Saunders on the bench.

All this to-do forced us to seek relaxation and education in the beautiful Williamsburg Winery vineyards.

We tasted several wines, and deemed the $32 bottle of 2002 Gabriel Archer Reserve, "a premium red wine skillfully styled to reflect the art of blending in the Bordeaux tradition" our favorite. Runner up in my notes was the 2004 John Adlum chardonnay, with its "graceful hint of oak", while my beloved preferred the Acte 12.

Speaking of "acting", one wonders how sincere the Prince of Wales (who put the "funk" in dysfunctional) felt during his speech to honor HRM the Queen's 80th birthday, when he described his mum as a rock of stability.

I suspect that following the festivities, HRH went home to a darkened room where he flopped on the settee, cracked open a tin of Poppycock, and screened repeated showings of "The Thing that Would not Die" and "Let's Throw Mama From the Train."

Surely the Duke of Edinburgh was at a loss regarding what to give the "octogenarian who has everything." One hopes he perused the NYT online, and read one of their most e-mailed literary articles, which extolled the merits of expensive wrinkle cream, Freeze 24/7.

"Huzzah! I'm saved! 'Old Thing', you are absolutely going to love this divine slime. Do slather it everywhere, me duck."

Well, I use Freeze 24/7, and it does work, even on us roughened plebs, but does it deserve mention by the Times? The Grey Lady also recently featured an article by "author" Tom Hanks. Me doth think someone invested a few quid in the upcoming da Vinci film.

We eschewed movies the past few weeks--too much to do; but we did manage to attend Wm & Mary Symphony's Spring Concert, which featured Mozart's Horn Concerto No. 4 (fun); Chadwick's Symphonic Sketches II. Noel (called "calming", it managed to lull at least one audience member sound asleep); Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, I. Moderato (a nerve-wracking favorite, though some claim it to be a ready for the glue factory warhorse), and finally, Beethoven's Symphony No. 3 "Eroica", which may or may not have been written for Napoleon, or as an allegory for Prometheus.

Talley Ho! Tomorrow is our neighbor's annual Kentucky Derby party, and I plan to soak my non-god-like liver in either a serious mint julep or some good Kentucky mash; haven't yet decided. My horse won last year, so I suppose I'll not strike in the same place, twice. Still, I'll wager a bet or two.

Why not? After all...

"Nothing really matters.
Anyone can see.
Nothing really matters;
Nothing really matters to me.
Anyway, the wind blows."

Queen, 1975

Here Comes Peter Cottontail

Sensitive Williamsburg nostrils smell pollen long before it's seen. You know it's there, because it makes you sick, even though lots of people go about their business mired in blissful oblivion.

As another beautiful spring unfolds throughout the Tidewater area--the most heavily pollinated region in the "United States of Whatever"--Gloucesterites break out brooms and sweep up the Daffodil Festival denouement mess, and the rest of us prepare for head-on collision with the Easter Day juggernaut.

Many fertile Williamsburgonians choose to place their Easter focus on a sugary, basket-stuffed mix of imported chocolate bunnies and domestic, yellow marshmallow chicks nestled alongside green-colored eggs sporting William & Mary logos.

Gloved and bonneted Bruton Parishners observe traditional themes of sacrifice and redemption, and suffer through appeals for antique harpsicord fund donations.

Frustrated by the Episcopalian congregation's complacent desire to warble its way through "Bread of Heaven" accompanied by a mere pipe organ ("Play ball!"), the Trump cloned, combed-over stewardship committee convinced the clergy to beseech the tonsil-challenged tightwads until they are meet and right so to deliver unto the Lord, in their mercy, $25K.

I'm sure I'm not alone when I confess that I'm afraid to approach the Eucharist table for fear I'll discover the clergy hocking Ginzu knives. "Just look at the thinness of this wafer! They dice! They slice! Radish floret?"

Williamsburg is home to a dear, twee reverend who is the spitting image of a young Gomer Pile.

The lucky minister recently wed, and the more sinful among us can easily imagine the following wedding night pillow talk: "Well, golllllly......Shazam!.....Surprise, Surprise, Surprise!"

Hippity hop, hop.

While newlyweds plan Memorial Day vacations, students stick allergy-clogged noses to the end of semester grindstone, and Sandra Day O'Conner hikes up her knee highs and delivers today's collegial address, well-informed residents find it impossible to purchase an Economist or Atlantic Monthly without incurring solicitation by bookstore magazines titles pimping "77,000 Ways to Lose Weight and Stuff Your Sorry, Cellulite-Covered Ass into Beach Ready Bathing Suit Fitness Certain to Attract the Attention of One Psycho Dude Rocking a Paul Bunyan Beard and Jealous, Starving Women Who Bought Our Competitor's Inferior '76,000 Ways to Drop the Junk in Your Trunk Without Losing Your Luscious Lady Lumps'."

Since weekend weather proved too unpredictable to forecast outdoor extravaganzas (other than Gloucester's afore mentioned, elephant ear festooned Daffodil Fest--yum), we feasted on soft pretzels and watched the films "Amelie" (French frolic), "The Squid and the Whale" (NY brownstone divorce saga) and "Bottle Rockets" (Additional Anderson/Wilson mayhem).

We also attended the spring production of Wm. & Mary's modern dance troop, Orchesis, which was great. Students choreographed the energetic event, so it was less abstract and more accessible than the faculty's avant-garde offerings.

Best of all, unlike the typical anorexic/manorexic bulimic ballet set, Orchesis is comprised of people with varying shapes and sizes shakin' their groove thangs down the bunny rabbit trail.

If prancing undergrads and fluttering butterflies aren't enough to lure you to jump behind the wheel of your car for a dogwoods inspection spin (because you fear the risk of an eternity spent smothered in a tourist-flavored traffic jam or perhaps a purgatory ensnarled in beach traffic), you can always stay home and contemplate the controversy surrounding our upcoming city council election (Honk if U Support John F. Hinckley, Jr.).

Wm. & Mary's new president (who's rumored to harbor personal, political ambition) is encouraging students, including those from out-of-state, to attempt to register to vote in our local election, even though they don't meet registration requirements.

Local yokels don't want the students to "go Berkley" on them and hijack the town council, thus placing the 'Burg's future in the reefer mad clutches of bong huffing quasi-citizens (we are never going to attract Bergdorf Goodman OR a decent head shop).

Best part is, Mr. President fails to explain how he can tell these out-of-staters, who pay mega tuition, that they're really in-state residents with the right to vote, while simultaneously sucking the living blood out of their parents' bank accounts.

I'm loath to sound like Bill the Cat, but that dude puts the "Ack!" in academic.

Meanwhile, back in the 'Burg, another legal pickle more sour than Aunt Bea's famous lip puckerers is fermenting greater scandal than the Gang of Four or the Chicago Seven....

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Governor's Land Fifteen! What-O!

Forget Lou Dobbs, the immigration fiasco, or the eminent domain debate. The GLF are determined to free Americans from the tyranny of mandatory country club membership. Huzzah!

Two Rivers Country Club is suing the plucky GLF for attempting to resign their membership in the bucks-up, multi-million dollar housing community's clubhouse and golf course, a mandatory homeowners purchase agreement.

Seems GLF members tired of the monthly dues of $80 for non-golfers, and $240-400 for golfers, plus the required $75 tab spent at the club dining room (maybe the cosmos were weak and the onion rings soggy).

They finally threw their monogrammed towels into the judicial ring upon learning that each community member would have to cough up an additional $5,000 for a Two Rivers improvement project.

Like all "power to the people" revolutions, this one comes at a price: the threat of potential abduction by the radical GLF will likely force heiress Patty Hearst to remain hidden indoors for an undetermined length of time, but hopefully not through the entire polo season.

On the other side of the tracks, Williamsburg police assured everyone that they would, indeed, finally mount a search for a poor, mentally-challenged, African American woman gone missing quite some time ago, whom we learned about after her desperate family contacted a Norfolk television station, thus prompting a tad tardy Gazette report regarding the incident.

Hurt by scornful remarks made by a few liberal souls fool enough to whisper allegations of racism and Social Darwinism, a police spokesperson insisted that, "Shoot! We would'a brung out the dogs and a'hunted fer her if we'd a known ya'll were gonna git so uppity. Rupert! Get me the water hose, would ya."

Okay, that part about the dogs and hose was fictional deviation from actual comments; but I still smell something in the air and it ain't magnolias.

It's a shame when decent people live in denial of reality. Maybe it's easier to do when privilege and spring's bounty of Cadbury Easter Eggs succor one's existence.

Sometimes people choose tradition instead of bricks to build a protective wall around their castle. Neither is wall invisible, and you can bang your head into both.

Author Philip K. Dick once said, "Reality is that which, when you stop believing it, doesn't go away."

Hunt for truth as well as eggs, Williamsburg. Easter's on its way.

Achhooo!

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

Are people pleasers destined to fall into the natural politician/pharmaceutical junkie categories?

Williamsburg's eighty degree days and the end of spring break means bumble bees and Adderall Annies are buzzin' round campus, cafes, and town chemists' counters, determined to dazzle with their overachieving, sanctimonious attitudes, and desperate to drop one last pound while swilling the very last drop of soy latte (Boo!).

Were Scoobie Doo and Generation X cocaine fiends half as annoying and boring as Millennium's "mother's little helper" munchers?

New York Times Magazine recently featured an article about former Virginia Governor Mark Warner's bid to defeat "she who shall not be named" in the upcoming Democratic presidential primary.

The hard-hitting expose, a fine NYT example of Millennium-style reporting, informed readers that the Harvard law school graduate and multi-millionare Nexel co-founder is, to paraphrase, an attention lusting pleasure pig with a freakishly large head.

Not to be limited by its Magazine contents, the Times online front page also ran a stimulating intellectual piece covering the Big Apple's impending Trader Joe's opening.

Okay. I realize everyone is trying to get Adderall Annie and the rest of the RX Generation's attention in order to attract expensive advertiser dollars, and I love Trader Joe's peanut butter filled pretzels as much as the next person, but really.

The NYT reminds me of Nico, circa "Chelsea Girls."

When I next speak to Adderall Annie, I'm going to offer her a peanut butter stuffed pretzel, advise her to keep an eye peeled for falling airborne houses, and click my ruby slippers three times.

Speaking of addicts, politicians and flying monkeys, legal eagle scourge Dick Cheney winged his way over Williamsburg last week to attend a private fund raiser in Norfolk.

I'm almost positive the presidential puppet master (secret service code name, "Gipetto") regularly dwells right outside Williamsburg in Spookville's subterranean training ground, Camp Peary.

Williamsburg shelters as many retired London Fog jacketed CIA agents as the Barbary coast once harbored pirates.

I'm thankful that our valiant veep managed to spare the family of quackholes who, deprived of access to Trader Joe's gourmet groceries, dine daily at my backyard birdfeeder.

Shortly after Cheney's buckshot dispersed, we, too, traveled to Norfolk, to attend Chrysler Hall's Yo-Yo Ma and the Silk Road Ensemble concert.

Upon arriving at the nautical city, we discovered Barnum and Bailey Bros. Circus also in town.

I'm sure I needn't waste time describing the fray as Formula One aficionados and NASCAR dads battled for premiere parking spots.

As I sat digging my fingernails into our car's dashboard, I began to wonder whether or not the clowns would, following their show, pile into a teeny tiny car, arm themselves with a giant squirt gun, and go duck hunting with VP Cheney and Gov. Warner's huge head, which they could use in lieu of a bowling ball.

I also marveled that a section of Chrysler Hall was hosting the circus only a stone's throw away from PETA national headquarters.

To my shock, while lions, tigers and bears suffered abuse inside the building, nary a PETA placard carrying Birkenstock-shod protester stood outside the venue, sounding an alarm.

I suppose PETA Pres. Ingrid What's Her Nuts must still be on her international book tour, and the other PETA officers were in LA, trying to convince Pamela Anderson to pose for another lettuce-costume billboard photo.

Miles away from the Hollywood Hills, the sticky cotton candy crowd enjoyed juggling and high wire acrobatics, and we concert-goers presented our $100 tickets and were treated to a single, solitary Yo-Yo Ma solo.

Granted, the casual atmosphere meant that Yo-Yo Ma actually spoke to us about the music and instruments, and even delivered a joke or two; wonderful, and something unheard of at a classical event.

And I did rather enjoy the music, with the exception of a Yo-Yo Ma-less Arabic piece.

The song made me feel as if I were an entranced cobra, ready to uncoil myself from the confines of my bag, I mean, seat.

As the same ten notes wailed slow, then fast, soft, then incredibly loud, I recalled the time I toured Alexandria trapped in the stifling heat of an Egyptian taxi while a radio played one excruciating tune over and over and over again until I had a headache as big as the Sphinx and I contemplated, in a bid to end my suffering, flinging myself from the cab onto one of hundreds of smoldering rubbish heaps.

Luckily, I wore a long, flowing skirt; so the fear that I might expose my legs in a Muslim country and be sentenced to a stoning probably saved my life.

On an additionally cheerful note, Williamsburg's sometimes claustrophobia-inducing Kimball Theatre has been running decent independent films as of late.

We saw Thumbsucker and Breakfast on Planet Pluto, and then, since I'm on a Wes Anderson binge, watched The Life Aquatic and an old classic, Rushmore, at home on the sofa, where we devoured NYT-approved snacks. Had to make amends since I snuck Milk Duds into the Kimball (Shhhhhh! CIA gonna' wrap me in London Fog and spirit me away to Camp Peary).

Williamsburg's Chamber Music Society tempted us back into the concert hall, or in this case, the library theatre (!), to attend a performance by internationally famous Vienna Piano Trio, comprised of violinist Wolfgang Redik, cellist Matthias Gredler, and Stefan Mendl, piano.

Redik is an incredibly talented man, the inspiring sort of individual who mesmerizes audiences with the brute force of his raw talent and his giant head...no, sorry, that last bit was Gov. Warner.

Anyway, the three performed Mozart's Piano Trio in B Flat Major, K. 502--wonderful; Rebecca Clarke's Piano Trio (1920)--absolutely phenomenal; and ended the evening with Schubert's torturously boring and repetitive Piano Trio in E Flat Major, Op. 100, D. 929.

The best part of the evening occurred after intermission, when the Trio failed to retake the stage.

As laughter coursed through the crowd, an elderly Chamber Music Society grand dame finally plucked up her courage, climbed from the audience to the stage, and journeyed to the library's bowels in order to summon the negligent Europeans.

My superior half said the situation reminded him of that famous scene from the mockumentary This is Spinal Tap, when Spinal Tap become hopelessly disoriented and lost in a giant amphitheatre's labyrinth. "Helloooooo, Williamsburg!"

It just goes to show that no one, not even the Wizard of Oz, with his normal-size head, can please all the people, all the time.

Which reminds me of an old fairy tale...

Once upon a time, there was an old man, a small boy, and a donkey. They were going to town, and decided that the boy should ride the donkey.

As they went along, the three passed some people who thought it a shame for the boy to ride, and the old man to walk. The old man and the boy decided that maybe the critics were right, so they changed positions.

Later, they passed some more people who thought it a real shame for an old man to make such a small boy walk. The two decided maybe they both should walk.

Soon they passed some more people who thought it stupid for the two to walk when they could ride the donkey. The man and the boy decided maybe the critics were right, so they decided they both should ride the donkey.

They soon passed other people who thought it a shame to put such a load on a poor, little animal. The old man and the boy decided that maybe the critics were right, so they decided to carry the donkey.

As they crossed a bridge they lost their grip on the donkey and he fell into the river and drowned.

Moral of the story: If you try to please everyone, eventually you'll lose your ass.

Throw back the curtain, Williamsburg!

Bear Necessities

What's in a name?

Or if your family is of southern origin, what's in a nickname?

I believe southerners use manufactured monikers partially because plantation life was a British gentry export.

The English use nicknames to abbreviate long titles. If someone's title is Lord Bafferington, Earl of Wilmontshire, he'll likely be known as "Baffy Wills."

I'm named after two relatives for whom I feel few emotions, but my nicknames are the result of happy times: they evoke fond family memories.

When one bears silly family nicknames, knowing one was wanted before making an appearance on the planet provides comfort and strength.

It's also a tad burdensome, because the risk of failure means potential parential heartbreak (unless you're Prince of Wales, in which case it means relentless tabloid ridicule), and it can also increase the parental bid for control.

I need extend no other proof that my mother is a control freak than to reveal that I was potty trained by the time I reached eleven months old.

When we drove places, my parents loaded my portable potty chair in the car. If I had to use the restroom, I'd sound an alert (something Baby Einstein-like, "I pee! I pee"), and my father would pull our auto to the side of the road, mother would whisk out the potty chair, and I would be placed upon my throne, the center of attention and anticipation.

Luckily for my parents, sixties era infants (like Brittney Spear's son, today--that girl is so retro) rode sans seatbelt, easing child extrication. Unfortunately for everyone, I developed a dislike of car travel at an early age.

Bored and determined to exact diaperless revenge, I would falsely proclaim my need for a stop, then sit on my portable triumphant seat and play with roadside gravel until my annoyed parents declared defeat and returned me to the back seat next to our basset hound, Sad Sack.

This ploy worked several times until my parents became savvy to my routine (or perhaps an envious Sad Sack snitched).

To give me lifelong payback, my father bestowed upon me the nickname "Gravel Gertrude", which he soon shortened to "Gerts."

Once I grew old enough to display what William (my father--southerners often call parents by their first names) felt was prissy, Frenchified behavior, he tacked on a symbolic proper name, and I became "Gerts La Smerts", often truncated to "La Smerts."

William often hurtled this new name about in undignified ways that the sensitive French would understand to be entirely undiplomatic.

If I dropped my ice cream cone in front of God and several crushes standing in the Dairy Queen cue, I'd receive a humiliating "Ahh La Smerts! You're something else, La Smerts; you know that?!"

Meanwhile, mother, desirous to build the complex mother-daughter relationship we all know and love, decided to give me an agonizing faux moniker related to my physical characteristics, and began calling me "Hips."

When I became old enough to part ways with mother during shopping excursions, one of her favorite tricks was to position herself at one end of a crowded store, wait until I reached the other side, then bellow, "Hey Hips! Come here; I wanna show you something."

As you can imagine, everyone in the place turned around to see the wide freak of nature who'd earned such a name.

As I grew older, it became apparent that I mirrored my dad. Thus, in order to infuriate me (since I felt that William was the most embarrassing creature ever to trod the earth--he loved to stand next to me in a store, pass silent wind, then walk away, leaving me to suffer the indignant stares of overpowered shoppers), mother began calling me "Wilma."

Once All in the Family aired, mother immediately began calling William and I "Archie" and "Gloria", although referring to her as "Edith" or "dingbat" was not gonna happen (to her face, that is).

After I grew older, moved away from home, and shared my problems with William during phone conversations, he'd always reply "You're tough Gerts; you're tough. You'll be alright."

And I was and during tough times I still hear him saying that, in my mind's eye, and I am.

My dad was the ultimate hunter and sportsman. He moved undetected through the forest, slipping into the wilderness with ease because it was a genuine part of his psyche, a place where he belonged and was respected.

My favorite nickname, appropriately given to me by William, is "Bear." I can still hear him say, "I love you, Bear!" A bone-crushing embrace always followed.

As soon as I became able to identify the burly animal, I associated it with my dad.

Like the bear, he was furry, large and powerful, huggable one moment yet capable of uncontrollable rage if approached with a lack of disrespect.

Factory life, another wilderness of a sort, demands survival of the fittest.

For over thirty years, my dad survived carcinogens, stench, fires, and metallic roar.

He excelled in the most inhospitable environment imaginable and became top bear in the hierarchy, earning respect and fear with his fists, experience, and bravery.

Shortly before his retirement, when he was old and grizzled, a younger male foolishly challenged William's dominance in the plant parking lot. Right in front of God and everybody he nicknamed my dad a "stupid motherfucker."

In agitated grizzly-like fashion, William responded by beating the living hell out of the poor guy with an industrial-sized lunchbox. He bludgeoned the man's head into a bloody pulp, then lumbered through the parking lot to his car and benignly drove home to his cave where he could find some honeycombs and quiet.

Truth is, bears like to do a little fishing, but they're not natural predators, unless provoked.

People get obsessed with bears because they're strong objects we love, yet fear, and would like to control.

Bears represent a powerful bridge to our wild, spiritual selves that most people burn in a quest to "evolve" into rational humanists.

Bears are documented on film, and are favored collectable toys.

Aside from my 130 lb. brown Newf, "Magic Bear v. Nanstein" (the most Ursus arctos horribillis like creature ever to stroll 'round Williamsburg), I own numerous stuffed bears, including a "please prevent forest fires" Smokey the Bear, who wears denims, a ranger hat and a yellow helmet.

I also have a "Yogi the Bear" lamp. Yogi is the lamp's body, and the shade features "Boo Boo" and other Hana-Barbera characters.

Some people take their bear obsessions off the shelf and into the wild.

Controversial naturalist and filmmaker Timothy Treadwell lived among Katmai Park's brown grizzly bears for thirteen years, until he and his companion, Amie Huguenard, were mauled to death in October, 2003.

Treadwell once said he wouldn't mind if his death converted him into "bear shat", and that's what happened http:www.grizzly people.org.

People love Treadwell or hate him and no one agrees about the real motives that compelled his life among the bears--an insane desire for fame, genuine spiritual connection, or just plain lunacy.

German director Warner Herzog's documentary about Treadwell's life, "The Grizzly Man", allows his audience to form independent conclusions regarding the man who resembles a star that fell to earth, and is desperate because it understands that it will continue to shine for only a few minutes more.

And that's not bear-like, at all.

One thing is for certain: Katmai Park rangers correctly predicted that Treadwell's career would lead to the endangerment of the very bears he claimed to protect.

Following the mauling deaths (the first recorded in Katami Park in 85 years), park rangers shot and killed two bears, including an elderly, 28 year old, 1200 lb. dominant male known as "Bear 141", whom they later suspected did not kill anyone.

Following his shooting death, another bear tore "141's" remains into masses of flesh, tissue and bone, just like cigarettes and factory carcinogens combined into the cancer that reduced my dad into an eviscerated mess.

In the aftermath, Treadwell and I would probably agree, the surviving bears were sad and grieving.

They felt the cold, winter air blow through their fur; they found their caves and hibernated for a long time until the warm breeze came and the sun's face shone upon the park and spring made the ice melt, the fish swim, bees buzz, and the berry plants leaf.

Then the bears awoke and came out of their caves and began life anew, because that's what bears do: they on on forever--continuing the process of death and rebirth we humans symbolize and tiptoe around because it's a concept too big for us to understand or control, even though we claim to be top of the chain.

A name can mean many things.

If you're lucky, a name will evoke love and happy memories, but most importantly, hope.