Archive for August, 2007


God, anyone?

For those of you who are interested in such things, I am currently debating the existence of God, as well at the merits of well known atheistic gasbag Richard Dawkins, in a series of comments on another blog. The gentleman I’m debating is intelligent and articulate, and this is getting rather interesting.

Yeah, I know, I’ve got a lot of free time on my hands. But if you’re interested in this topic, or you just want to see two reasonably intelligent people debate, click here.



Stupid stuff I found on the Internet

Rough schedule at work: three straight weeks without a single day off. So nothing terribly profound tonight, just some funny stuff I thought I’d share.

An actual Boston based moving company.

Well, you won’t forget the name of this company any time soon.

I guess the meaning gets lost in translation.

And after lunch at fuk-mi, why not have a few drinks at Cocks?

Introducing the amazing Firefox bra!

I don’t know who this kid is, but boy, is HE confused.

‘night all!



Flicking the Vick

I congratulate NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell’s decision to suspend disgraced Falcons’ quarterback Michael Vick indefinitely without pay, while at the same time opening the door for the Falcons to get back some of the bonus money they have squandered on this thug.

Until today, the message seemed to be if you were rich enough, arrogant enough, and you had game, then you were immune to the consequences of your actions. Roger Goodell has changed that with one resounding stroke of his commissioner’s pen.

And yes, it has occurred to me that there is a certain perversity to all this. Latrell Sprewell assaulted his coach, Ray Lewis was involved in a murder, and Kobe Bryant was accused of raping a woman (his explanation: “Although I truly believe this encounter between us was consensual, I recognize now that she did not and does not view this incident the same way I did”  Yeah, right.) All three basically got off scot-free. But harm a pooch, and a pissed off PETA leads the charge and the whole world comes crashing down around you.

This is not to make light of what Vick and his cohorts did.  Dogfighting is a barbaric and reprehensible activity, and in any event, it also happens to be illegal.  Perhaps Vick felt that because of who he is, he was safe from the law.  He’s about to find out he isn’t.

By now, everyone knows the details of this rather sordid case, so I won’t rehash them here. The point I want to make is that one of life’s constants is the way people, especially young people, idolize sports heroes. In past years it was Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams. When I was growing up we had Carl Yastrzemski, Willy Mays, and Henry Aaron, to name just a few. In later years, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan, and Joe Montana were role models. Yes, I know Michael Jordan had some private issues, but at least in public he always behaved like a gentleman.

But today, the likes of Latrell Sprewell, Kobe Bryant, Ray Lewis, and now, Michael Vick offer a dubious example for others to follow. And because teenagers of ALL colors and socioeconomic backgrounds look up to them, their questionable values have permeated seemingly every layer of our culture. Rap music, with it’s message of violence, drug use, and mysogeny, is the music of choice among teens everywhere, regardless of their background. I know this may sound racist, but I am simply pointing out the obvious. Clearly there are many black athletes (Warrick Dunn, Deuce McAllister and Marshall Faulk all spring to mind here) who grew up in even tougher neighborhoods than Vick yet by all accounts are fine human beings.

Vick got what was coming to him. And while it does nothing to right the other above mentioned wrongs, at least it sends a message that, in fact, we still live in a society that values morals and decency, and expects its sports heroes to set an example.



Imperial casket

I wish I could claim this was entirely original, but I can’t. This was inspired, (ok, stolen) from a postcard that my coworker Bill received at the store today. The bit that follows was written by one of our customers (yeah, we get ’em all). I’ve taken the liberty of tarting it up a bit, but the following is basically what was written on the postcard. That’s the great thing about where I work: you just never know what’s going to happen next.

Dear Bill,

Our database shows you are soon to celebrate another birthday; thus you are moving one more year further from the first and direst of all disasters, which is birth. Namely, your birth.

In any event, we here at Imperial Casket Co. want you to be ready for the day that is fast gaining on you with each passing birthday, the day on which you shuffle off this mortal coil and pass on to either a better place, or simply lapse into eternal oblivion. Either way, it can’t be any worse than this.

So do yourself a favor and call us at 1-800-HE’S-GONE and let us help you with some advance planning with this extremely important (not to mention final) decision.

And, lest we forget, have a Happy Birthday.

If you make it.


Your Pals at the Imperial Casket Co.


Fate, approximately….a poem

A new born babe I cradle in my arms.
Is his future planned ahead of him?
I’ll do my best to keep this boy from harm
And guide his steps in life.  Bit if the whim

Of fate can do to him whate’er it will,
How can I change the path he walks in life?
This babe may be a murderer doomed to kill,
He may grow up a drunk who beats his wife.

Little boy, whom fate has sent to me,
How can I protect you from the world?
I cannot keep you ever on my knee,
Safe and happy in a blanket furled.

Tiny child I do not know your fate,
If you were born to love or born to hate.

–Stephen P. Smith


I’m sorry, I’ve been bad

I wanted to thank everyone for the warm welcome I have received upon my return to the blogosphere. Unfortunately, I have not always responded with the same courtesy that has been shown to me. No, I haven’t sworn at anyone, but I have been a bit, well, pokey about responding to comments. I had almost forgotten how enjoyable blogging is, but also how much work has to go into it.  Without meaning to, I feel that I have been discourteous.
So tonight I stayed up til the wee hours of the morning getting caught up on my comments. If you have been kind enough to leave a comment in the last month or so, I have finally gotten around to responding. Thanks to everyone for taking the time to comment, and please accept my apologies for being so slow to respond. I will try to do better.



The Ghost at my Side, a poem

In morning hours dark and fleeting,
I hear the sound of two hearts beating.
As I lie beneath the covers
A strange visage above me hovers.
And if a mirror I chance to pass
I see two faces in the glass.
I cannot flee–though oft I’ve tried–
The ghost that hovers at my side.
Ever stalking, ever reaching
Towards me, mutely beseeching.
The two of us each draw a breath,
One in life and one in death.
As moonlight casts a baleful pall
Two shadows glide across the wall
In alleys dim. Vaguely descried,
The ghost that hovers at my side.
I know not why she follows near
Or what she wishes me to hear.
Or why she haunts my every hour
With spectral face so pale and dour.
When I sleep, her whispered screams
Into nightmares turn my dreams.
Rest eternal her denied,
The ghost that hovers at my side

–Stephen P. Smith

taking up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a meditative mood" ~ Dr. John H. Watson ************************
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August 2007
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