I Love Irony

So Don Cornelius decides to off himself with a self-inflicted gunshot wound? He must have had a big ol’ Soooooouuulll…Paaaiiinnn. "Who died?" Bob, a co-worker asked. "Don Cornelius." I said. "Who?" Never mind. I can’t believe a sixty-six-year-old white man has never watched Soul Train. It’s hard to imagine Bob not gyrating in his living room back in the day, emulating the dance moves he’s seeing on TV; getting his groove on so he can go out and work the stone cold club scene. Who indeed. My man Don was a huge influence and I have a closet full of Afro Sheen to prove it. I remember watching Soul Train and thinking to get it on you really do need to get down. Sometimes I thought "what the Hell?" But most of the time I didn’t have to think. I just counted little white specks on my black and white screen. They were easy to spot because they were mostly inert. We were poor and couldn’t afford a remote control so I watched Soul Train every Saturday morning if I had the flu or was otherwise bed-ridden and couldn’t reach the TV. Besides, American Bandstand sucked. My man was an icon and he took the "hippest trip in America" right on outta here.

In unrelated news: A seventy-year-old California man shot his fifty-year-old son four times because he wouldn’t stop singing karaoke. It seems the son was singing country music…badly, like there’s any other way. Daddy told him to stop and he wouldn’t. "I’ll shut you up." The father reportedly said before going out to his pick-up to retrieve his gun, a semi-automatic by the way if you’re keeping score. It wasn’t mentioned what song the boy was bellowing out but I’m guessing Miranda Lambert’s "Gunpowder and Lead". Anyway, the son noticed he had lost one of his audience members and went to check on his daddy. Seeing Papa heading his way packing heat, he ran back into the house and barred the door. His wife looked out the window and seeing her father-in-law standing on the porch exclaimed-"Daddy’s home, honey!" and before the crooner could shout "Don’t, he’s not a music lover!" she flung open the door. That’s when the bullets started flying. The son took four rounds, suffering for his art, and Daddy took one to the thigh. The father is my hero. If you’ve never wanted to shoot someone singing karaoke you must be tone deaf. I think Marvin Gaye and his father had a similar fight except country music wasn’t involved and Marvin’s daddy was a better shot.

In even another unrelated note; we’re going to see Miranda Lambert in a couple of weeks and I can’t wait.

Since the year 2001 there have been seventeen killers moved from death row to the general prison population in North Carolina. These seventeen men were convicted and sentenced but received a reprieve their victims never did. Why? They were deemed mentally incompetent. They are too stupid to die. Let’s look at a few cases.

A Forsyth County man broke into an apartment, shooting a man and a female child during the course of a robbery. Thankfully that was enough for him and he didn’t murder the two female adults also present. He was declared mentally incompetent I guess because he left witnesses.

A Rowan County man stabbed his seventy-three-year-old mother "five or six" times in the chest and then acted as if nothing was wrong when the police arrived; mentally incompetent. Maybe he thought they were playing a game; tag Mom, you’re it.

A Wake County man shot the wife of a man who hired him to kill her. Interesting that he was smart enough to know what he was doing but not mentally competent enough to pay for his crime as sentenced.

Now we have another seeking to have his sentence over-turned so he can live out the rest of his natural life behind bars. He only raped and murdered a five-year-old girl. He doesn’t seem like such a bad guy. I guess you have to get to know him.

Why are the victims in crimes always forgotten? Innocent people, sitting in their homes, working, or maybe just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All they were doing is living their lives and along comes Mr. Crackhead or Mr. Lunatic and takes the most precious thing they have. It goes to trial and the poor mistreated felon is defended by every wringing-hand liberal on this side of the planet. They chalk it up to childhood abuse or drugs or anything else that can be conjured up out of thin air because nobody is really bad, just misunderstood. It makes me want to puke. The funny thing about a country that envisions itself as educated; some of us have forgotten the meaning of innocent and illegal. Look those words up ACLU.

I don’t care how damn stupid you are, your conscience tells you the difference between right and wrong. These men committed atrocious crimes and instead of being shot in the streets like the animals they are, they’re being housed, fed, and, clothed with our tax dollars. The only problem I have with execution is it takes so long to carry them out. The families of the victims (remember them?) deserve better.

My friend Jeff is a grumpy old man, a "friggin’ curmudgeon" a mutual friend calls him. But boy is he entertaining. He has a depth of knowledge in politics, history, and other trivial things like that. He also has a great collection of jokes, can talk sports, and knows a lot of big words that I write down to look up later. But he’s not a loudmouth or a showoff. He has an easy manner and a quick smile, but my favorite thing about him is that he’s real. I hope to be like him when I reach his age…next week.

Getting to certain age with your sense of humor intact isn’t the easiest thing in the world to accomplish. If you’re not too young or busy, look around you sometime at older folks’ faces. How did their face get that pulled down look? I know, age and gravity (that’s why there are face lifts for the vain) but some of it has got to be attitude. You know how sometimes you see someone’s face that makes you want to smile,(Not laugh out loud like when you see mine), but just smile because something lies just beneath the surface that came from a happy place? Then there are the others, the misery spreaders; the ones who didn’t catch it in time.

Life’s a bitch, if you don’t know that by now you soon will. It’s how you handle that bitch that determines your life. Aches, pains, losses, spit upon, talked about, lied to, cheated, disappointed, and disillusioned; all that misery surfacing to the top and settling on your once happy face. The corners of your mouth turned down; if you do smile it never touches your eyes. Who needs that crap?

I want to be a grouchy old man when I grow up, whenever that will be; grouchy with a smile on my face and a collection of big words to confound people with. Just let me know if I start to bring you down.

Okay, everybody that has had a sex change raise your hand. Let’s see…nobody? Okay, anybody considering it? No one? Hmmm…the lopping off of parts you’re familiar with, or possibly even fond of despite the trouble they’ve gotten you into in the past, must make people a little squeamish. Then there’s the reattaching of unfamiliar things that you previously only used as recreational equipment; never having had to maintain or work with them on a daily basis. I imagine there’s some adjustment period.

Being a man, and with every intention of remaining that way, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to forcibly remove Mr. Winky and his two closest friends from the premises. I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands. It would be like when I was a kid and my best friend moved away leaving me no one to play with. The thought of toilet re-training alone would steer me clear of the scalpel. Even if I remembered that I’m a Sheila now and not a bloke down at the local steakhouse, would I remember to squat or stand before I peed down my leg? A woman has just too many things to keep up with; shaving this, shaving that. I don’t even like to shave my face every day. On a personal note, the only penis I’m interested in is my own and I sure don’t want to have to fight off the advances of a man desperate enough to find me attractive as a woman.

I’m most likely a small thinker but this sex-change thing confuses me. Most men look at a beautiful woman and wonder what she’d look like naked, not if they’d look like her when they’re naked. I don’t know how women think. I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out why they think like they do. I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life trying to figure out why I think like I do. If I became a woman I’d be the most screwed up woman in the world; ugly, bitter, and alone; hating what I used to be, one of those men. I’d probably make a great advice columnist though, "Please tell me what I’m doing wrong with my boyfriend." Some poor delusional woman would write, "What do men want?"

"Well," I’d begin. "Having once been a man myself…" I’d have my own TV show and the money would start pouring in. Pretty girls would… wait… no…no… they wouldn’t because I’d be a freak… of nature… a plus-sized woman in ill-fitting clothes and beard stubble. I’d hate me. Ah…pretty women, walking around with everything wrapped up in a neat little package. Why on Earth would one of them want to exchange that for something that looks like an over-turned toolbox? Still…as many times as my little head as led me somewhere I didn’t need to be… I think I’ll hold on to it, so to speak.