Mad Santa

I am not a fan of Christmas.

1. Shopping in cold weather is not fun.
   
   
2. Having to do regular errands, like buying mailing envelopes, dishwashing liquid, and return a malfunctioning storage drive means no place to park and long lines no matter where I go to do it this week.
   
   
3. No one in my family has small children, so Christmas is adult-oriented. Adult presents cost more than children's presents, and you're shopping for people who already have everything they want. When money is tight, the person who ends up not getting a gift is my husband. That doesn't seem right.
   
   
4. Did I mention neither of us got a raise this year? Well, neither of us was laid off, either, so I guess I shouldn't complain.
   
   
5. I have a double set of in-laws, since my husband's parents are divorced and remarried. That means double in-law presents. Double road trips over the river and through the woods...
   
   
6. I have never been able to establish any family Christmas traditions of my own because I've never been able to have a Christmas at home with just my immediate family. I have been on the road for 29 years, a visitor to other people's traditions, except for a six year break between husbands when my Christmas tradition was happily home alone with my own turkey and dressing, and three movies, Coal Miner's Daughter, Manhattan, and When Harry Met Sally. I was never sad to be alone.
   
   
7. Sometimes I just want to cry. And then the bills come in January and I really want to cry. (When I worked at the Times-Dispatch, back in the newspaper prosperity days, they used to give you a Christmas bonus of a week's salary. That was very helpful. I'm pretty sure they don't do that anymore.)
   
   
8. I don't put the tree up because then I would have to take it down. Or I could be like some of the people in the Fan District who leave their Christmas lights up all year.
   
   
9. Aren't I pathetic. Grinch has nothing on me.
   
   
10. My favorite holiday is Martin Luther King Day. I get a three-day weekend and I'm not expected to do anything, not even have a dream.

Google-Blocked from Mr. Christmas

You can't get to Mr. Christmas with Google maps.

My caller had the most unimaginative, been-there, done-that photo assignment this week for a local publication, to get photos of people enjoying over-the-top Christmas displays. I consulted the T-D's list and emailed him a few addresses in his neighborhood, then told him to come get me and I'd drive him to a few places in my area of town. I knew the streets, I thought, and it'd go quick with me behind the wheel. He refused. (I guess it has something to do with not wanting to be seen with your mother, or something.)

Instead, I had to provide directions over the phone. The first place went okay, then I provided directions to the famous house of Mr. Christmas on 2300 Wistar Court. Since he was coming from the highly decorated houses of Pine Grove Drive, I instructed him via Broad Street. Right turn off Broad onto Wistar Street, four blocks down, left on Wistar Court. I am looking right at Google maps.

He calls back and says the street dead ends on Biscayne. That's not what the map says, I tell him. I'm right here, he says. Well, I can't tell what your situation is because I'm not there and the map says....and then he shouts at me that I purposely misdirected him because I wanted to go. But the map says....

Next night, as I'm getting ready to go to the boring office Christmas party, I see the Crazy Lights show on TLC and there's Mr. Christmas. I know it's an old show because they interview Cynthia McMullen in her messy little Times-Dispatch cubicle, and she's gone, but surely Mr. Christmas is still there. His street wouldn't have disappeared like Brigadoon. All I can think of at the boring Christmas office party is leaving early and finding out what happened on Biscayne Road.

We get there, and sure enough, Wistar Street dead ends at someone's driveway, which has a street sign on it that says Wistar Street. (Who ever saw a street sign at the end of a driveway?) We turn the brights on and can see Wistar Street continues right on the other side of this driveway, but there's a metal barricade keeping you from driving on the driveway, over a little stretch of this house's lawn, and back onto Wistar Street. We go up and down Biscayne but cannot find another street that will hook us back up to Wistar.

Back at home, I Google-map it again, ask for directions, and Google Maps innocently draws me a route right through this person's yard. On the map, Wistar Street goes right through to the end from Broad. In reality, you can't get to the end of it with the Wistar Court and Wistar Place cul-de-sacs unless you enter from Skipwith. And here in this conundrum is where Mr. Christmas abides, ever elusive to those of us Wise Men coming from the North. That just ain't right.

The Santa Lie

It all starts with the first great lie, Santa Claus.

We have lost faith. We do not know whom to believe. We do not know whom to trust. Our parents, our ministers, our teachers, our politicians, our lovers, our car dealers, our anchorman--who among us is worthy of our trust?

And it's all because of Santa Claus.

Who can't remember when they first realized there was no Santa Claus?

For me, it was when I discovered a secret cache of gifts in a closet. I carefully unwrapped the end flaps on one, read the lettering on the side of the box and re-taped the package. On Christmas morning the card on this same box said it was from Santa Claus. How could Santa have brought this from the North Pole just hours earlier? And if there was no Santa, who was devising this elaborate hoax, who was drinking the milk and eating the carrots I left out for the reindeer? Who was leaving me thank you notes written in a feathery Santa hand?

My parents? My own parents were doing this to me? The same people who had selected my religion, mandated my moral values and set our standard of ethics?

Herein lies the crux. In our formative years, two similar controlling factors are presented to us, God and Claus. They both see you when you're sleeping, know when you're awake, know if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness' sake. They both reward you for faith and sterling behavior, and punish you for lack of both, one with fire, brimstone and eternal damnation and the other with a mini-version of the same thing, a lump of coal. When Claus is revealed as a fraud, can God be far behind?

Some of us desperately need to believe in something. I dealt with the loss of Claus. But I clung to the big Santa in the sky. When I became a parent, I decided not to tempt my own child with a similar crisis of faith. I would make life easy for him. I would tell him upfront there was no Santa Claus. I explained very carefully, or maybe very vaguely, it was just a Christmas game. I met direct questions about Santa head-on. Is there a Santa Claus? There are lots of Santa Clauses, Santa Clauses in every mall.

Unfortunately, in the end, it didn’t work. Whereas I continued to cling to the Santa in the sky with diamonds, he rejected everything I believed in. Did it all stem from the original loss of Claus, even as careful as I was to prepare him for it?

The Santa Claus conspiracy is the first conundrum we encounter on a lifetime journey of losing faith, and that's the only thing in life you can trust, the true and certain knowledge that you can’t believe in anything.

(I originally wrote a longer version of this about 15 years ago, and ever since, I keep seeing it floating around on the Internet, usually attributed to The City Paper, which never bought it from me, so I hereby lay formal claim to my own essay.)

Traumatized by Bass Pro Shops

I had forgotten a couple of things in my enthusiasm to go see the Bass Pro Shops on Lakeridge, a redneck Disney Land of sorts. I am creeped out by animals that were once live and now stuffed, and big, grey fish with mouths that can swallow your fist.

Background: My maternal grandparents had nine children and no jobs. They lived off what they grew and butchered themselves. Then they converted their house into a hunting lodge and my grandfather let men pay to shoot on his property. And sleep in his house, which must have gone over great with his six daughters. There was a twin bed or a cot in every space of every room of that house except the kitchen.

And there was no privacy. The house had no hallways. Each room opened up into the next one in a square, with the closets and storage rooms filling the center of the house. Part of the kitchen was converted into two adjoining bathrooms with curtainless shower stalls. (A luxury since before that there was an outhouse.) But they didn't have a proper door with a doorknob. They had three-quarter swinging doors with hook latches. By the time I was four, my grandparents had died (both at age 56) and the hunting parties ceased.

My youngest aunt kept the house just as it was, with all the beds and the creepy, curtained walk-in closets. If you wanted to change your clothes in private, you had to go into one of them, and every one had a mounted deer head on the wall (with eyes that saw me). This spooked the heck out of me, and I didn't like sleeping outside that room either, knowing that head was in there and could float out at any time and get me. I had to spend two weeks of every summer in that house until my aunt had the good sense to burn it down for the insurance.

Back to the Present Day: Bass Pro Shops has a lot of stuffed, mounted deer heads. On stuffed mounted deer bodies. All over the place. Everywhere! As well as turkeys, and birds and other stuffed stuff. I got to the point where I just kept my head down, but not before I saw the stuffed baby bear. Not a stuffed teddy bear. A stuffed baby real bear. Ahhhhh, that was too much. My husband tried to claim it was fake. "They wouldn't stuff a faun." Because, ohmygosh, there's even a stuffed Bambi's mother and a stuffed teenager Bambi. Thanks for pointing that one out, honey. Now I need therapy.

Look at all these guns. This is freaking me out. And whereas I usually like to look at brightly colored tropical fish, a tank full of evil gray fish with whiskers and big gaping mouths...well, I am going to see that in my dreams. Sheeeesh.

The place was packed. My husband doesn't eat fish, so we weren't planning to wait the hour to 90 minutes for the restaurant part, and there were a boatload of kids in there anyway, even sitting at the bar in front of the giant aquarium with friendlier looking fish. Right after stuffed deer and big fish, I don't like restaurants full of kids. Santa was there, too. (Not in the restaurant. In the boat section.)

The Nascar driving simulation looked very fun, though, and was only $5, but my husband didn't want to try it. We watched one car repeatedly slam into the virtual wall and spin around in the grass before crossing the road again, only to slam back into the wall. When it was over, two preteen boys got out of that car. How many years before I'm sharing I-95 with that driver? Two?

The one thing I thought about buying, a tin frog on a stick (don't need it, but it was a good price, $4.95), I didn't because most of them were already broken by obliging kids who had pulled the bobbing frog tongues out. And I almost bought a bag of marshmellows labeled "Snowman Poop," but then I couldn't think of anyone who would appreciate such a gift. It sort of puts you off marshmellows.

So that was my holiday outing this year, although there's a possibility I might get a free Tacky Light tour next week. I assume there will be no stuffed deer along the way.

Mystery of the Missing Portrait

In 1969, a VCU freshman named Janet Johnson, who lived on the 8th floor of Johnson Hall, painted this picture, which amazed us all because she wasn't even an art major, so we took a picture of it.

She dropped out mid-semester because she never went to class. She got her days and nights mixed up and was up all night and slept all day. I think she was originally from Northern Virginia. She was very tall and liked to wear short, fluffy wigs. She also liked to party at Andy's, which was on Grace Street near the Mister Swiss, a few doors down from Lum's.

A few years later, someone told me they saw this painting for sale at Arts in the Park. That was almost 40 years ago. I wonder what happened to it.

Tears for Opus

I've been snuffling all day about the death of Opus. Some of you may say, no, he's not dead, he just went to spend eternity asleep on the last page of "Good Night, Moon," which is how he's drawn in his final panel (which can only be viewed via a Humane Society web page.)

But he looks dead to me, with the added clues of the text, "Goodnight Opus and goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere."

When you say goodnight to air, that's pretty dead.

It was hard enough on me that he knew weeks ago his end was coming and he had to get to the place where he wanted to spend eternity, but didn't know where, and then through a series of misfortunes, ended up in a cell at an animal shelter with a dog that had never known a home. (What an allegory for life! Isn't our whole journey about getting to the place where we want to spend eternity, but we don't know where or how and end up in the wrong place?)

And then it was hard enough that when a trio of Tahitian beauties came calling, looking for a pet to adopt and take home to their island paradise, he stepped aside and let the dog go. (Another allegory. Redemption through sacrifice.)

I was more a fan of Bloom County and Outland than this latest revival of the strip, but hats off to Berkeley Breathed for wringing me out emotionally over a cartoon penguin. I haven't been able to snap out of it all day.

New Ways to Cheat

I was stuck in a Hoth battle. Most of the time Legos Star Wars is easy to play. Death is forgiven with instant reincarnation, usually in the same spot where you died so you don't have to keep doing parts of a level over. When there's no obvious ways to exit a level, you start looking for all possibilities and the solutions are seldom too mentally taxing, or as in some games, something you would have never thought to do in a million years.

But the Hoth battle was proving perplexing. I had circled those walking mechanical things with tow ropes and brought them down and then shot them up, and they just kept coming. I dragged bombs out of a bomb house and dragged them on tow ropes, hurling them against various walls and enemies, and nothing changed. I did notice the big red wall had a flashing emblem of a tiefighter on it. I was not flying a tiefighter, so I had a suspicion this wall was not going to yield. I had also noticed a slit in a cave that had bars across it, but my efforts to shoot through the bars had produced nothing. I paused the game and went to the Internet to research "Legos Hoth battle."

As usual, I found message boards full of other frustrated people and obscenely cursing kids, various suggestions offered and complaints that the suggestions didn't work. Then I saw a link to a YouTube video. I clicked it and there was a video of the whole level played out, nearly perfectly. Yes, you must tow a bomb to that cave and hurl it at the bars. Within minutes, I was through the cave and combating bigger mechanical walkers on other levels and finally reaching a save point so I could quit for the night.

YouTube is saving my butt on video game after game. We pushed through the mind-twisting puzzles of Nintendo DS' "Professor Layton and the Curious Village" by watching videos kids had made of puzzle solutions. It's the new way to cheat. Or maybe it's just working as a team, which is always a good thing. I'll put it on my resume. "Excels at team work."

My Life at the Byrd

I see the Byrd Theatre is celebrating its 80th birthday on Oct. 18. As part of my job, I've taken a tour of the Byrd and seen the behind-the-scenes parts of it, upstairs, downstairs, under the stairs, behind the screen. I think there's actually a creek running through it on a lower level.

I don't go to the Byrd much because of the parking issue, and I don't go to movies much anyway, but I have three distinct memories of it.

The first memory is bad. I was there with a boyfriend watching -- I think -- a reissue of a Disney cartoon. He had his legs up against the back of the seat in front of us. He was over six feet tall and no one was sitting there, but this was in the very early 1970s and he had "hippie hair," so naturally the usher, an old man, had to come down the aisle and say something to him. And that started a squabble because the boyfriend, despite the hippie hair, was a two-year veteran of Vietnam combat and felt entitled, so there was ugliness and we were asked to leave. My first time in the Times-Dispatch was a letter to the editor complaining about the incident and defending my veteran boyfriend, who, it turned out, would pull stunts like this the whole time I knew him and it would become indefensible. We never went back there together.

The second memory is the first time I saw "Gone with the Wind," which was also in the early 1970s because my date was my son (spawn of that indefensible boyfriend who had since deserted) and he was a toddler. It's a long movie and he got bored and started crawling around on the floor, and much to my horror, I discovered he was eating the old candy he was finding on the floor. He came up from one crawl with Good & Plentys stuck in his hair. The rest of the time he actually watched the movie, especially in the beginning when Scarlet is getting dressed to go to parties. He piped up loud enough for everyone to hear, "She gots big underwear!"

The next memory was sitting through "Three Weddings and a Funeral" in a crowded theater in a state of shock. It was the first time in a year I was there without Frank. Pretty much all Frank and I did for the nine months we hung out together was go to the Byrd. We saw everything that played there, good or bad (mostly bad). I mean, everything. I vaguely remember the "Last of the Mohicans" and some movie with Sara Jessica Parker and Nicholas Cage and lots of Elvis impersonators in Las Vegas. Then Frank was gone. He found true love and that was the end of our friendship for all useful purposes, and I was numb with grief. My new drinking buddy Lisa and one of her one-night stands wanted to go to the Byrd and talked me into it, but being inside it without Frank was such a shock to my system, I could not focus on the movie. There was just this roaring of grief in my head the whole time. Years later, I finally "saw" "Three Weddings and a Funeral" on TV and didn't remember any of it. I don't remember ever going to see a film there again, even though my future husband and I lived two blocks from the theater for three years.

My Life with Paul Newman

As a little girl growing up in the 1950s, Paul Newman, or the movie roles he played anyway, infused my understanding of what a man was. He was the romantic ideal, despite the fact he was usually quite a rogue. This turned out not to be a good thing.

I grew up outside of Manhattan, which even in the 1950s, had more broadcast channels than most places, and those channels, for lack of programming, showed movies, so I saw "Somebody Up There Likes Me," (1956) and "The Long Hot Summer," (1958) repeatedly before I was old enough to actually go to cinemas and see his classics like "Cool Hand Luke," (1967) (not a favorite because it is so grim and masculine), "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," (1969) (again, a great film but not a favorite because once you make that trip to the grim ending, you're reluctant to make it again). My last odd favorite was "Sometimes a Great Notion." (1971)

My favorite Newman persona was the bad boy who is ultimately redeemed by the long-suffering love of a good and pure woman, although all through my life, as I try to duplicate that scenario, it doesn't turn out the way it did in the movies. My first husband, who I met when I was 15, was the personification of rogue and actually resembled Paul Newman back then, and that relationship impacted and damaged my future permanently. And I followed it up with yet another bad choice, based on the Frank Sinatra movie model of rogue lover who is redeemed by the love of a good and pure woman.

Not.

Newman did one Hollywood stunt, abandoning the wife and family of his youth to fall in love with an actress, and he paid the karmic debt for it when his only son died of drug and alcohol abuse. And then he redeemed himself by staying in that second marriage, despite it being a union of two actors, until he died. My hyper-religious sister used to insist that the secret of their success was they were both gay and the marriage was only a sham cover. Possible, but probably not. They had daughters, but stranger things have happened, and they stayed way under the radar. Even Newman's long, long battle with cancer was kept quiet. It was a very dignified way to have a sucessful Hollywood career.

Still, those early movies put a warp on my tender sensibilities, but I won't hold it against him. And some ancient quote of his about the success of his marriage is worth recalling, something about why grab hamburger when you have steak at home.

I Tivoed Newman this morning to celebrate his passing with a wallow through past performances and found only one film scheduled anywhere this week, 1998's "Twilight." I've never seen it, so I'll try it.

My George Carlin Story

George Carlin will be in this story. Wait for it.

In the early 1990s, I began my decade in limbo, divorced, between careers, and marginally employed. I did some freelance writing and worked part-time at the gift shop in what was then the Radisson on Canal Street.

The man renting the space was from India. Maybe he didn’t know American employment law…or maybe he did…but he paid us once a month in cash. He did not deduct any taxes. I never received a W-2 or even a W-9. I made $5 an hour and worked a variety of shifts. Some days I opened the shop in the morning, some days I closed it at night. There was no one else there, so you had to lock the shop to run to the bathroom and eat your lunch behind the counter.

Because the shop owner was behind in paying the bill, the newspaper distributor cut us off. Most of the six months I worked there, we didn’t have any newspapers or magazines. Imagine a hotel gift shop with no newspapers or magazines. We had some toiletries, some overpriced jewelry, food snacks, cigarettes, an assortment of Virginia is for Lovers souvenirs and shirts, and a vast assortment of cheap, cheesy, made in Taiwan toys and doodads that had nothing to do with Virginia and were not things you would ever need. Needless to say, we didn’t sell many of them.

The Radisson was where entertainers playing the Carpenter Center stayed. (See, we’re getting to the point of this story now.) They would wait in the lobby for the limo to take them to the theater or back to the airport. Sometimes I would see someone recognizable, like Carrot Top, sitting on top of his trunks and suitcases.

I learned from my father during my first celebrity encounter (actor Richard Jaeckel, Imperial Hotel lobby, Tokyo) that you did not bother famous people. If they caught you looking at them, you just gave them a discreet wave and turned away.

So there I was in the gift shop when George Carlin walked in. I could see out the window the limo that would drive him the three blocks to the Landmark was already pulling up. Carlin was wearing street clothes. His unclean hair was pulled back in a severe pony tail and he reeked…and I mean knock-you-over reeked…of cigarettes, as if he had spent the last eight hours rolling in an ashtray. He bought two bottles of grapefruit juice and paid cash. (We didn’t take credit cards. A hotel gift shop that didn’t take credit cards!) He kept his eyes down during the entire transaction and never looked at me. I never acknowledged he was George Carlin, even though I was old enough to remember when he was the Hippy Dippy Weatherman on Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show.

So I am surprised he made it to 71 when he must have been a major smoker.

After his first wife died, his HBO specials were singularly unfunny to me, as if he had lost part of himself. He didn’t seem that focused in his sarcasm anymore. He was more bitter than funny. Before the first wife died, one of his HBO specials did make me laugh a great deal (and it’s still funny to me). It was the one with the bit about “stuff,” how we accumulate so much stuff in life, and we have to have bigger places to keep our stuff. When we travel, we take just a portable portion of our stuff. Why isn’t this portion all the stuff we ever need? He tells a story about going to Hawaii for a long vacation, and determining how much of his stuff he needed to take. Then while on the big island, he was invited to spend several days on a smaller island and had to subdivide his stuff again into an even more essential bundle of stuff.

The way he told it was hilarious. Then he followed it up with another hilarious story about his cat, which liked to present himself butt first, right in his face, like “check out my ass!” I have eight cats and to this day, as they regularly present themselves to me butt first to check out their ass, I hear George Carlin’s voice in my head. So that is his everlasting gift to me.

The Ecstacy of Poison Ivy

I'm completing week two of my poison ivy attack. I know better. People often told me I had poison ivy growing on the fence, so I steered clear of it. Then my mother-in-law decided she wanted to pull it off the fence and she didn't think it was really poison ivy. We suggested she not bother, but she did anyway. After awhile, I felt bad watching her so boldly pull possible poison ivy off my fence, so I helped her bag it up.

A couple of days later, we both had poison ivy. Mine took a nasty turn, jumping from one forearm to the other, spreading up the hands and armpits, across my neck and a cheek, and over my torso. The sores are fierce. The first doctor took a moderate approach. A six-pack of Prednisone and over the counter Benadryl for sleep. Daily coatings of Benadryl gel and Ivarest. Nothing made the slightest difference. The rash marched relentlessly across my body, giving me a leprous appearance. I went to another doctor and demanded serious medicine. I got a shot and an ointment and some antihistamine samples. It may have stopped spreading now, but I look like a very diseased person.

When the blisters started popping, I acquired an unexpected delight. Now in the shower, the feel of hot water on my scarred skin produces the most pleasurable sensation. It is like a skin orgasm that maintains its vibrant height of ecstatic feeling as long as the water hits it. It is almost unbearably pleasurable. The pleasure is centered at the worst blisters, so I lift my forearms into the pulsating water and become deeply entranced in ecstacy.

Disappointment - Back by Popular Demand

I've written two pieces in the last 15 years that I hear about time and again. One was a rant on Santa Claus, the first big lie you tell your children, and the second was an essay on the value of disappointment. Although I wrote it about my experiences as a local community newspaper editor, I sent it to Style Weekly instead where it was published (I'm thinking circa 1999-2000), and the fact that I was writing for another paper is what eventually moved me to the head of the layoff list when the ax came down in 2001. Not to mention pissing my employers off by writing such a piece in the first place.

Anyway, someone just mentioned it again, so I am reprinting it here.

Bring Disappointment Back!

When I was the editor of the Mechanicsville Local, on any given week I reduced half the children in town to bitter tears, or so their parents and teachers would have me believe. I was the Grinch who stole childhood.

Maybe I didn’t run the elementary school six-week honor roll, which included all the names of children who managed to make at least a B average for one report card. Not straight A's as you might think. Isn't a B average what you would normally expect? How is this an honor?

Or maybe they’re all weeping and gnashing their teeth in disappointment because instead of a front page story with several photos of their latest school activity, I just ran one photo with a caption.

Or maybe I have profoundly scarred some little girl because we spelled her name Brittany, except it turns out to actually be Britany, or Britnee, or Brittanee, or Briteney, or Britknee, or Brit’ane. I think it’s the parents who can’t spell. I have plaques and certificates of merit, and even engraved Jefferson pewter cups with my name spelled all kinds of screwy ways on them and if I needed therapy every time this happened, I’d be in a straightjacket by now.

One time, thinking I was at least pleasing one child by running a photo of him with the first deer he had shot and killed, I learned I had variously ruined another child’s appetite, this one’s life, that one’s Christmas, and this other one’s pleasure in the movie “Bambi.” It was now necessary, because of me, for the parents to explain what “shot and killed” meant to children they claimed had no idea of the concept despite exposure to television, and who would be emotionally maimed by the realization that some people on this planet shoot and kill animals.

One irate schoolteacher, who thought her classes’ donation of pennies to a charity deserved more than a photo on an inside page, got into a screaming match with me on the phone over whether or not I thought children and charities were “worth it” or not, and if so, then why wasn’t it a bigger story? I told her it was worth the space it got, which caused her to call her husband, who regularly ran a small ad in the paper. He called his ad representative and threatened to pull his little ad unless the story was rerun, this time with the coverage it deserved.

So now I had the ad salesman coming down the hall to tell me I am jeopardizing his commission and his ability to put food on the table for his own little children, who will be crying bitterly and rubbing their empty tummies. Well, I’m sorry, but we can’t always get what we want, and like the Israeli government, I can’t give in to threats. Even if I was thinking of capitulating a little, now they’ve put me in a situation where I can’t give an inch because that would empower a bully.

That night I thought about the value system of a teacher who, when she doesn’t get what she wants, threatens other people until she does. Is that the value system I would want a teacher of my child to have? Is that what they teach children these days? If you don’t get want you feel you deserve, then make someone pay?

Apparently so, and that’s why the kids are taking guns to school and shooting everyone up.

The morning after all this happened, I saw repeated broadcasts of a news report that a parent who had ordered two game cartridges for his son from toysrus.com was only going to get one. The other was sold out, and instead of the cartridge, toysrus.com was sending him a $100 gift certificate, nearly three times the value of the game. A bonanza you say?

Oh no. The parent went on television to say with a grim face that his child “would not understand” only getting one game cartridge instead of two. They even showed a photo of the poor, deprived child. Call Save the Children now. Call Christian’s Children Fund! Because here is a pathetic child who is only getting one game cartridge and a $100 gift certificate. He is not getting everything he wants when he wants it! Oh, alas! Grab the gun and let’s go shoot up Toys R Us.

The irate parent who wanted to see the honor role printed in the paper said the child’s older siblings’ names had been in the paper when they made honor role, under a different editor, and if I did not carry on the tradition to honor her child, her child would be disappointed.

Oh my gosh. A disappointed child.

Life, I hate to break this news to you, is full of disappointment. It is full of pain and heartache and failure. People we love die. Jobs we want go to other people. Our enemies triumph. Our best efforts sometimes go for nothing. The one we love doesn’t love us back. The one we trusted betrays us. No one will ever have the money they think they need. Only one person can win the race, and everyone else is an also-ran. Someone will always be richer, smarter, prettier, more popular. Every stoplight we come to, someone will have a nicer, newer car. Life will continually suck in a myriad of ways.

And that’s what we need to prepare our children to face: disappointment. Instead, we try to build a buffer zone around them where their feelings will never be hurt and failure never darkens the light. If they cannot make A’s in school, we will reward them for C’s. If the neighborhood children have hundred dollar tennis shoes, we will buy them as well. If Pokemon is the price of self-esteem, then Pokemon it will be. They want cell phones and cars when they’re 16? Get them cell phones and cars! Use them both at the same time!

We shoot them out of the womb and right into daycare centers while we go out and earn money, and then to compensate for not being in their lives, we spend that money on them to keep them drugged up on material goods. We are the first pushers in their lives, getting them hooked on instant gratification as we run in circles, ensuring our child is never, ever disappointed by anyone or anything.

But we can’t protect them from everything and everyone, and eventually they hit a brick wall and the one thing we haven’t given them is the ability to handle disappointment, to deal with it, to suck it up and move on to something positive. Instead they just hit the wall startled and unprepared, and mommy can’t fix it this time. The real drug dealer will help them with their pain, and maybe taking a gun to school and eliminating some more pain will help, too.

So your child is disappointed? Good. Let them feel it, let them soak in the whole essence of disappointment, or else you’ll be teaching them to not feel anything.

Famous People

Ever run down the list of famous people you've seen? Mine isn't much, but it's very odd.

Margaret Chase Smith and Hubert Humphrey. Saw them in the Capitol when I was on a college field trip. I was pregnant. I bet most of you don't know who Margaret Chase Smith is.

Jackie Kennedy Onassis shopping in Bangkok, Thailand. She bought a statue of two hands and wrote a check for it. I watched her through the window, then she came out and walked to a chauffered car. Big sunglasses. Wrinkled short shift dress. Big car. She paid no attention to the people watching her.

The actor Richard Jaeckel in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo. I didn't even know who he was. My father pointed him out and was very cool. He gave the guy a little wave and the guy gave him a little wave back. Jaeckel was in "The Dirty Dozen" and a movie I like, "Sometimes a Great Notion." Every time I see him on TV, I think about my father and him exchanging the discreet waves. They're both dead now.

Luci Baines Johnson Nugent getting out of a car in a parking lot. I was just walking by and there she was. I think she was in town campaigning for Chuck Robb. Her hair was tremendously black, high and teased, like a stripper or an Elvis-era Priscilla Presley. (What happened to that woman's face??!!)

I saw Mark Warner before he was governor of Virginia standing on line for the sky bucket ride at Busch Gardens. It was right in the middle of his campaign. He stood on line like everybody else. Didn't try to cut ahead. Didn't have any park people escorting him to the front. That's why I voted for him. I also saw him at a garden party in Hanover County. Hanover is very Republican, so there weren't many people at this party, but he gave a good speech anyway. I covered it for the Mechanicsville Local.

I saw Elliott Yamin, as did half of Richmond, at the James Center when he was competing in "American Idol," and they were filming his visit home for the finales.

And that's about it for my brushes with greatness.

I've been to very few concerts. I've seen Kiss, John Denver, and a pathetic Beach Boys who were very far from the original line-up. I've seen Van Halen, but since Gary Chirone was the singer, it doesn't count, although it was no doubt the last time Eddie looked halfway good. And the B52s and John Fogerty (my favorite). And Marilyn Manson at the Landmark. How could I forget that?

Update: Because I worked in the same building, I saw former Virginia governor Douglas Wilder a lot. And before the primaries began, I went to a Donald Trump rally at Richmond International Raceway because I thought he was actually going to go far in the 2016 election. He did.