Paris Hilton May End Up Loving Jail

It is difficult to think of anyone more deserving of jail time than Paris Hilton. What with her irresponsible behavior, her self-absorbed flaunting, and her wealthy conceit—a month or so in prison is just what the doctor ordered. She’s long overdue.

The benefits are twofold: a) Paris will have a chance to cool her heels and reflect on the responsibilities of her privileged existence,and, b) other rich kids will see that they are not above the law. Often when one grows up in an affluent household, one can develop an air of superiority (as is the case with George W. Bush, for example) and a sense of entitlement. This attitude can be very unhealthy and even dangerous. Parents have an obligation to create a sense of right and wrong in their children, and, if they fail, it is up to societal institutions to take over, as painful as it may be.

By its very nature, incarceration is a very humbling experience, and it can do wonders for a person’s character and moral makeup. It can instill a sense of limits and personal strength and perhaps even a calm oneness with the universe. When things are going well and life is easy, you can be lulled into a feeling of infallibility. Being in jail is a rather rude and welcome awakening from that feeling. The Tao te Ching reveals, ‘We mold clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness inside that makes the vessel useful’. Thus, when she is deprived of all the trappings of wealth and sits in the confines of a prison cell, Miss Hilton may fully realize the true beauty of existence.

So, Paris may fret and fuss, but, just like summer camp, the jail experience will be one she will remember forever; it could well be a turning point in her life. In the end, she’ll be much richer.

A Case Against Barack Obama For President

There is no doubt that Barack Obama is smooth, charming, and articulate--exactly the kind of person that doesn't make for a good president. He would make a good actor, perhaps. A decent preacher, yes, for sure. But a president has to be rather old, nondescript and congenial--like the way the elder George Bush occupied his office.

Unlike his son, W, the senior Bush emanated an air of sedate wisdom and compassion, almost like an elder neighbour who doesn't mind raking leaves off part of your lawn as a matter of course--a person, quite frankly, too old and relaxed to be involved in any kind of sex or bribery scandal. And, unlike his son, he was someone with enough restraint and sense (and lack of bloodlust or vainglory) not to allow U.S. forces to enter Baghdad.

That kind of practical sense is not something you find in great abundance in presidential candidates lately. Not in Hillary Clinton, not in John McCain, and not in John Edwards. Perhaps a little bit in Al Gore (but he is probably rather unelectable now). Sadly, then, the best candidates for the presidency are probably found behind the counters of corner stores, in front of elementary classrooms, or sitting in retirement homes--ordinary, friendly, and decent people who have no interest in hopping around the country making fancy speeches or squabbling in debates. The old adage that 'no one good enough to be President would actually run for President' is truer now than it ever was.

One has to question the sanity of anyone willing to undergo the rigorous path towards winning the presidency. Obama has spent many years helping youth and poor communities in Chicago--doing some real good. Why would he abandon that for higher office? It simply stretches the imagination to think that he genuinely believes he could do more constructive good for people in the White House than in the inner neighborhoods of Chicago. No, for a man of his age, presidential aspirations could only be about one thing: ego gratification. While a big ego is not a bad thing in the arena of sports, film, or music, it can be a disastrous trait for a head of a country.

There has been a lot of mess created by the current president. A big mess. What the USA really needs nows is a patient, mature person to come in and clean up the yard. What the country really needs now is an old, wise, (and perhaps even boring) leader. A person lacking in charisma; stodgy, stuffy, perhaps even a little smelly. Just a good old man one can trust like a grandfather (a person who may not exist so far in the current field of candidates).

So, until Barack Obama gets more white hairs, has suffered humiliating setbacks, and develops a cool, grandmotherly wisdom and resolve, he can serve his country best by keeping his theatrical acumen to the Senate floor or in his living room.

Ode To A Minimum-Wage Employee

Popped in for a coffee to go
I could see your eyes soft and glistening
Sweet angel, don't despair
The stars really are listening

You can't afford high-speed access
Much less wireless
But your efforts are so pure,
True and tireless

They tell you the customer is always right
When we both know they are almost always wrong
The bell will toll for thee, exiled princess
And you will be singing the best song

While the masses complain about cold coffee,
For eight-dollars an hour, you force an apologetic smile
Don't worry, pretty baby
There are rewards at the end of that extra mile

Keep your chin up and your head nobly high
Your true destiny lies beyond this greasy pit stop
For this is no lie,
You are the true hero and you're headed to the top

Alicia

When Alicia was four, she had gotten angry with her mother and tried to cross the street by herself, not seeing that a truck was fast approaching. Her mother ran out to grab her and was struck down with a horrific thud. In her dying words, Alicia's mother whispered hoarsely to her daughter, 'This isn't your fault! Don't you ever blame yourself! Promise me, Alicia, promise me! Say you promise!' 'I promise, Mommy!', Alicia had agreed, sobbing.

Of course, Alicia never forgot that moment. Not a month went by that she didn't wake up in the middle of the night at least once from a bad dream. Not even when she went to live with her grandparents, not when she went to the University of Toronto and not when she married (and later divorced) Adam. That was the one constant in her life--the memory of the truck slamming into her mother's abdomen.

By the time she turned twenty-five, she had met with seven different pyschiatrists, had joined (and later abandoned) a fundamentalist Christian group, had been addicted to several varieties of painkillers, and had once been found sobbing uncontrollably in a women's change room.

Now thirty, she is back living in Vancouver and working at a legal firm. She is seeing a man named Alain and things seem to be going well.
'I'm going to visit Mother today,' she says quietly at breakfast.
'You say that as if she's still alive,' Alain says.
'In my heart, she is.'
Alain frowns slightly. 'You're an adult now, Alicia. You have to let this go.' They have been having a similar conversation for the last three months now. Alain is a psychiatrist with an office just off near Cambie and 18th.
Alicia gets up. 'Well, I have to go.'
'Fine.' Alain goes back to his oatmeal with raisins.

At the gravesite, Alicia plants another white rose. Apparently, she is the only one that seems to come here regularly, as there are no other flowers at the gravestone. She pulls out a worn photo of her mother from her wallet. In the picture, her mother is twenty-seven and beaming. She kisses the photo and puts it back into her wallet.

'I can't', she says as Alain reaches out for her in bed.
'We've been seeing each other for a almost a year now,' Alain says gently, though he is breathing fast.
'I know. We will...when the time is right,' Alicia replies.
Alain sighs loudly. 'You keep saying that. The time will never be right.' He gets out of bed. 'I can't see you anymore, Alicia. I'm sorry, but this thing with your mother, it's...it's just out of hand.'
Alicia closes her eyes.

It has been two months since Alicia has stopped seeing Alain. She doesn't even seem to notice. Every Sunday, she still visits her mother's gravesite, though. Her friend, Marnie, says over the phone that 'the best way to honour someone's memory is to go on living a great life'. Alicia hangs up on her.

Walking home from the office one night, she gets the sudden notion to walk over to the street where her mother had been struck down. Alicia hasn't been there since the day of the accident. Her heart is thudding and she can barely breathe as she approaches the intersection. 'Mommy', she whispers. She stands at the corner and watches the traffic. There are a few passerbys but they don't pay any attention to Alicia. 'Mommy,' she whispers again. Finally, an older man notices that Alicia seems dazed. He stops and begins walking slowly toward her but it is too late--she has already walked into the street. The timing is perfect; the blue Dodge van cannot stop in time and Alicia is struck down. The old man runs out in horror. The driver of the van seems defensive as he gets out. 'It's not my fault, she's crazy! She just walked in front of me! You saw it!'

Alicia reaches out and grabs the driver's pant leg. 'Don't blame yourself,' she whispers.The driver pulls his leg away wildly. 'What!? You crazy or something!? He glares out at the crowd that is beginning to gather. 'It was her fault, you saw it!'

The old man is cradling Alicia's head. He can see the life fading out of her eyes. She pulls at his collar. 'It's nobody's fault,' she says quietly and closes her eyes one more time.

'What!? Is she dead!?,' the driver asks wildly.
'She's gone,' the old man intones.
'It wasn't my fault! You saw it!'
'That's what she said.' the old man replies.

Shards of Glass

When Tim was seventeen, he could really kick a football. Many would gather to watch as he would punt in the field after school. He would kick it out to his friend, Mark, who would throw the ball back to him, and he would kick it out again; sometimes for hours he would do this, nearly everyday. Eventually, scouts for Edmonton's professional team noticed and came to monitor his progress. 'This kid's the real deal,' Ed would say. 'Look at the height and distance he's getting.' Ed's partner, Lou, would add, 'He's got class, he just keeps doing it all the time.'

Tim was becoming something of a local hero. He was a barefoot kicker; that is, he prefered not to wear shoes on his kicking foot. Thus, before every game, he walked down the field a few times and meticulously scanned for any signs of broken glass, sharp rocks or any other foreign objects. Usually, he didn't find much and feeling satisfied, he would go to the locker room and go to the shower to pray alone. This had been his habit since he had started playing organized football in Grade 10.

The final game of the high school season arrived one fine Saturday and everyone came out--family, friends, pro scouts, local media and just about everybody from the neighborhood. The game began promptly at 2pm and Tim delivered a beautiful kickoff under a brilliant blue sky. He was smiling; he felt no pressure--he loved the game, he loved kicking footballs, and it didn't matter that there were professional eyes upon him and big money waiting in the wings.

By half-time, his team was leading 20-14 and it was two field goals from Tim that were making the difference (one had been a towering 54-yarder that had made the home crowd gasp and cheer wildly). In the locker room, everyone was slapping him on the back; they seemed to be a team of destiny and would probably win the city high school championship. Even Tim, who never liked to be overconfident, was certain they would win. Again, he went to the shower to pray alone during the break. When he came out, his father called him on the cellphone. 'Son, great news! Ed wants us to meet with the general manager of the Eskimos next week. They're talking signing bonuses and everything!'. Tim said he was glad and said he had to concentrate on the game at hand. His father understood and said, 'Go get 'em, Tiger!'.

When they returned to the field for the second half, Tim had a glow about him. He was looking at all the people he knew in the stands, at the trees in the distance, and the gulls that were wheeling in the sky. He breathed deeply as he prepared for the kickoff. As he came running up, he felt a piercing pain in his heel and fell to the ground; there were shards of glass embedded in his foot and blood seeping from the cuts. He grimaced and rolled onto his side as the trainer ran in from the the sidelines. His teammates watched in horror as Tim clutched at his foot. One player notices that there were bits of broken glass in a small four-foot diameter just at the center line. 'Vaccuum this up!' the ref yelled and a groundskeeper immediately sprang into action.

The trainer told Tim, 'Hey there, you're lucky, it was just three pieces in there and they're all out. They weren't too deep. We can tape it up and you can probably keep playing.''No,' said Tim quietly. Everyone looked at him. The coach could see that the bleeding had already stopped. They were just minor cuts. The groundskeeper had already vaccuumed up the glass and the ref had signalled the game could continue. Even his best friend on the team, the quarterback, Mitch, was surprised. 'Hey Tim, it's just a few little cuts, you can tough it out.'

'No.' said Tim, this time emphatic. He had thoroughly combed the field before the game. He had not found any glass; someone had deliberately placed the glass on the field during the halftime break. Someone had deliberately tried to hurt him--just for a high school game. He looked over at the opposing team's bench. His coach said, 'Tim, I think you can still play, those cuts are...'
'No, Coach, I'm sorry, I'm not playing ever again.' Tim said solemnly. Everyone gaped at him as he stood up and limped off the field and walked back to the school. He didn't respond to the calls for him to come back.

They lost the game by two field goals. The replacement kicker, Blaine (who was really a defensive back that could also kick a bit), missed one from twenty yards out and another from fifteen yards out. The local media and most of the people from school blamed Tim. The meeting with the general manager from the Eskimos never took place. Tim moved to BC and began working as a Safeway stockboy for ten dollars an hour. He never touched a football again and refused to watch the game on TV, something he had done regularly with his father since he was six years old.

The last anybody heard, Tim was still working at the Safeway (he's forty-three now and an assistant manager, I believe). I hear he's fine, except that whenever anybody drops a glass bottle at the store, he goes into a bit of a fit.

Beauty

No matter how beautiful someone is, after you see her kick a puppy, you'll never look at her the same way again.

Political Ambition

Before entering politics, remember that the people who were at the top of the game included the likes of Hitler and Stalin.

Quicksand

Before attempting to save someone from quicksand, be sure you're on solid ground.

Expense Account

Beware the person who giggles uncontrollably at the term: 'expense account'.

Negativity

Negativity -- it sucks

Buying an Electric Guitar

Overheard at a show:

'Daddy, can I buy an electric guitar, too?'

'Sure, right after you go to university, graduate and get a job.'

stars

Before attempting to count stars, remember that there are @#%$% billions and billions of them.

First Date

On a first date, it's probably not a good idea to ask for money to buy recreational drugs.

Motivational Coach

Never trust a book written by a motivational coach who has hanged himself in prison.