Smooth Jazz Artists Play With Sanity

I know what you’re thinking. What does he have against Kenny G?

Absolutely Nothing. I hold no contempt for Kenny G, because I don’t know Kenny G’s music. I have never sat through an entire Kenny G song. So it would be disingenuous of me to say I don’t like Kenny G. I have no opinion on him in the same way I am not enthused about pickled cactus. Never experienced it, so how can I say how bad it is?

No, I’m not annoyed by smooth jazz players, but rather by jazz players who are too smooth. The ones too cool for school that play with slow, affected moves like they have a secret earbud tapped into Barry White, a far better alternative for their audience.

Bottom line: it’s hard to trust them.

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Foodie Snobs Look Down Their Nebby Nose

Pittsburgh is fast becoming a culinary mecca. Within the last ten years, we have seen an incredible rise of talent in the chefs, kitchen staff, and management of our restaurants and caterers. We are not alone. A positive change has swept America and exciting dining experiences are no longer the province of New York, Chicago, or San Francisco. I applaud our resolve to eat more locally-sourced products.

With every great movement, alas, come those that must effect their enthusiasm in shows of public display—not for the benefit of education, but to exalt their palate, their refinement, and their superiority to the dull-tongued meatheads eating next to them.

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Door Preachers and the Sunday Morning Discount

Some years ago, I answered my door and found a strange couple dressed in black.

“We’re here to do you a favor,” the man said. A young woman stood behind him, nodding her approval at my good fortune. “I’m Nathan and this is Sarah. Have you read the Good Book today?”

“Why, no,” I said. “Not today. It’s only eight-thirty Sunday morning—”

“We’re so sorry to bother you, but this is too important to leave for later.”

Are you really sorry, Brother Jagoff?

The upshot was that he wanted to discuss my personal religious habits, my church regimen, how often I prayed—simple things like that.

“Please, come in,” I said.

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The Law of the Two Hour Waiting Room

I wish there was an inverse relationship between the amount of time ahead an appointment is scheduled and the time waiting on the doctor once you arrive. For instance, make an appointment four months in advance, then the doctor should see you immediately once your foot is in the door. If you have to rush to MediHelp after demonstrating your new Ginsu knife, then you can expect to wait a while (assuming you’re not bleeding to death).

Sound reasonable?

Well, we know that physical laws are immutable and its as silly to break the Law of the Two Hour Waiting Room as it is to travel faster than light.

Or is it?

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The Public Living Rooms of Private People

You’re relaxed, sitting back, sucking down a beer and arguing with your brother over the finer points of a subject you know little about. Your spouse is laughing in your ear at something you don’t find funny at all and the kids are joyously running in circles, shrieking and bouncing off each other. Everyone’s together and having a good time.

Sounds like Sunday at the house watching the Steelers play?

Hardly.

Picture the scene at your local restaurant. Or the book store. Or the multiplex while watching Rocky XIII.

When did people start treating public places like their own living room?

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