Editorial Columns Archive

Becca’s house of horrors
, Editor
03-09-2010

“Can we come watch movies on your big screen TV tonight?” the 17-year-old girl asked me over the telephone.
I don’t have kids, so the 17-year-old is not mine.
She’s not even related to me. She’s the daughter of a friend – evidently, the daughter of a friend with a much smaller TV.
“Kelsey, why can’t you watch the movie at your house?” I asked her. “And who is ‘we’?”
“Because it’s boring over here,” she replied. “Me, Kaylie and Lindsey want to come over. Your house is more fun. We’ll clean you car if you let us watch your TV.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I asked the obvious question:
“What movie is it?” I quizzed, in case it was something I wanted to see.
“A scary movie,” she answered.
“Okay, I haven’t seen that one,” I said. “You can come over.”
Those who know me know that I haul dirty dogs and busted bags of dog food in my car. It could use a good cleaning. I wasn’t watching my TV that night anyway.
Thirty minutes later, the three teenaged girls show up with a stack of scary movies and the giggles.
“I forgot about the teenaged girl giggles,” I groaned. I simply turned the television up a little louder.
One movie later, I announced my retirement.
“I’ve got to work tomorrow,” I said. “Lock the door when you guys leave, and try to keep the noise down.”
“Okay,” Kelsey giggled as I left my dark living room.
I crawled into my comfy bed and realized what a horrible hostess I was being.
These girls came to my house to be “horrified,” and by golly, I was going to deliver that horror. So I put on a freaky looking clown hat, wrapped a black cloak around my face and snuck out the patio door into the darkness.
I tiptoed my way to the front porch and peeped through the living room window, where I could clearly see the three girls sitting on my couch watching the scary movie. I was hoping to deliver my own little scare if only they looked my way.
“They can’t see me,” I complained to myself after freezing in the dark for the next five minutes. Then suddenly, I saw Kelsey slowly lift the covers over her face. She saw my clown hat and cloaked face, and instead of warning the others, she decided to save herself by hiding under the blanket!
I tapped the glass to give her the full effect, and Kelsey jumped from her seat like it was spring-loaded. I realized she was running for my bedroom. Oh no. The patio door is in my hallway.
“She’s going to lock me out of my own house!” I screamed, horrified.
I took off running in the dark and made it to the patio door before the girls could lock me out.
But where were the girls? I heard them whispering in the kitchen.
“It’s got ears!” I overheard Lindsey inform the others. Lindsey must’ve caught a glimpse of my clown hat in the shadows.
Suddenly, I heard my cell phone ringing from my bedroom.
“The goofballs are calling me,” I chuckled, hiding behind the door of the patio in case one of the yo-yo’s decided to lock me out. My plan was to jump out and scare them. Thank God I didn’t, as I later discovered, all three of them had armed themselves ...
Freezing outside, I finally decided to re-enter the house, laugh at the girls and go to bed.
In a nutshell, Becca’s house of horrors almost turned into a trip to the emergency room.
“Boo!” I screamed as I jumped into the living room.
I looked up to see all three girls standing at my front door. Kaylie was hiding behind a pillow that was perched in front of her. Kelsey was hiding behind Lindsey. And Lindsey was standing front and center, holding two butcher knives. Between the three girls, they were actually holding six butcher knives that they stole from my kitchen.
I laughed at the sight of them; they screamed at the sight of me.
And then I realized the joke almost wasn’t funny.
“I scratched myself in the face with the knife,” Lindsey laughed. I rushed over to check on her. Sure enough, there was a light red mark underneath her eye.
“You almost stabbed yourself in the face!” I fussed. “How would I explain that to your parents?”
In a nutshell, my car is still dirty. The girls left my home, deeply damaged, and I’m not sure they’ll ever return. After their parents read this column, they may not be allowed to return. The good news, though, is that I’ve got my TV all to myself tonight.
Unless, of course, someone wants to come watch a scary movie with me ...

There’s a line between privacy and possession
Sheila Smith, Staff Writer
03-09-2010

I’ve been learning a lot about the drug trade lately. I’m not making frequent runs to Houston as part of these lessons but I’ve been doing a number of interviews with people familiar with the task.
One thing I have learned is that hard work may give you a sense of fulfillment but it doesn’t always pay the bills. Some people would say, “Why, I did this and that and now I do this and that and make so much money.” However, we cannot all work offshore or at a good position in the industrial plants, which is basically the land of opportunity in Louisiana. Plus, college degrees don’t always lead to big bucks.
I have also learned that the pristine, untouchable American law most often aids drug dealers in carrying out their illegal professions. God bless America.
No matter what people say the problem is, people involved in the drug trade, both local and international, seldom do hard time for the possession or distribution of drugs. They might see a dandy little court date or even spend a few months - maybe a long, gruesome, single year in jail - for handing out poison mixed up in their bathtubs and cooked on their stoves. That poison can kill people or slowly decay their minds and souls, but there is seldom a penalty for that.
Some say the problem is jail space and that criminals with heavier offenses are taking up all the beds. Well, I would say using a kid as an errand boy to run between dealers and addicts is a pretty heavy offense. I’m just sayin’.
But if you have friends and family, you can get the drugs into the jail, too. I mean, the market is everywhere, even inside the institutions built to punish and rehabilitate the dealers.
So if I am really not facing any tough penalties, maybe a few months in a prison where all my food, clothing and medical care are provided for free, how can I not pass up the opportunity to become a drug dealer? I’ll be making good money and even if I have to do jail time, that’s free room and board at a dull motel.
Business never slows down, either. In fact, studies have shown that during economic slumps, drug use spikes; since misery loves company, I’ll probably see even more customers.
The cops can’t do much to me, either, if I’m smart. Today, law enforcement has to go through so much red tape to get to the bad guys, I’ll have everything sold, moved or flushed before they get the warrant to search my house.
I’m not worried about being in my car, either. I remember a case was thrown out (or something of the sort) a few years ago because of the most ridiculous reason.
A man and woman had been stopped on Interstate 10 near Welsh for a traffic violation, but their car smelled like marijuana and eventually the cops found a lot of cash, weed, and approximately 300 different types of pills in the car, including ecstasy.
The female, who was driving, gave permission to search the vehicle. The man, however, said nothing; but since attorneys later learned he owned the vehicle, was present at the scene and did not consent to a search, the evidence was pretty much a waste.
It’s like his car was squeaky clean. At the time, Welsh Police Chief Tommy Chaisson explained that a change had recently been made to the law requiring permission to search a vehicle. Whoever (and no, I really do not know who) is supposed to inform law enforcement of these changes had obviously failed in the communication department. The cops’ hands were tied but the criminals were not in handcuffs.
I am a fervent supporter of a person’s right to privacy and I believe that extends to their possessions. However, when what you possess has the potential to do harm to others, thereby setting off a catastrophic chain of events in communities like we are seeing now in Jeff Davis Parish, I feel you have lost your right to privacy.
What I feel does not matter on a scale outside my own world but I must admit I see an opportunity. Money in your pocket and power over the authorities: those two things are as addicting as any drug.
In all reality I would not join the drug business. I do not want any person to believe I am content with the inner workings of illegal activity. However, I do believe that if we cannot depend on the system to keep our streets clean then the law is basically encouraging people to continue committing crimes.
I’m just sayin’.

There are worse things than mice
, Assistant Editor
03-09-2010

When the outside temperatures dip, we tend to get mice in the building.
You can always tell when they’ve come in. You’ll be sitting at your desk, typing away, when you see a moving shadow. It’s almost like the way clouds throw shadows when they move. The shadows are coming from above.
“Uh, there’s a mouse in the light box up there,” someone will say.
At other times, it’s a little simpler. You reach into that box of crackers you keep at your desk. Sometimes you get a cracker. Sometimes your hand keeps going all the way through the box. And then you know you’ve been visited.
Traps work, but you must understand that our editor, Rebecca Chaisson, is an animal lover. There’s no traditional metal-spring mousetraps for us. It’s nothing but glue traps and non-lethal methods.
A dead mouse is an easy, though somewhat disgusting thing to clean. Simply: a) grab trap, b) throw trap in dumpster.
Glue traps, however, are a more squeamish matter, and it is my belief that they’re actually far worse for the mouse. First off, the mouse lives, but he’s stuck. He’s inches away from food, but he can’t reach it. He either starves to death (cruelly) or you have to take him outside and shake him off the trap (cruelly). By this time, though, he’s covered in glue and wherever you shake him off, that’s pretty much where he’s gonna stay ... glued. Again, he likely starves to death. For some people, there’s also the ‘ick’ factor of dealing with a live mouse.
We thought maybe we’d kill two birds with one stone around here. Since Ms. Chaisson is an animal lover/activist/hoarder, we’re never at a loss for furry friends at this office. She introduced us one day to a beautiful, snowy white cat.
“Aww, wookit at him wittle ears,” I cooed, going to pet the nice kitty.
“RREEEEAAARIIIOOOORHISSSSS.” I don’t know if I spelled that right, but that was the cat’s verbal reply. His physical reply was to whip around, sink his front claws into my wrist, lodge his teeth in the fleshy part of my thumb and use his back claws to kick at the underside of my arm.
Moments later, as I beheld the bloody, pulsing stump that used to be my right arm, the now-white-and-red speckled kitty purred gently as he rubbed his back against my ankles.
We dubbed him Norman Bates, and for a few weeks, he became our official mouse-deterrent system.
You never knew where Norman was going to be. We have a large office, perfect for a cat who loves to hide and eat human flesh. Many were the times when an unsuspecting person would sit at their desk, recline and stretch out their feet – only to hear “RREEEEAAARIIIOOOORHISSSSS” and watch as a white whirlwind devoured their foot whole.
Walking by the storage area was also unpredictable. You’d hear “RREEEEAAARIIIOOOORHISSSSS” ((TM)) and say to yourself, “Well, who needs a scalp anyway.” Then you’d pass out from blood loss.
Norman attacked many humans. He never attacked a single mouse. Soon, we came to resent having to feed him or change his litter box – which, I can assure you, is hard to do on crutches and with your bloody arm stump in a sling.
“Is anyone going to put up the Christmas tree this year?” the boss asked.
No one said anything.
“Um, hello?”
“What if ... what if ... Norman is hiding in the Christmas tree box?” came a whisper from the back of the room. The rest of us nodded fearfully in agreement.
“Let’s not do it. I don’t really like Christmas anyway,” said another employee.
We lived in a state of fear for several months like this. We started to consider ways to rid ourselves of Norman.
“We could bring in a dog to get rid of the cat that we brought in to get rid of the mice,” said one person.
“That sounds like the start of a bad Looney Tunes episode,” I replied. “And it ends with us bringing in a mouse to get rid of an elephant. My God, man, have you learned nothing from Elmer Fudd?”
I don’t really know what happened to Norman, to be honest with you. I’ll tell you I never sit down without checking under my desk first. I don’t go to the bathroom alone. And I never, never put up the Christmas tree.
And those moving shadows in the light boxes? Humph. A small price to pay, dear friends.

What’s that smell? It’s our government
Don West,
03-09-2010

Legislatures throughout the country and Congress habitually lie to the American people. The face of or title of a legislative or congressional act is, at best, misleading. For example, let’s assume Congress wants to pass an appropriation for a highway repair in North Dakota. Though that may be the reason for the bill, it may also contain dollars for golf cart or bicycle paths in Florida. It may contain appropriations for classroom computers in Georgia and a new refrigerator for the homeless shelter in New York. It’s referred to as amending or tagging, but I call it deceit. It is a way for politicians to slide spending by without the public having a clue as to what is going on inside. All we know is that the news will say something about an appropriation bill for a highway in North Dakota, but the total price tag exceeds the amount it would take to build a four-lane from Nebraska to Alaska.
The big news in today’s headlines is healthcare, but I am willing to bet – and it has already been publicized – that there are appropriations that have nothing to do with healthcare reform scattered throughout the bill. We have already heard about the buying off of votes with a $300 million payment for Mary Landrieu to bring home to Louisiana, and something similar going on in Lincoln, Neb. Those payments, entitlements, payoffs or whatever you want to call them have nothing to do with reforming healthcare. They have nothing to do with making healthcare more affordable to you or me, but they will certainly increase the deficit.
Obama and his cronies are trying to make us believe that healthcare reform is not going to increase the cost of government. Bull hockey. Every time Congress takes a breath, the halitosis blankets the nation. They talk of reform and, in the same breath, talk of lowering Medicare and reducing care for the elderly.
Congress and the White House, both past and present, have had numerous opportunities to get it right, but they have not succeeded yet. Remember, the energy department was set up to lower our dependence on foreign oil, but it has failed miserably because the same people who established it won’t vote to drill in our own fields. Social Security? It’s failing miserably and will be broke soon. Congress borrows money from it. Bailouts? What is government doing trying to run private enterprise? They can’t even run the government!
Why? The head of the House Ways and Means Committee – a fancy name for the people who spend your money – is headed by Charlie Rangel, a tax dodger. The Secretary of the Treasury, Timothy Geitner, is also a tax dodger. The President of the United States has sealed all of his birth, college and financial records from public view. What is he hiding?
But, what’s this? We have a Senator Bunning from Kentucky who is holding the Senate’s feet to the fire. They have promised to pay for new appropriations instead of increasing the debt, but they are trying to push through extensions on unemployment and Medicare payments to doctors. They could pay for these with appropriated and unspent money in the economic recovery package, but Harry Reid doesn’t want to do that. Bunning has Congress wringing their hands over this, and since he is retiring, they have no pressure to put upon him. Keep the heat on, Senator.
November 2010 is coming.
Vote them out.

Best friends forever
, Editor
03-09-2010

I was watching a movie at my house Monday with my mother, and my father’s fiancée.
I know that sentence might be a mouthful for most, so I’ll give everyone a minute to digest that information ...
Still confused?
My mother, Sherry, who was once married to my father, Keith, when the two conceived me 28 years ago, was at my house watching a movie Monday. Also present was my future stepmother, Brigitte, my father’s fiancée.
Funny thing about it – I didn’t invite either one of them to my house to watch the movie.
Keith was working offshore at the time; so was my mother’s husband, “poor Mr. Eddie.”
Brigitte was bored, so she called Sherry, and the story went something like this:
“Hey, what are you doing?” Brigitte asked Mom when she called her Monday morning.
“Nothing,” Mom told my dad’s future wife. “Cleaning out my freezers so I can bring Becca some groceries.”
“Ooooh, I’m hungry, too,” Brigitte said. “How about we go get us some crawfish? Maybe we can watch a movie, too. I’m hungry and bored.”
“Want me to come pick you up?” Mom asked. “Crawfish does sound like a good idea tonight!”
A good idea? Make that a grand idea! What’s one more dysfunctional relationship for my dysfunctional family? The more dysfunction, the merrier.
Because my house is the neutral ground for my mom’s and future stepmom’s newfound friendship, I got included in their plans.
“Becca,” Brigitte called me Monday afternoon. “Can me and your Mom come watch a movie at your house tonight?”
I’d say I was startled by the proposition, but then I’d be lying.
Mom and Brigitte have been self-proclaimed BFFs (Best Friends Forever) since my Mom taught Brigitte how to start Dad’s lawnmower while he was offshore. He left strict instructions for Brigitte to stay off of it, and my mother was the only person in the world who would intentionally help Brigitte ignore Dad’s wishes.
Let’s just say the lawnmower cranked right up, and so did their friendship.
In fact, the two spent the evening at my house on Monday and neither of them said more than four words to me. They were too busy gossiping with each other.
“Oh my God, I was watching ‘The Bachelor’ on TV and all of a sudden, my cable went out and I thought I was going to lose my mind right there in my living room,” Brigitte told Mom.
“I don’t watch ‘The Bachelor,’” Mom replied. “I like to watch ‘The Biggest Loser.’”
“Well, Keith doesn’t like to watch ‘The Bachelor,’ either,” Brigitte continued. “He says it’s fake. And he doesn’t like to watch anything that’s been staged.”
“Tell him the wrestling he likes to watch is more fake than any reality TV show,” Mom chimed in.
Uh oh.
“Stay out of it, Mother,” I said from my quiet little corner. The two laughed and continued to ignore me.
Then Dad called Brigitte to say goodnight, and evidently they made a joint decision to ignore him, too.
“Are you eating crawfish without me again?” Dad asked, “And with my ex-wife again?”
Before Brigitte could answer him, Mom chimed in, “Tell him I said ...”
“I can’t tell him that,” Brigitte chuckled away from Dad’s ear.
“Then give me the phone,” Mom replied. “I’ll tell him.”
In a nutshell, I just wanted the entire parish to know that if you see my mother around town with my dad’s fiancée, don’t be alarmed. They’re friends. Best friends. Forever.
And if you see my Dad around town, fighting with two grown, giggling, plotting women, don’t intervene.
They started it ... actually, Mother started it the day she started that darn lawnmower.