Death On Every Corner


by Tim Maleeny

The San Francisco Board of Supervisors announced they will make it illegal to sell cigarettes in drugstores. Smoking is already banned in public places, as it is in many cities including New York, but this new bill bans even the sale of cigarettes by certain types of stores.

Having made this decision to save us from ourselves, the board got sufficiently fired up to target another threat to our health and happiness: the deadly can of soda. If the politicians have their way then any corner store will have to pay a surcharge or fine for every can of "sugary soda" they sell.

And here in San Francisco and also New York, politicians are talking seriously about banning trans fats from restaurants.

What if I want to eat trans fat? What if I want the Trans Fat Special from the Arteriosclerosis Cafe, located at the intersection of Constitution Drive and Kiss-My-Ass Avenue?

I get the smoking thing. There is second-hand smoke, and whether or not smoke works its way into your neighbor's lungs, it makes their clothes smell like an ashtray. OK, I'll go with a limit on where and when you can smoke. But telling me I can't sell or buy a legal product is a big leap from telling me where and when I can use it, or am I over-reacting?

Is there second-hand trans fat leaping invisibly through the air from your cheeseburger to my open mouth, filling my arteries with soft plaque?

You want to label the menu, tell me clearly which delicious meal is going to kill me faster, go right ahead. I'll even put on my reading glasses and pour over the fine print. But don't tell me what I can or can't serve, let alone what I can order.

Bear in mind that in many parts of this great city, on the same block where you won't be able to buy cigarettes or soda, it will be eminently possible to buy crack, barter for sex, or procure weapons for your neighborhood turf war, which is probably taking place only blocks away from the public school with metal detectors at every door. So while you might die from an overdose, an STD, or a drive-by shooting, you can sleep at night knowing the board of supervisors are protecting you from...well, yourself.

Because while apparently you can't be trusted, we all know how much we can trust politicians.

As a side note, I'm neither a Democrat nor Republican, and I haven't much liked a standing president since Teddy Roosevelt. (And I'm not even sure about that since I wasn't around during his term.) Politicians seem more concerned with patting your back with one hand while they pick your pocket with the other, but at least most of them have the decency to pretend to care about the same things you do.

Now I'll admit that people I know generally do what they can to stay healthy, and most exercise or watch their diet more than they did a few years ago. Good for them, that's their choice, the operative word being choice. But I can assure you that none of my neighbors are looking to the folks who brought you the lines at the DMV to tell them how to live.

It all makes me think of Al Capone, and I cannot help but wonder if this is how prohibition started.

And I've already decided the villain in my next novel isn't going to be a terrorist or thief, a serial killer or con artist. He's going to be a master criminal who refuses to exercise, won't eat his broccoli, drinks soda by the gallon, and runs an underground burger joint out of his basement.

Or will he be the hero? I just can't decide. Maybe I should ask my local supervisor what he thinks I should do...

Posted by Tim Maleeny  |  Aug 06, 2008 1:04 am  |  5 Comments

A famous author gets on an airplane...



Posted by Mark Combes  |  Aug 04, 2008 11:09 pm  |  8 Comments

Observations That Made Me Go, Hmmmm



Posted by Lynn Sholes  |  Aug 04, 2008 9:27 am  |  7 Comments

Guilt to Go
By Deborah Sharp

Peace and love from the mellow environs of Northern California. My husband and I are vacationing out here, about as far as we can get from Florida's summer swelter. And now that I'm a bonafide mystery writer, I'm feeling guilty that I haven't written word one this week on Book 3, ''Mama Gets Hitched.''

Is it just me, or does everyone else feel like taking a vacation is slacking off?

Early in my transition from journalism to fiction-writing, I remember listening to an important author at a mystery convention: ''Writing is like breathing,'' he said, importantly. ''If I couldn't write, I'd die.''

I was duly impressed. But even then I wondered if that wasn't a bit of hooey. I mean, suppose this writer was the lone survivor of a ship wreck. Luckily for him, his deserted island has ample food and water. But, darn it, not a single sheet of paper or writing utensil to be found. Would he really die without the ability to scribble out the plot points of his latest novel?

It's funny, I never felt guilty about taking time off when I was a plain ol' journalist. I knew as soon as I got back, there'd be plenty of new stories to cover. Then again, I always keep a journal. So maybe some small observation about the Northern California lifestyle will make it into my next book.

How does ''Mama Tries Tofu'' sound?




Posted by Deborah Sharp  |  Jul 31, 2008 2:32 am  |  4 Comments

The Lure of Vanity Plates
The state of Virginia is replete with vanity plates. Why? For one thing, they only cost $10. And in my area, with everyone driving the same four cars (minivan, Suburban, Lexus SUV, or Volvo wagon) we’re all striving for some way to stand out.

I’m being serious about that. I once exited the grocery store in search of my white Ford minivan and couldn’t see it amid the rest of the minivans. Only the little skull I’d stuck on the antennae helped me to recall which row I’d parked in. That piece of flare, along with a rear window covered by Sheriff’s Department, State Police, and State Trooper Beneficiary Fund Supporter stickers, allowed me to finally dump an armload of cat food and diapers into my van and not the identical van parked in the neighboring space.

At the time, my vanity plate read LV2EBAY. I used to sell folk art paintings on eBay, but hadn’t changed my plate since I gave up that low-paying career because I couldn’t think of a replacement. A few months ago, I ordered a plate reading PB WRTR, assuming everyone would understand that meant paperback writer. I was wrong. People asked me if I was a pub writer, a published writer, or a Panera Bread writer (which makes sense since I write from one of their cafes five out of seven days). Still, it annoyed me that my plate was a failure, so I changed it again to MYS WRTR. Should be obvious right? MYS is the library abbreviation for mystery, but I’ve gotten plenty of interesting interpretations about my new plate as well.

I’m the type of person that pays attention to vanity plates. I know all the specialized plates in my neighborhood and could tell you where WINEAUX the Merlot drinker lives, where SCALPD the Redkins fan goes to the gym, and where 22BUSY drops her kids off at school. When you drive to the same locations every day like I do, you tend to notice vanity plates.

I’ve also noticed that a lot of Richmonders have plates paying homage to their favorite scriptures. For fun, I’ve been keeping a record of these and have already looked up over a dozen biblical passages. Some of them are very profound, but others have my scratching my head as to why they merit a spot on the back of the car.

If you’ve got a vanity plate, tell us what it says or what your ideal one would say. If you’ve seen any funny ones, share those too.

(Incidentally, I tried to convince my anesthesiologist hubby that he should get DR SLPY or N2BATE on his plate but he told me vanity plates were for pansies

Posted by jbstanley  |  Jul 30, 2008 6:00 am  |  15 Comments