Jason Sandford
Jason Sandford is a reporter, writer, blogger and photographer interested in all things Asheville.
I enjoyed the local TV news Wednesday night. I really did.
Scott and Candice looked sharp, and have been for the past few days. The way Scottie-too-Hottie’s tie matches Candy’s blazer is quite nice. The colors have been right on, all bright and silky. Diva Darcel also looked good in her beige blazer (went well with the weave.)
No major breaking, over-hyped news. (That was yesterday, when Sheraldo screamed about “fewer than 30” temporary workers losing their jobs at some plant I never heard of.)
Nope, just even-keeled, friendly infotainment.
Even John “Punnyman” Le kept the puns in check (get it – I’m making a pun – get it! hahaha) during his story about guys playing chess down at Pritchard Park. I particularly enjoyed the close-up of the nose hair on the one dude that was pretending to act like he knew how to play.
But now I’m confused about the park. Holly Headache told me last week that the park was crazy evil, abounding with homeless people who wander around pissing on everything. She said all the pissing was against the law and that police were going to crack down on the park-peeing.
I was scared.
But the park Le portrayed on the 11 Wednesday night was serene and friendly, populated with old guys playing chess and strumming guitars. It almost looked deserted as the camera pulled back off of Le’s head (which looked strangely similar to Sherbert the baby penguin profiled in the same report) to reveal an empty wasteland of piss-free parkland.
Oh, well. Maybe I should just stop questioning things, stop nitpicking, and just go along my merry way, taking whatever the news tells me at face value, like all the other sheep. (sigh)
Nah.
Screwy, you are so damn eloquent. I couldn’t have said it better.
Having both played chess and freely urinated at said park, I feel qualified to respond to your confusion.
The most troublesome thing I’ve seen happen at Pritchard Park is the hatred whipped up by the Christofascists who regularly use the space to proclaim:
(A) God Loves You
(B) You’re Going Straight To Hell if you’re gay, democrat, pro-choice, anything but a literal-translation follower of this book they wave around (it’s called the Tribal or Bibs or something like that).
The others I see in the park normally have less grandiose agendas, bumming a smoke, finding a meal, adjusting the air fresheners around their necks, putting a new twist on an old favorite, or breakdancing.
Pritchard Park is public, and I’m glad for it. Where else could I manifest my Nimzo-Indian chess strategy while standing over a puddle of steamy goodness?