Steve Blevins's Open Salon Blog

Oklahoma Rejects Sharia Law

Mon, 15 Nov 2010 07:11:42 -0500

There's no denying it: I love Rachel Maddow. Our affair began a year ago when I first gazed into her gorgeous brown eyes. I was captivated by her smile and smitten by her intelligence, her eloquence, and her wondrously incisive wit. She is a rational voice in a political wilderness. Together, we have laughed and cried to the cadence of pre-election polling.

Our love affair, however, almost ended last week. On three consecutive nights, Ms. Maddow spoke derisively about my home state of Oklahoma. She poked fun at a question on the Oklahoma State ballot -- the question of whether Oklahoma should adopt Sharia Law:

STATE QUESTION NO. 755

This measure amends the State Constitution...It forbids courts from using Sharia Law... Sharia Law is Islamic law. It is based on two principal sources, the Koran and the teaching of Mohammed.

***

I am a model citizen. I always vote. I take state questions seriously. Knowing that I would have to vote for or against Sharia Law, I studied the subject intensively. I didn't want to enter the polling booth uninformed.

As you might guess, I was incensed by Ms. Maddow's dismissive attitude toward our state ballot. Her commentary was laced with sarcasm.

Sarcasm is fine if Sharia is not on your ballot, but I didn't have that luxury. I had to educate myself to determine if the Law was right for Oklahoma.

Here's what I learned:

1. Women are required to wear a burqa in public.

My first impression was that this is sexist and oppressive. Frankly, if I were living in New York or California, I would reject Sharia on this premise alone. But I live in Oklahoma where this is considered feminine attire:

Surely we can agree that the burqa has its proper place.

2. Thieves get their hands cut off.

This is gruesome, but as long as white-collar thieves are included, I'm for it. Who knows, maybe the law could be modified to ensure that the number of organs removed is proportional to the amount of money stolen. Petty thieves would lose a finger; Bernard Madoff would lose four limbs and his testes.

3. Gamblers get whipped.

This would be a problem in Oklahoma, where gambling ranks between football and noodling as a pastime. Frankly, I'd be happy to see an end to gambling, as this would reduce poverty. (Besides, noodling is infinitely more fun!)

Noodling in Oklahoma

Clearly, Sharia Law has its merits, but is it good for Oklahoma?

To answer that question, I reflected on something I had learned from Sharron Angle (the Republican candidate from Nevada) during her senatorial campaign. In an interview, she explained that Dearborn, Michigan, was already under Sharia Law.

Therefore, I needed to know which city was faring better -- Dearborn under Sharia Law or Oklahoma City under American Law.

I went to "Google" and did my research. Here's what I found: Dearborn has a better school system, a stronger economy, and a finer health care system. Obviously, Sharia works. My mind was made up: I was voting for Sharia.

Election day arrived. I went to the polls and stood in line. In front of me was a young man whistling a tune. He seemed cheerful and knowledgeable, and so I struck up a conversation with him.

"Looks like we've got a question on Sharia," I began. "I've been reading about it. Seems to have some merits."

The man stopped whistling. At first he looked puzzled, then angry.

"Do you realize that Sharia calls for the execution of gay people?" he inquired.

I was stunned. "What!" I exclaimed. "I had no idea!"

"It's true," he continued. "Sharia would mean the death of thousands, not to mention the end of musical theater."

"Oh my!"

"Fortunately, Sharia cannot be imposed."

"Why not?"

"Because Oklahoma is part of the United States despite several attempts at secession. We're under the U.S. Consitution, which protects us from Sharia."

"Thank goodness!" I exclaimed. "But if Sharia can't be imposed, why is it on the ballot?"

"It's a cynical attempt to score political points at the expense of Muslims," he replied.

"That's terrible!"

"It certainly is."

I was impressed by his insight and perspicacity. "You know, you're a very smart young man," I said.

"Thank you," he replied. "I've learned a lot from Rachel Maddow."

***

That evening, I turned on the television. Rachel was discussing the election with extraordinary aplomb. Her smile was incandescent, her wit was sharp, her eyes were large and beautiful. There she was -- festooned with facts, figures, and a dazzling personality -- leading her viewers forthrightly through the dense political thicket.

At that moment, I knew I was still in love with Rachel.

Maybe someday she'll come to Oklahoma. If she does, I'll make every effort to meet her. We'll talk politics. We'll discuss the economy. Maybe even go noodling.

Gazing at the Future

Mon, 9 Aug 2010 08:08:23 -0400

Nothing brings me more joy than seeing Jerry Bryant in the clinic. Jerry has advanced Parkinson’s disease, but he never complains. He is fifty-eight years old and inseparable from his wife, Betty. They are irrepressibly cheerful; when one laughs, the other cheers. As teenagers, they fell in love, and in love they remain. They are masters of resilience – emotionally, that is. Physically, Jerry has struggled, but he is better now, thanks to Betty, and ready for their 40th "honeymoon." Soon they will be sunbathing in the Caribbean.

I am delighted to see Jerry and Betty at the end of a long day. Jerry is sitting on the exam table, quiet and motionless. He has lost a few pounds, but he is still plump. His thin, straw hair is neatly cut. His brown eyes are magnified by thick lenses. He looks awkward in an undersized gown. Staring ahead, he seems transfixed by the empty wall in front of him. Betty stands by him, her arm draped casually around his shoulder.

"Good afternoon," I say.

"Hi, Dr. Blevins," they reply.

I smile at Betty and turn to Jerry.

"So, Jerry, where are you taking your lovely bride?"

He grins and glances at his wife. "Anguilla," he mumbles.

"Really?" I ask. "Why Anguilla?"

His face brightens; his eyes sparkle. He begins to rhapsodize on the charms of Anguilla, or so I suppose, for I cannot understand a word he is saying. Still, his enthusiasm is unmistakable.

Betty understands every word. She translates: "Anguilla has sun-drenched beaches, pristine waters, and midnight barbecue." Then realizing that she sounds like a brochure, she laughs and adds, "Jerry’s dreaming of the barbecue. I’m dreaming of the beach."

Jerry is amused, which brings joy to his wife.

"Are you healthy enough to go, Jerry?" I ask teasingly.

"You bet!" he mumbles.

I look at Betty, as if needing confirmation: "Is he telling the truth?"

"He certainly is," she replies. "He’s having some trouble with balance, but he walks every day."

Jerry’s tremors began when he was thirty years old. Two years later, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. His condition has slowly progressed. Last year, he received a brain stimulator, which has helped. His tremors are gone now, but his voice remains muffled and his limbs are stiff. He cannot write, but he can walk alone, although he prefers to hold Betty’s hand.

Removing my stethoscope, I check his blood pressure and examine him. As always, I regale him with stories of my weekend adventures. He enjoys my stories, even the silly ones.

"Well, everything checks out," I conclude. "You’re perfectly fine to travel. Have a great trip – and don’t eat too much."

I leave the room smiling. Jerry and Betty have a magical effect on me. Their joy is contagious.

Returning to my office, I sit at my desk and dictate a few notes. After completing my work, I reach into a drawer, pull out a bottle, and remove an orange pill. With a swig of water, I swallow the day’s last dose of levodopa.

Leaning back in my chair, I reflect on the events of two years ago: the evening my hand fumbled as I was combing my hair, the morning I used two hands to brush my teeth, the afternoon I struggled to write. I was forty-five years old then. When my doctor told me I had Parkinson's disease, I journeyed into the surreal: I heard children giggling in a distant exam room and smelled alcohol in a nearby sink. I noticed crickets in the overhead light and saw patches of light and dark on the wall.

For several days I was too distracted to work. I barely listened to my patients. I wrote incorrect dates on prescriptions and impatiently waited for the weekend with its promise of isolation. When Friday finally arrived, I was too pre-occupied to notice Jerry’s arrival.

Dazed, I entered the room and looked at him. He was perched comfortably on the exam table. Betty was standing quietly beside him. Perhaps we conversed. One memory remains: As I approached him with my stethoscope, we looked at each other – he with his Parkinsonian stare; I with the gaze of abject fear. I imagined his decades-long struggle: the frozen movements, the shaking, the distorted voice, the stimulator. He was a crystal ball through which I saw my own bleak future. I wondered when my movements would congeal, when my voice would fade, when....

Jerry’s smile interrupted my reverie. I began to examine him. I checked his blood pressure and listened to his heart, but I could only think of his silent immobility.

As I listened to his lungs, he began to snicker. Jerry behaved oddly at times. I usually delighted in his eccentricity, but not that day. From the corner of my eye I could see Betty’s nervous expression. Raising her finger to her mouth, she encouraged her husband to shush. But Jerry kept smiling.

"What is it, Jerry?" I asked.

He turned to Betty and mumbled something. Betty was perturbed. She tried to ignore his childish behavior, but Jerry waited for the translation, knowing she would eventually give in. Soon her expression softened, and with rolling eyes, she said, “Dr. Blevins, Jerry wants you to know you have shaving cream in your ear." Embarrassed, I wiped my ear and completed the examination.

That evening I sat on my bed and looked out the window. The park was lovely with its vernal backdrop of blue skies and green fields. An old man was riding a bicycle. A mother was pushing a baby carriage. Children were racing on their skateboards.

I thought about Jerry. His happiness defied nature; it was perennial. For ten years I had reveled in his good humor, though now it seemed eerie and discordant. My despair, of course, seemed justified – but why? My limitations were few and mild. Jerry, by contrast, was almost mute, but he seemed oblivious to his condition. Was he unrealistic? Was I?

Spring drifted into summer, and Jerry returned to the clinic with his usual cheer. During that visit, I glanced at him repeatedly, hoping to glimpse the future. His condition had not changed: His eyes were unblinking; his pose, statuesque. But the crystal ball, which penetrated deeper, revealed a future less foreboding. His suffering, although still extant, was subsumed by a graceful serenity. Perhaps I had misread the future. Perhaps time had sharpened my foresight.

I thought about Jerry throughout the summer.

Then one day Betty called to say Jerry wanted to go to the Caribbean. He had never been, and with the 40th anniversary approaching, he was determined to go. He needed a "preflight clearance" and had scheduled an appointment to see me.

And so he arrived, fit to travel. His blood pressure was normal. His neurological condition, although advanced, was safely quarantined from his happy life. He had heard the Caribbean’s call and would pursue its promise of sunny beaches and midnight barbecue.

Daylight passes along with my daydream. The clinic is empty. I put on my coat and turn out the light. For a moment I imagine Jerry in a swimsuit, covered head-to-toe in sunscreen, mumbling and fumbling on the beach. Maybe it's time to stop thinking about the future. After all, there is no crystal ball, just a mirror reflecting the obvious: Jerry is happy.

And I am happy, thinking of Jerry, dreaming of Anguilla.

***

*This essay is dedicated to Christine Bollerud. **Mr. Bryant gave me permission to use his real name. ***The seasons and vacation destination were changed for literary effect.

My Exclusive Interview With BP's Tony Hayward

Mon, 26 Jul 2010 08:07:06 -0400

Last month, I sent an email to Tony Hayward, CEO of BP:

Dear Mr. Hayward,

I will be brief. My name is Steve Blevins and I write for Open Salon. Next week, I will be publishing a post about your role in the BP oil spill. I don’t want to blindside you, so I am letting you know in advance.

Cordially,

Steve Blevins

To my surprise, I received a response from Mr. Hayward the following day:

Dear Mr. Blevins,

Thank you for your thoughtful letter. I wish I could express the magnitude of my sorrow over the oil spill. So much harm has been done to so many. I assure you that BP will spare no expense, no technology, no ingenuity to undo the damage. You are very kind to apprise me of your upcoming review. Few journalists would show such integrity. May I ask a small favor? Would you grant me a brief interview? I would welcome the opportunity to tell my side of the story. If my request greets you favorably, please call me at 011-44-20-xxxxxxx.

Sincerely,

Tony Hayward

As soon as I received the email, I called Mr. Hayward. His secretary, Patricia, answered. She said that Mr. Hayward was in a meeting and that she was authorized to schedule the interview and to arrange for my weekend in London. When I explained that the interview could be conducted by phone, she said Mr. Hayward usually conducts interviews in person and had arranged for my all-expenses-paid weekend in London. I told her that was unnecessary, but she insisted, and, ultimately, I acquiesced.

My roundtrip ticket to Gatwick arrived the next day and I was on my way to London that evening. Having never flown first-class on British Airways, I was surprised to discover the ease with which one sleeps on the long and fully recumbent chairs in first class.

I was refreshed when I arrived in London. Mr. Hayward’s assistant, Elaine, met me at the airport. She was lovely. She asked about my flight. When I told her it was comfortable, she said Mr. Hayward would be delighted to hear it. She then asked if I had any interest in yachting. When I explained that yachting is not overly popular in Oklahoma, she insisted that I attend the Hampshire race on Saturday “to get my feet wet.” I accepted.

We retrieved my luggage and proceeded to the limousine. Elaine instructed the driver to take us to the Ritz at Piccadilly.

We arrived thirty minutes later. As we approached the front desk, the hotel manager greeted us warmly. He then gave me the keys to my suite. Before leaving, Elaine asked if I had plans for breakfast. When I said I did not, she offered to meet me for breakfast in an hour. (Due to the time change, it was already morning.)

I entered my suite and began unpacking.

An hour later, Elaine knocked on the door. She asked if my accommodations were satisfactory; I told her they were. We then proceeded downstairs to the Palm Court for breakfast.

The breakfast was wonderful. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed poached haddock with diced tomatoes in champagne sauce.

After breakfast, we went to Hampshire to watch the yachts.

The weather was lovely. The breeze was cool and the water sparkled in the sunlight. The boats looked gallant with the wind in their sails. We cheered as each boat left the marina.

Once the final boat had vanished, Elaine and I returned to the Ritz. She encouraged me to spend the afternoon resting because she had tickets for the evening’s performance of Ariadne auf Naxos at the Royal Opera House. I thanked Elaine for a lovely day, bade her farewell, and tucked myself into bed.

Four hours later, I awoke, showered, and put on my suit. Elaine arrived and we went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden.

The performance was superb. The principals were flawless, the orchestra was inerrant, and the staging was dazzling. During the intermission, Elaine and I shared an impeccable Veuve Clicquot. Our cheeks were rosy from the morning sun; our conversation sparkled with the champagne.

After the concert, she accompanied me to the Ritz, and before bidding me goodnight, told me that the limousine would pick me up at two o’clock the next day for my interview with Mr. Hayward. I thanked her, bade her goodnight, and turned in for the evening.

At two o’clock the next day, I was ready for the interview. The limousine took me to Mr. Hayward’s office on the Thames.

I entered his office. Within ten minutes, he arrived and we began to converse.

Mr. Hayward: Good afternoon, Mr. Blevins. It is so nice to finally meet you. How is your stay so far?

Me: Excellent, Mr. Hayward.

Mr. Hayward: Please, call me Tony.

Me: Certainly, Tony.

Mr. Hayward: May I offer you a cognac and some truffles?

Me: That would be wonderful.

Mr. Hayward: (Pours cognac and passes truffles) Now, do you have questions for me?

Me: Yes. How would you describe your role in the Gulf oil spill?

Mr. Hayward: Well, this may surprise you, Mr. Blevins, but I too am a victim, just like the little people of the Gulf. Accidents will happen, and I assure you that BP will do everything it can to repair the damage.

Me: Thank you for being so forthcoming. The American people will be delighted to hear this. And thank you for the interview.

Mr. Hayward: My pleasure. Is there anything else?

Me: No, that’s all.

Mr. Hayward: Thank you, Mr. Blevins. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Please let me know if I may be of additional assistance.

Me: I certainly will, Tony.

I returned to the Ritz, picked up my luggage, and proceeded to Gatwick.

On the return flight, I thought about my weekend in London and about the oil spill. I felt sorry for Mr. Hayward and for the little people of the Gulf. Most of all, I felt sorry for American journalism. Few journalists take time to really know their subjects. They make rash judgments and eviscerate their victims with little understanding.

Perhaps others will learn from my experience. Before meeting Tony, I had assumed he was callous. During my visit, I discovered that he is a gracious man with a big heart. In fact, I learned many things in London: that mega-corporations are warm and caring; that executives are kind and generous; and that everyone is basically good if you look deep down inside.

Oh, and truffles are really, really tasty.

The Eerie Allure of Anderson Cooper

Mon, 2 Aug 2010 07:08:05 -0400

My wife and I had an argument last week. It went something like this:

Me: Hi, sweetie. I’m home. Happy birthday!

Susan: (Watching television) Hi, honey. How was your day?

Me: Fine. How was yours?

Susan: Fine.

Me: Are you ready to go out to dinner?

Susan: Well, sweetheart, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather stay in. I made your favorite dinner: catfish and hush puppies.

Me: Yum yum. That’s so sweet. But wouldn’t you rather go out since it’s your birthday?

Susan: Actually, I’m deep into this TV show. Anderson Cooper is reporting live from the Gulf.

Me: Any new developments?

Susan: Yes, they’ve capped the well, but no one knows if it’s going to work. Everyone’s on pins and needles.

Me: Gee, I hope everything goes okay.

Susan: Me too. Anderson’s report is excellent. He’s very informative, and he seems to care about the people and the marine life.

Me: Great. Well, I’m in no hurry to eat. I’ll wait for you.

Susan: No, go ahead and eat. You’ve had a long day and the show’s pretty long. It’s a special.

Me: Okay. Well, why don’t we eat out tomorrow?

Susan: I’m pretty sure part two of the special is tomorrow. Let’s aim for the weekend, okay?

Me: Okay. (Long pause). Gee, I’ve never seen you so immersed in a TV show. I don’t think we’ve ever organized our plans around TV. Certainly not on a birthday.

Susan: Honey, we’re in our forties. Birthdays aren’t important anymore. At our age, we should be more concerned about the community and the world.

Me: I guess you’re right. Still, eating dinner with your wife is a lot better than eating alone.

Susan: Oh, we eat together all the time. We can always … hold on, sweetie... the commercial’s over... gotta go … there’s plenty of juice in the fridge.

Me: Okay. Thanks. (Goes to kitchen. Eats dinner alone. Returns twenty minutes later.)

Me: Honey, do you have a second?

Susan: Sure, honey. This show has more commercials than show.

Me: So tell me, what makes this show so much better than the others?

Susan: I don’t know. I guess it’s that Anderson is so concerned about what’s happening. It’s not just another news story for him. He feels the tragedy. He’s not overwrought by it, but he’s involved. He’s got a heart, and he cares about what’s going on. He’s a compassionate journalist, not just another suit. He's quite impressive -- and very good at what he does.

Me: Oh my. Well, that’s quite an endorsement. Sounds like Anderson is almost too qualified to do the news.

Susan: And what’s that supposed to mean? You know I don’t like it when you’re sarcastic.

Me: Well, I bet you'd like it if Anderson were sarcastic!

Susan: (Angry) Well, maybe Anderson is too well-adjusted to be sarcastic. Maybe sarcasm is for petty, jealous people!

Me: Oh! So I’m petty and jealous, just because I want to take my wife out to dinner on her birthday?

Susan: No, you’re petty because you’re worried about a TV show instead of appreciating the dinner I made for you!

Me: I’m worried about a TV show? Me? As you may recall, I was the one eating alone; you were the one lusting after Anderson Cooper!

Susan: (Gasps). Are you crazy? Are you totally out of your mind?

Me: No, actually I’m not. And frankly, I don’t mind playing second fiddle to Anderson Cooper as long as I know exactly where I stand.

Susan: Oh really? Okay, I’ll tell you exactly where you stand: You’re a kind and caring man with a loving wife, and if you don’t realize that, then … wait, the commercial’s over … oops, sorry, another commercial … if you don’t realize that, then you need a new pair of glasses.

Me: Oh really? Okay, I’ll call your bluff and raise you: Name one quality I have that Anderson doesn’t.

Susan: This is soooo stupid.

Me: It’s only stupid because you don’t want to answer.

Susan: Okay, okay. I’ll play this stupid, adolescent game if it means that much to you. You have… um…a…

Me: That’s what I thought! I have nothing!

Susan: You’ve got…a… a…wonderful enduring marriage to a woman who loves you.

Me: Oh great. Super. I’ve got “marital endurance.” Well, somebody give me a blue ribbon!

Susan: Did it ever occur to you that some women find “marital endurance” sexy?

Me: Like who?

Susan: Like me.

Me: (Long pause) Really?

Susan: Yes, really.

Me: (Long pause). So… you think I’m sexy?

Susan: I think marital endurance is sexy.

Me: (Softens) Really?

Susan: Yes, really.

Me: (Meekly) Oh… well, okay… all right… well, now I’m feeling kinda silly.

Susan: You should.

Me: And embarrassed.

Susan: You should.

Me: And petty.

Susan: You should.

Me: And… well…(mutters sheepishly) kinda sexy, too.

Susan: (Kisses me on the cheek) You should! Definitely!

Me: Honey, I love you -- and I’m sorry for being such a jerk. I don’t know what came over me. Now I’ve ruined your birthday -- and I feel awful.

Susan: You haven’t ruined my birthday, sweetheart. Besides, my birthday isn’t over yet.

Me: You’re right. It’s not over. Well, I have an idea. Why don’t we watch Anderson Cooper together. Then, when the show’s over, we’ll go to the bedroom and watch Casablanca. What do you say to that?

Susan: That’s a wonderful idea! Your ideas are always wonderful. Now, why don’t you sit down right here beside me so we can watch TV together.

Me: Excellent! (Sits down and puts arm around Susan. Watches TV. Anderson appears. He is broadcasting from the Gulf in a tightly fitted shirt that accentuates his physique. He is well built, but not ostentatiously muscular. His voice has a boyish charm, but his premature gray confers maturity. He is empathetic, but not effete; informative, but not pedantic; firm, but not overbearing. He is “easy on the eyes” and has an androgynous appeal. His baby blue eyes are ignited by the evening light reflected off the Gulf. He is disarming -- 360, and then some.)

Susan: (Kisses me on the cheek) I love you, honey. Thank you for being so understanding.

Me: I love you too, sweetheart. Happy birthday. By the way, have we ever considered going high def?

Why I'm Happy

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 08:07:03 -0400

I'm a happy person. I always have been, but I can't explain it. I'm not rich. I'm not famous. I'm not handsome.

Last week, I had an experience at Walmart that shed light on the origins of my happiness. I went to buy some items for an upcoming trip. Finding them, I proceeded to the checkout line. It was a very long line -- and most of the people in it were unhappy. At first I thought they were unhappy because of the line, but soon I discovered they had other reasons.

The woman in front of me was looking at the latest issue of People. She was shaking her head as she read. She seemed distressed and angry. I wanted to know why, so I asked, "Is everything okay?"

She looked at me and turned the magazine so I could see:

"Can you believe that slime Jesse James?" she said. "What a monster."

I looked at her quizzically.

"Jesse James?" I asked.

"Yes, Jesse James -- Sandra Bullock's husband. What a slime ball," she replied.

"I see," I said. "I'm sorry to hear it. Sounds like a bad situation. So, who's Sandra Bullock?"

The woman looked at me in disbelief.

"You're kidding, right?" she asked.

"Well, er, no," I replied.

"She's a movie star," she added.

"Oh, I see," I replied. "Thanks."

(The only movie I've seen is Star Wars. Hollywood went downhill after that.)

The woman looked at me curiously. She then turned around and pushed her cart forward. A few minutes later, she threw another incredulous glance my way, then focused her attention on another magazine.

As the line moved forward, I noticed that the man standing behind me was anxious and inpatient. He was pacing back and forth. I heard him emit a huge sigh. When I turned toward him, he said, "If this line doesn't move any faster, I'm gonna miss the show."

"What show?" I asked.

"LeBron James on ESPN" he said.

I didn't say anything, hoping to conceal my ignorance, but he continued: "Which team do you think he'll go with?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"I bet he goes with Cleveland," he said.

"Probably," I said.

I didn't have the guts to ask who LeBron James was. (I never watch sports. Sure, I played badminton in college, but generally I stay away from sweaty activities. When my friends talk about athletes, I later "google" their names so I don't look dumb. That's what I did with LeBron James. Turns out he plays basketball.)

Finally I made it to the front of the line. Putting my items on the counter, I looked at the clerk. She seemed upset. She was avoiding eye contact and was punching the register furiously.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm all right," she said. "It's my daughter. I wish she'd grow up. If I hear her talk about Justin Bieber one more time, I'm gonna scream."

"I'm so sorry," I said. "Is he mistreating her?"

"Mistreating who?" she asked.

"Your daughter," I replied.

"Is who mistreating her?" she continued.

"Justin," I responded.

A look of surprise came over her.

"You don't know who Justin Bieber is, do you?" she asked.

"Uh, well, no," I muttered.

"Well, it doesn't matter," she said. "There's no reason you should. You ought to be focused on LeBron James."

I grabbed my items and escaped before digging myself in any deeper.

Walking away, I thought about the unhappy people at Walmart. They all had something in common: Each of them knew something I didn't -- and what they knew was causing them distress.

That's when the epiphany hit. I had unwittingly stumbled upon the key to happiness: Happiness doesn't come from money, fame, or good looks. It doesn't come from love or genes or a positive attitude.

Happiness comes from not knowing what the hell is going on.

Ignorance truly is bliss. That's why stupid people are happier than smart people: They lack vital information.

I was a genius!

Proud of my discovery, I smiled and continued walking toward the exit. As I neared the door, I ran into the Walmart greeter.

She was an elderly lady -- and she seemed absolutely delightful. Seeing me approach, she smiled and nodded graciously. "Have a nice day," she said in a warm, affectionate voice.

Her joy was contagious.

I looked at her, continued smiling, and said, "Have a nice day, too!"

Then, entering the parking lot, I laughed -- and thought to myself: "What a sweet little old lady ..... I wonder what she doesn't know."