One time. So far this year- one time. Just one time.
Just read between the lines on this one, that's all I'm saying.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Baseball
Lot of reminiscing about afternoon baseball games and how much better it is when the whole country is watching... those days are done. Baseball doesn't captivate the country anymore, and it isn't Bud Selig's fault or the fault of night games, it's because football is what captivates the country now. It's a different time. Kids aren't going to rush home to watch the game if it was on in the afternoon, kids have a lot more choices for afternoon activities these days. (Although they might watch the game on their phone or something. I know I listened to it on my Ipod as I drifted off to sleep.) And what school is going to let kids watch the game during school hours? Someone would likely face disciplinary charges.
You realize that one of the best games in history, game 6 of the 1975 World Series, was on at night, right? There have been great Monday Night Football games on at night. The Super Bowl starts in the early evening but that's in a different class altogether.
"It's all about the money." Of course, because without the money we don't have a team, we don't have players to stock the team, we don't have employees at the stadium to serve me my hot dog and peanuts. Even the much heralded Babe Ruth held out during the Great Depression, and when asked about asking for more money than the President merely said "I had a better year than he did!" None of our heroes did it for free.
The days of afternoon World Series games are over. We live in a different time now. I would love it if some things were still like they were when I was a kid, but they aren't. The DH isn't going away, the wild card isn't going away, you might as well find something to like about baseball or just quit watching it, because the experience isn't going to be like it was when we were kids.
You realize that one of the best games in history, game 6 of the 1975 World Series, was on at night, right? There have been great Monday Night Football games on at night. The Super Bowl starts in the early evening but that's in a different class altogether.
"It's all about the money." Of course, because without the money we don't have a team, we don't have players to stock the team, we don't have employees at the stadium to serve me my hot dog and peanuts. Even the much heralded Babe Ruth held out during the Great Depression, and when asked about asking for more money than the President merely said "I had a better year than he did!" None of our heroes did it for free.
The days of afternoon World Series games are over. We live in a different time now. I would love it if some things were still like they were when I was a kid, but they aren't. The DH isn't going away, the wild card isn't going away, you might as well find something to like about baseball or just quit watching it, because the experience isn't going to be like it was when we were kids.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Who are you/What have you sacrificed?
Every time I look at you I don't understand
Why you let the things you did get so out of hand?---“Superstar”, from the musical Jesus Christ Superstar
Do you think Jesus knew what he was starting? When he told Simon Peter that he was going to build his church, did he have his fingers crossed behind his back, saying to himself “oh God, please don’t let him screw it up”? When Pat Robertson opens his mouth does Jesus sit up in heaven and think “oh crap, he’s at it again”?
Of course he knew what would happen. He’s God, right? When God created Adam and Eve he obviously knew that they would eat the fruit, otherwise he wouldn’t be God. So when Jesus made his final instructions to his disciples, telling them to preach the gospel, start Christian rock bands, form political action committees and sing “Kumbayah” a lot, he knew that some of those future disciples would be real assholes. Unless he wasn’t God while on this earth, and I’m not even going down that road.
Christ you know I love you
Did you see I waved?---“Simon Zealotes”, Jesus Christ Superstar
So let’s imagine Jesus walking through the sands of time. The church starts, everything is cool, the Romans hate their guts but the believers give a collective middle finger to the Romans and meet anyway. The Romans throw them to lions and find many other ways to separate the believers from their lives, but it doesn’t matter. They have a fresh vision of Jesus. Jesus is all that matters to them. Some of them even saw the man face to face.
Then when we retire, we can write the Gospels
So they'll still talk about us when we've died.---“The Last Supper”, Jesus Christ Superstar
Gospels are floating around now. Everybody and their brother put pen to paper and churn out Gospels like network TV churns out reality shows. And even if someone didn’t know Jesus personally, they probably knew a friend of a friend who shared the Passover meal with an apostle’s cousin, and if they say Jesus would have done something this way, he probably would have.
And so it began.
When Jesus went into the region of Caesarea Philippi he asked his disciples, "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" They replied, "Some say John the Baptist, others Elijah, still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.”
He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?"
---Matthew 16:13-15
“And the people said, ‘Let us make Jesus in our own image, after our own likeness.’” Over the course of time people began to develop interpretations of who Jesus was based on what they wanted him to be. Jesus automatically approved of everything the Church did, because after all, he started the thing. The apostles ordained successors, and so on and so on, and Jesus smiled on the whole chain.
Pretty soon Martin Luther said “you know, screw this” and broke off, starting a revolution that revolved around the belief that Jesus wouldn’t make us do works, it’s all about grace. Jesus wouldn’t approve of this hierarchy stuff…Jesus would want us to read the Bible for ourselves…Jesus wouldn’t baptize infants- what do they know, anyway? And branches continued to fall from the tree.
Look at the artwork. Jesus Christ became a white man from the Middle Ages instead of the man of Middle Eastern descent that he actually was. In the 1700’s and 1800’s Jesus had no problems with people owning slaves because, well, that’s what the people wanted so they projected it onto Jesus. Marcus Garvey said that Jesus was a black man, because he wanted him to be one. To the emerging women’s movement Jesus was the first feminist. After all, Mary Magdalene was the first to see him after his resurrection, so to hell with all the tired old white guys running the show- Jesus obviously favored bra burning and reproductive freedom. To the hippies Jesus was the first hippie rebel. He stood up to the man, man! He fought the power! He had long hair and a lot of crazy ideas about love and freedom.
“Not so fast,” the fundamentalist movement intoned. Jesus didn’t have long hair- long hair was a shame to a man. To them Jesus was a short haired Bible thumper- just like them. Jack Hyles even wrote a book entitled “Jesus Had Short Hair.” Jesus was the original fightin’, feudin’ fundamentalist who spoke in King James English. 1611, straight from heaven baby!
Along about 1976 Jesus Christ took the form of a peanut farmer from Georgia. Oops, my bad- that was Jimmy Carter. Same initials, though. A born-again in the White House- who woulda thunk it? But he was a Democrat, so he was destined to disappoint the crowd who was quickly seeing Jesus as the first Republican. When the 1980 elections rolled around old J.C. found himself thrown out on his peanut shells. The world had a new savior- old Ronald Wilson Reagan himself, the great white hope.
(Just as an aside, you know that Reagan was the antichrist, right? Do the math- Ronald has six letters, Wilson has six letters, and Reagan has six letters. 6-6-6.)
In 1987 and 1988, when Bakker and Swaggart took a dive, it was no longer cool to say “Jesus Is Lord.” Smacked too much of pushy televangelists and an image Christians were trying to get away from. Jesus was your buddy, your friend. He’s not going to push anything on you, man! He just wants to share a Budweiser and some smokes with you, maybe shoot a round of pool or go club-hopping. He was straight-edge before Fugazi took their first breath. Jesus was a vegan- he wouldn’t have eaten poor, defenseless animals! Lamb of God? Oh , umm, well….
How about the pro-life crowd? “Jesus loves the little children…” they intoned while chaining themselves to abortion mills. Some of them got the idea that it might be kind of cool to kill a few doctors- after all, Jesus did say “the kingdom of heaven suffers violence and the violent take it by force.” Most of that same pro-life crowd are now pleased that we've killed a lot of Iraqis for Christ. After all, George W. Bush is a man of God, and Jesus told him to invade Iraq.
A few years ago a blogger challenged me to say who I believed Jesus is. I had every intention of making that an essay, but then I realized that it would be pointless. Nobody really cares who Jesus was. Everybody claims to follow the "real" Jesus, but they don't know him. They only care about the carefully crafted image they’ve made of Jesus. They have a Jesus that they’re comfortable with, and everyone else is wrong.
You want a statement of belief from me? OK. Jesus is Lord. The implications of that statement are still being determined.
Why you let the things you did get so out of hand?---“Superstar”, from the musical Jesus Christ Superstar
Do you think Jesus knew what he was starting? When he told Simon Peter that he was going to build his church, did he have his fingers crossed behind his back, saying to himself “oh God, please don’t let him screw it up”? When Pat Robertson opens his mouth does Jesus sit up in heaven and think “oh crap, he’s at it again”?
Of course he knew what would happen. He’s God, right? When God created Adam and Eve he obviously knew that they would eat the fruit, otherwise he wouldn’t be God. So when Jesus made his final instructions to his disciples, telling them to preach the gospel, start Christian rock bands, form political action committees and sing “Kumbayah” a lot, he knew that some of those future disciples would be real assholes. Unless he wasn’t God while on this earth, and I’m not even going down that road.
Christ you know I love you
Did you see I waved?---“Simon Zealotes”, Jesus Christ Superstar
So let’s imagine Jesus walking through the sands of time. The church starts, everything is cool, the Romans hate their guts but the believers give a collective middle finger to the Romans and meet anyway. The Romans throw them to lions and find many other ways to separate the believers from their lives, but it doesn’t matter. They have a fresh vision of Jesus. Jesus is all that matters to them. Some of them even saw the man face to face.
Then when we retire, we can write the Gospels
So they'll still talk about us when we've died.---“The Last Supper”, Jesus Christ Superstar
Gospels are floating around now. Everybody and their brother put pen to paper and churn out Gospels like network TV churns out reality shows. And even if someone didn’t know Jesus personally, they probably knew a friend of a friend who shared the Passover meal with an apostle’s cousin, and if they say Jesus would have done something this way, he probably would have.
And so it began.
When Jesus went into the region of Caesarea Philippi he asked his disciples, "Who do people say that the Son of Man is?" They replied, "Some say John the Baptist, others Elijah, still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.”
He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?"
---Matthew 16:13-15
“And the people said, ‘Let us make Jesus in our own image, after our own likeness.’” Over the course of time people began to develop interpretations of who Jesus was based on what they wanted him to be. Jesus automatically approved of everything the Church did, because after all, he started the thing. The apostles ordained successors, and so on and so on, and Jesus smiled on the whole chain.
Pretty soon Martin Luther said “you know, screw this” and broke off, starting a revolution that revolved around the belief that Jesus wouldn’t make us do works, it’s all about grace. Jesus wouldn’t approve of this hierarchy stuff…Jesus would want us to read the Bible for ourselves…Jesus wouldn’t baptize infants- what do they know, anyway? And branches continued to fall from the tree.
Look at the artwork. Jesus Christ became a white man from the Middle Ages instead of the man of Middle Eastern descent that he actually was. In the 1700’s and 1800’s Jesus had no problems with people owning slaves because, well, that’s what the people wanted so they projected it onto Jesus. Marcus Garvey said that Jesus was a black man, because he wanted him to be one. To the emerging women’s movement Jesus was the first feminist. After all, Mary Magdalene was the first to see him after his resurrection, so to hell with all the tired old white guys running the show- Jesus obviously favored bra burning and reproductive freedom. To the hippies Jesus was the first hippie rebel. He stood up to the man, man! He fought the power! He had long hair and a lot of crazy ideas about love and freedom.
“Not so fast,” the fundamentalist movement intoned. Jesus didn’t have long hair- long hair was a shame to a man. To them Jesus was a short haired Bible thumper- just like them. Jack Hyles even wrote a book entitled “Jesus Had Short Hair.” Jesus was the original fightin’, feudin’ fundamentalist who spoke in King James English. 1611, straight from heaven baby!
Along about 1976 Jesus Christ took the form of a peanut farmer from Georgia. Oops, my bad- that was Jimmy Carter. Same initials, though. A born-again in the White House- who woulda thunk it? But he was a Democrat, so he was destined to disappoint the crowd who was quickly seeing Jesus as the first Republican. When the 1980 elections rolled around old J.C. found himself thrown out on his peanut shells. The world had a new savior- old Ronald Wilson Reagan himself, the great white hope.
(Just as an aside, you know that Reagan was the antichrist, right? Do the math- Ronald has six letters, Wilson has six letters, and Reagan has six letters. 6-6-6.)
In 1987 and 1988, when Bakker and Swaggart took a dive, it was no longer cool to say “Jesus Is Lord.” Smacked too much of pushy televangelists and an image Christians were trying to get away from. Jesus was your buddy, your friend. He’s not going to push anything on you, man! He just wants to share a Budweiser and some smokes with you, maybe shoot a round of pool or go club-hopping. He was straight-edge before Fugazi took their first breath. Jesus was a vegan- he wouldn’t have eaten poor, defenseless animals! Lamb of God? Oh , umm, well….
How about the pro-life crowd? “Jesus loves the little children…” they intoned while chaining themselves to abortion mills. Some of them got the idea that it might be kind of cool to kill a few doctors- after all, Jesus did say “the kingdom of heaven suffers violence and the violent take it by force.” Most of that same pro-life crowd are now pleased that we've killed a lot of Iraqis for Christ. After all, George W. Bush is a man of God, and Jesus told him to invade Iraq.
A few years ago a blogger challenged me to say who I believed Jesus is. I had every intention of making that an essay, but then I realized that it would be pointless. Nobody really cares who Jesus was. Everybody claims to follow the "real" Jesus, but they don't know him. They only care about the carefully crafted image they’ve made of Jesus. They have a Jesus that they’re comfortable with, and everyone else is wrong.
You want a statement of belief from me? OK. Jesus is Lord. The implications of that statement are still being determined.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Mee-maw and Paw-paw
My grandparents were a treasure that even now I still draw upon. They filmed a video of their life's memories with Evelyn and Mark about five years before Grandpa Mac died. But on a more personal level, in the last years of his life Grandpa Mac was having a hard time communicating and often didn't talk at all. I hadn't written the expected Christmas thank you notes that year, because it had been a hard year personally, and I wrote later to explain all the details. My grandfather called me and simply said that he loved me. And two months later he died.
I talk about my grandparents a lot because they had an enormous effect on me. My grandfather's stand as a CO during WWII gives me the courage even now to take unpopular stands. My grandmother's obsessive picture-taking has left us with a great gift of remembering our past as a family. So Grandma and Grandpa, look down on me and smile, your grandson needs you as much as ever.
I talk about my grandparents a lot because they had an enormous effect on me. My grandfather's stand as a CO during WWII gives me the courage even now to take unpopular stands. My grandmother's obsessive picture-taking has left us with a great gift of remembering our past as a family. So Grandma and Grandpa, look down on me and smile, your grandson needs you as much as ever.
Monday, October 24, 2011
I like sex
OK, I admit it- I like sex.
Waited a long time to experience it- I was 29 when I finally lost my virginity to some psycho woman I met through a personal ad. I refer to her as "psycho" because she was planning our marriage after having known me for two weeks. Oh yeah, she lied to me and said she was pregnant. Psycho enough for you?
I have been a born-again Christian since about 1981-1982, and so I was coming from that viewpoint, that you waited until you were married to have sex. Well, I did not. Should have, but didn't. I jumped on the first woman who would show me her boobs. Ironically, had I waited about seven more months, then I would have met the woman who eventually became my wife, and I would have enjoyed some good sex with a woman who loved me.
My mother-in-law would cringe upon reading this blog entry. She would cringe at most of the things that I write, but that's another conversation. She read somewhere that guys think about sex six times a minute, or some off-the-wall statistic like it. Her point being that guys are always thinking about sex. Well, what do you want me to do, apologize? Hell no!
Listen, God created sex and called it good. And the letter of Paul to the Philippians in the New Testament says that whatever is good, pure, etc.- we should think on these things. So tell me what the problem is here. You want me to be ashamed of having good sex with my wife? Think again.
And I love how Christian women try to take some sort of righteous stand here, like guys are perverts and women never think about such lowly matters. Are you kidding? I will guarantee you that Christian women are talking about these things as much as men. I've seen Christian women's Internet discussion sites. They're talking about shaving. They're talking about positions. They are mocking men for being concerned with penis size and in the same breath obsessing about their breasts. C'mon, you know I'm right.
And why shouldn't they? At the same time they are pretending to not talk about it they are attending Bible study classes imploring them to wait until marriage. So when the marriage day comes, how do they suddenly flip the switch? How do they go from sex being dirty to sex being permissible and even fun? How do they go from hiding their bodies to putting them on display?
I'm not saying that we should blather on about every detail of our sex lives. There are areas of a couple's life that are sacred, private, not for public discussion. But stop the pretending. Guys aren't perverts for liking it, and woman aren't whores for liking it.
"Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled." Paul to the Hebrews. Look it up.
Waited a long time to experience it- I was 29 when I finally lost my virginity to some psycho woman I met through a personal ad. I refer to her as "psycho" because she was planning our marriage after having known me for two weeks. Oh yeah, she lied to me and said she was pregnant. Psycho enough for you?
I have been a born-again Christian since about 1981-1982, and so I was coming from that viewpoint, that you waited until you were married to have sex. Well, I did not. Should have, but didn't. I jumped on the first woman who would show me her boobs. Ironically, had I waited about seven more months, then I would have met the woman who eventually became my wife, and I would have enjoyed some good sex with a woman who loved me.
My mother-in-law would cringe upon reading this blog entry. She would cringe at most of the things that I write, but that's another conversation. She read somewhere that guys think about sex six times a minute, or some off-the-wall statistic like it. Her point being that guys are always thinking about sex. Well, what do you want me to do, apologize? Hell no!
Listen, God created sex and called it good. And the letter of Paul to the Philippians in the New Testament says that whatever is good, pure, etc.- we should think on these things. So tell me what the problem is here. You want me to be ashamed of having good sex with my wife? Think again.
And I love how Christian women try to take some sort of righteous stand here, like guys are perverts and women never think about such lowly matters. Are you kidding? I will guarantee you that Christian women are talking about these things as much as men. I've seen Christian women's Internet discussion sites. They're talking about shaving. They're talking about positions. They are mocking men for being concerned with penis size and in the same breath obsessing about their breasts. C'mon, you know I'm right.
And why shouldn't they? At the same time they are pretending to not talk about it they are attending Bible study classes imploring them to wait until marriage. So when the marriage day comes, how do they suddenly flip the switch? How do they go from sex being dirty to sex being permissible and even fun? How do they go from hiding their bodies to putting them on display?
I'm not saying that we should blather on about every detail of our sex lives. There are areas of a couple's life that are sacred, private, not for public discussion. But stop the pretending. Guys aren't perverts for liking it, and woman aren't whores for liking it.
"Let marriage be held in honor among all, and let the marriage bed be undefiled." Paul to the Hebrews. Look it up.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
If I could turn back time
There was a time when church was the highlight of my week. Now I'm not sure I care. And I don't know why.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Sincere gestures/stupid gestures
"We're talking about sincere gestures," Jenny said.
"We're talking about stupid gestures," Garp said.
You cannot go a day anymore without hearing about bullying. Every day someone waves the flag of some kid who was bullied and committed suicide. Teen suicide is a very sad thing. But the anti-bullying cause is always connected to some LGBTQMOUSE cause, as if the only kids being bullied are the gay ones. If you are fat, like the wrong rock band or like the same boy the head cheerleader likes, no one gives a damn. No one is doing a public service announcement for you. Lady Gaga isn't imploring the world that you are who you are because you were born that way. Your suffering apparently doesn't count.
And the solution? Wear a purple T-shirt on the appointed day, a day decided upon by gay people and not fat people, and that will show the world that bullying is bad. Or at least it will show the world how much YOU care.
Maybe you turned on the TV last night and immediately saw pink. No, you aren't catching an infectious disease. "Think pink!" "Save the ta-ta's!" "Bowling for boobies!" Any one of a number of slogans accompany the ever-present pink ribbon which states to the world that BREAST CANCER IS BAD! As if there is anyone out there who hears the words "breast cancer" and thinks "someone is going to die horribly? Hooray!" Really, is there anyone out there who thinks that breast cancer is a good thing? OK, then why this incessant insistence on awareness campaigns?
As I write this, I am thinking about some friends of mine. I've known the husband for some time, his wife not so much. His wife has breast cancer. It is in remission now, but they experienced hell on earth during treatment and some time after. And they wear pink. Often. They have dove into the Susan G. Komen movement big-time, and for good reason. If you were in their position, would you not just dye your whole frigging body pink and do all you could to raise money for research in order to cure this horrible disease? Of course you would. How would my wearing of pink affect the horrible statistics of cancer? Unless I was giving some money at the same time, not a damn thing.
But let me ask you a question, one no one has the balls to ask, but I'm pretty stupid so I'll ask it anyway. What do Peter Criss, Rod Roddy and Richard Roundtree all have in common? They all have had breast cancer (Rod Roddy died in 2003), and they are all men. Did you know that men can get breast cancer too? Of course not. All you see is pink everywhere. If a man gets breast cancer, they can just go sit in the corner and die, apparently. You don't see men in the commercials, you don't see brochures explaining to men how they can check themselves and how they would even know what they were feeling for, it's pink everywhere. Granted, it is rare, taking the lives of about 500 men every year, as opposed to 39,000 women every year. Not even close. But I'm sure the wives and children of these men would still think that their father/husband's life is none the less valuable.
"We support the troops!" We hear this mantra proclaimed everywhere, from churches to city halls, from newspapers to websites- but what does it mean? What does a sticker-laden bumper on my car actually do, besides making the sticker makers rich? How does retweeting a troops tweet or posting a particularly patriotic picture on our Facebook status do anything at all for Private Joe P. Dumfuque from BFE? Answer: NOTHING AT ALL.
We have fooled ourselves into thinking that these gestures actually mean something. But my wearing a purple shirt doesn't keep the gay kid from getting his ass kicked. My wearing a pink shirt doesn't keep a family from grieving. My wearing a flag shirt doesn't keep Corporal Josephine Dipsheit from getting her ass handed to her by Afghani fighters.
UNLESS...
...we actually DO something. Give $50 bucks to someone wanting to do the 3-Day Walk for the Cure. Change the oil on the car of a women waiting for her husband to return from Iraq. Buy dinner for a man waiting for his wife to return from Afghanistan. If you are a high school student and you see a kid getting bullied, no matter what the cost, step in between the bully and her victim.
Don't just wear the shirt, bear the hurt.
(and no, you can't have that one, it's mine)
"We're talking about stupid gestures," Garp said.
You cannot go a day anymore without hearing about bullying. Every day someone waves the flag of some kid who was bullied and committed suicide. Teen suicide is a very sad thing. But the anti-bullying cause is always connected to some LGBTQMOUSE cause, as if the only kids being bullied are the gay ones. If you are fat, like the wrong rock band or like the same boy the head cheerleader likes, no one gives a damn. No one is doing a public service announcement for you. Lady Gaga isn't imploring the world that you are who you are because you were born that way. Your suffering apparently doesn't count.
And the solution? Wear a purple T-shirt on the appointed day, a day decided upon by gay people and not fat people, and that will show the world that bullying is bad. Or at least it will show the world how much YOU care.
Maybe you turned on the TV last night and immediately saw pink. No, you aren't catching an infectious disease. "Think pink!" "Save the ta-ta's!" "Bowling for boobies!" Any one of a number of slogans accompany the ever-present pink ribbon which states to the world that BREAST CANCER IS BAD! As if there is anyone out there who hears the words "breast cancer" and thinks "someone is going to die horribly? Hooray!" Really, is there anyone out there who thinks that breast cancer is a good thing? OK, then why this incessant insistence on awareness campaigns?
As I write this, I am thinking about some friends of mine. I've known the husband for some time, his wife not so much. His wife has breast cancer. It is in remission now, but they experienced hell on earth during treatment and some time after. And they wear pink. Often. They have dove into the Susan G. Komen movement big-time, and for good reason. If you were in their position, would you not just dye your whole frigging body pink and do all you could to raise money for research in order to cure this horrible disease? Of course you would. How would my wearing of pink affect the horrible statistics of cancer? Unless I was giving some money at the same time, not a damn thing.
But let me ask you a question, one no one has the balls to ask, but I'm pretty stupid so I'll ask it anyway. What do Peter Criss, Rod Roddy and Richard Roundtree all have in common? They all have had breast cancer (Rod Roddy died in 2003), and they are all men. Did you know that men can get breast cancer too? Of course not. All you see is pink everywhere. If a man gets breast cancer, they can just go sit in the corner and die, apparently. You don't see men in the commercials, you don't see brochures explaining to men how they can check themselves and how they would even know what they were feeling for, it's pink everywhere. Granted, it is rare, taking the lives of about 500 men every year, as opposed to 39,000 women every year. Not even close. But I'm sure the wives and children of these men would still think that their father/husband's life is none the less valuable.
"We support the troops!" We hear this mantra proclaimed everywhere, from churches to city halls, from newspapers to websites- but what does it mean? What does a sticker-laden bumper on my car actually do, besides making the sticker makers rich? How does retweeting a troops tweet or posting a particularly patriotic picture on our Facebook status do anything at all for Private Joe P. Dumfuque from BFE? Answer: NOTHING AT ALL.
We have fooled ourselves into thinking that these gestures actually mean something. But my wearing a purple shirt doesn't keep the gay kid from getting his ass kicked. My wearing a pink shirt doesn't keep a family from grieving. My wearing a flag shirt doesn't keep Corporal Josephine Dipsheit from getting her ass handed to her by Afghani fighters.
UNLESS...
...we actually DO something. Give $50 bucks to someone wanting to do the 3-Day Walk for the Cure. Change the oil on the car of a women waiting for her husband to return from Iraq. Buy dinner for a man waiting for his wife to return from Afghanistan. If you are a high school student and you see a kid getting bullied, no matter what the cost, step in between the bully and her victim.
Don't just wear the shirt, bear the hurt.
(and no, you can't have that one, it's mine)
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Spirit Day
"Is there something the matter with that woman's tongue, Mom?" Garp whispered to Jenny. The superiority of the big woman's silence outraged him; Duncan was trying to talk with her, but the woman merely fixed the child with a quieting eye. Jenny quietly informed Garp that the woman wasn't talking because the woman was without a tongue. Literally.
"It was cut off," Jenny said.
"Jesus," Garp whispered. "How'd it happen?"
Jenny rolled her eyes; it was a habit she'd picked up from her son. "You really read nothing, don't you?" Jenny asked him. "You just never have bothered to keep up with what's going on." What was "going on," in Garp's opinion, was never as important as what he was making up--what he was working on. One of the things that upset him about his mother (since she'd been adopted by women's politics) was that she was always discussing the news.
"This is news, you mean?" Garp said. "It's such a famous tongue accident that I should have heard about it?"
"Oh, God," Jenny said wearily. "Not a famous accident. Very deliberate."
"Mother, did someone cut her tongue off?"
"Precisely." Jenny said.
"Jesus," Garp said.
"You haven't heard of Ellen James?" Jenny asked.
"No." Garp admitted.
"Well, there's a whole society of women now," Jenny informed him, "because of what happened to Ellen James."
"What happened to her?" Garp asked.
"Two men raped her when she was eleven years old," Jenny said. "Then they cut her tongue off so she couldn't tell anyone who they were or what they looked like. They were so stupid that they didn't know an eleven-year-old could write. Ellen James wrote a very careful description of the men, and they were caught, and they were tried and convicted. In jail, someone murdered them."
"Wow," Garp said. "So that's Ellen James?" he whispered, indicating the big quiet woman with new respect.
Jenny rolled her eyes again. "No," she said. "That is someone from the Ellen James Society. Ellen James is still a child, she's a wispy-looking little blond girl."
"You mean this Ellen James Society goes around not talking," Garp said, "as if they didn't have any tongues?"
"No, I mean they don't have any tongues," Jenny said. "People in the Ellen James Society have their tongues cut off. To protest what happened to Ellen James."
"Oh boy," Garp said, looking at the large woman with renewed dislike.
"They call themselves Ellen Jamesians," Jenny said.
"I don't want to hear any more of this shit, Mom," Garp said.
"Well, that woman there is an Ellen Jamesian," Jenny said. "You wanted to know."
"How old is Ellen James now?" Garp asked.
"She's twelve," Jenny said. "It happened only a year ago."
"And these Ellen Jamesians," Garp asked, "do they have meetings, and elect presidents and treasurers and stuff like that?"
"Why don't you ask her?" Jenny said, indicating the lunk by the door. "I thought you didn't want to hear any more about it."
"How can I ask her if she doesn't have a tongue to answer me?" Garp hissed.
"She writes," Jenny said. "All Ellen Jamesians carry little note pads around with them and they write you what they want to say. You know what writing is, don't you?"
Fortunately, Helen came home.
Garp would see more of the Ellen Jamesians. Although he felt deeply disturbed by what had happened to Ellen James, he felt only disgust at her grown-up, sour imitators whose habit was to present you with a card. The card said something like: Hello, I'm Martha. I'm an Ellen Jamesian. Do you know what an Ellen Jamesian is?
And if you didn't know, you were handed another card.
The Ellen Jamesians represented, for Garp, the kind of women who lionized his mother and sought to use her to help further their crude causes.
"I'll tell you something about those women, Mom," he said to Jenny once. They were probably all lousy at talking, anyway; they probably never had a worthwhile thing to say in their lives--so their tongues were no great sacrifice; in fact, it probably saves them considerable embarrassment. If you see what I mean."
"You're a little short on sympathy," Jenny told him.
"I have lots of sympathy--for Ellen James," Garp said.
"These women must have suffered, in other ways, themselves," Jenny said. "That's what makes them want to get closer to each other."
"And inflict more suffering on themselves, Mom?"
"Rape is every woman's problem," Jenny said. Garp hated his mother's "everyone" language most of all. A case, he thought, of carrying democracy to an idiotic extreme.
"It's every man's problem, too, Mom. The next time there's a rape, suppose I cut my prick off and wear it around my neck. Would you respect that, too?"
"We're talking about sincere gestures," Jenny said.
"We're talking about stupid gestures," Garp said.
"It was cut off," Jenny said.
"Jesus," Garp whispered. "How'd it happen?"
Jenny rolled her eyes; it was a habit she'd picked up from her son. "You really read nothing, don't you?" Jenny asked him. "You just never have bothered to keep up with what's going on." What was "going on," in Garp's opinion, was never as important as what he was making up--what he was working on. One of the things that upset him about his mother (since she'd been adopted by women's politics) was that she was always discussing the news.
"This is news, you mean?" Garp said. "It's such a famous tongue accident that I should have heard about it?"
"Oh, God," Jenny said wearily. "Not a famous accident. Very deliberate."
"Mother, did someone cut her tongue off?"
"Precisely." Jenny said.
"Jesus," Garp said.
"You haven't heard of Ellen James?" Jenny asked.
"No." Garp admitted.
"Well, there's a whole society of women now," Jenny informed him, "because of what happened to Ellen James."
"What happened to her?" Garp asked.
"Two men raped her when she was eleven years old," Jenny said. "Then they cut her tongue off so she couldn't tell anyone who they were or what they looked like. They were so stupid that they didn't know an eleven-year-old could write. Ellen James wrote a very careful description of the men, and they were caught, and they were tried and convicted. In jail, someone murdered them."
"Wow," Garp said. "So that's Ellen James?" he whispered, indicating the big quiet woman with new respect.
Jenny rolled her eyes again. "No," she said. "That is someone from the Ellen James Society. Ellen James is still a child, she's a wispy-looking little blond girl."
"You mean this Ellen James Society goes around not talking," Garp said, "as if they didn't have any tongues?"
"No, I mean they don't have any tongues," Jenny said. "People in the Ellen James Society have their tongues cut off. To protest what happened to Ellen James."
"Oh boy," Garp said, looking at the large woman with renewed dislike.
"They call themselves Ellen Jamesians," Jenny said.
"I don't want to hear any more of this shit, Mom," Garp said.
"Well, that woman there is an Ellen Jamesian," Jenny said. "You wanted to know."
"How old is Ellen James now?" Garp asked.
"She's twelve," Jenny said. "It happened only a year ago."
"And these Ellen Jamesians," Garp asked, "do they have meetings, and elect presidents and treasurers and stuff like that?"
"Why don't you ask her?" Jenny said, indicating the lunk by the door. "I thought you didn't want to hear any more about it."
"How can I ask her if she doesn't have a tongue to answer me?" Garp hissed.
"She writes," Jenny said. "All Ellen Jamesians carry little note pads around with them and they write you what they want to say. You know what writing is, don't you?"
Fortunately, Helen came home.
Garp would see more of the Ellen Jamesians. Although he felt deeply disturbed by what had happened to Ellen James, he felt only disgust at her grown-up, sour imitators whose habit was to present you with a card. The card said something like: Hello, I'm Martha. I'm an Ellen Jamesian. Do you know what an Ellen Jamesian is?
And if you didn't know, you were handed another card.
The Ellen Jamesians represented, for Garp, the kind of women who lionized his mother and sought to use her to help further their crude causes.
"I'll tell you something about those women, Mom," he said to Jenny once. They were probably all lousy at talking, anyway; they probably never had a worthwhile thing to say in their lives--so their tongues were no great sacrifice; in fact, it probably saves them considerable embarrassment. If you see what I mean."
"You're a little short on sympathy," Jenny told him.
"I have lots of sympathy--for Ellen James," Garp said.
"These women must have suffered, in other ways, themselves," Jenny said. "That's what makes them want to get closer to each other."
"And inflict more suffering on themselves, Mom?"
"Rape is every woman's problem," Jenny said. Garp hated his mother's "everyone" language most of all. A case, he thought, of carrying democracy to an idiotic extreme.
"It's every man's problem, too, Mom. The next time there's a rape, suppose I cut my prick off and wear it around my neck. Would you respect that, too?"
"We're talking about sincere gestures," Jenny said.
"We're talking about stupid gestures," Garp said.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Hate is what I am
Never understood the whole sports hatred thing. Ohio State hates Michigan. Michigan hates Ohio State. Baseball fans hate Bud Selig, Joe Morgan, Joe Buck, Tim McCarver, and so many other personalities and features of the game that I wonder if there is anything that they like about it, and if not, why they still call themselves baseball fans. Cleveland sports fans hate Lebron James, which I can almost understand because he did leave the city; but then so many other basketball fans hate Lebron James too, for no real cause but that it seems the thing to do these days. Republicans hate Democrats, Democrats hate Republican, oftentimes for no other reason than that they are not of their kind. Christian Republicans hate Christian Democrats, Christian Democrats hate Christian Republicans, even though they both profess to be Christians and therefore have a bond stronger than that of a political affiliation.
And make no mistake. This is hatred I am talking about here, not some extreme form of dislike, not some pseudo-negative feeling that people attempt to escape by using the time-honored phrase "I was just joking."
Can someone tell me just what the hell is wrong with this country?
And make no mistake. This is hatred I am talking about here, not some extreme form of dislike, not some pseudo-negative feeling that people attempt to escape by using the time-honored phrase "I was just joking."
Can someone tell me just what the hell is wrong with this country?
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
First Prayer
Randy Stonehill
I've been waitin' for a long long time
Hopin' You're a friend of mine
If there's one thing that I need to do
Well that's to find out more about You
I have been wondering all of my days
So if You're there show me the way
I see people in a world of lies
Staring out through lonely eyes
Watching as the years go by
Knowing they're living only to die
There must be something missing somewhere
So if You're listening answer this prayer
I will follow if You'll lead me
Help me make a stand
If You'll breathe new breath inside me
I'll believe you can
I'll believe You can
Well I never really learned to pray
But You know what I'm tryin' to say
I don't want my life to end
Not ever knowing why it began
So if You'll trust me I'll do my best
and I'll be trusting You for the rest
Monday, October 17, 2011
Marking time
I told myself when I started this new blog that I was going to write something in it every single day. Well, that is not working out well. I think at least half of the days I've just typed in two sentences just to say that I put somethingown that day. I have my little dictation device on my iPod, so I don't have to pound away on the tiny keyboard before I go to sleep. I will try to come up with something wise tomorrow.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Dictation
Good evening everybody tonight blog entry will be a first time I'm using the Dragon dictation app for the iPod and whatever I say whatever it comes out. That's will improve for the blog and pretty to be interesting to see how it spells some little more complicated words what to go see Randy Stonehill tonight my stone Mills Christian center even traveling musician for roughly 40 years with a friend of mine and Michael I can't tell what was the more interesting part early evening the concert for the conversations we had before and after the concert close so I can let them know so many a different way to my which is unusual for me courier parent Michael probably moved out I'll be out one more form but good conversation is the cornerstone of friends of phones
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Hell of a Job
Spent all day with a new IPad 2. Damn those things are cool. Haven't even had time to come up with something witty or profound. So I won't.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Boys and their toys
Almost fell asleep without writing something in the blog for the day. And thanks to my IPod, I can take care of the task without starting up the computer again. I never paid much attention to Steve Jobs and the legions of Apple fans, but damn, do I love my IPod. So I head off to sleep, keeping my vow to write something here every day, even though I've only had something of substance to say maybe five of thirteen days. So be it.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Little Paper Men
I received a package on Saturday, an Ebay purchase. I knew what it was right away. I was hoping that it would come before Columbus Day, and it did. I anxiously opened the envelope....
I collected baseball cards when I was young, I went to my first baseball game when I was five years old, but I became a baseball fan in the summer of 1979. I'll never forget it. Lost five bucks on the World Series that year, to my brother no less, but I was hooked. Ernie Harwell and the Detroit Tigers. Steve Kemp, Jack Morris, and Ron LeFlore.
I bought baseball cards and talked baseball with a neighbor buddy of mine. He had these funny looking cards that I really wanted but he wouldn't give up. Told me they were part of some game. Never heard of it, but OK, Mike was cool, so I was intrigued. It was APBA Baseball, a baseball simulation game in existence since 1951.
It was summer and we were bored. Remember, this was in the days before cable television, before VCRs, before the Internet. When our favorite shows were over, they were over until the next week. We had a lot of time to kill. In order that we might have something to occupy our time, my father took us to the mall to buy us a game or some such time-occupying aparatus that didn't cost an arm and a leg. My brother and I quickly made our way to the board games at Kay-Bee, back when toy stores carried racks and racks of board games. We didn't want just any board game, though. We wanted APBA Baseball.
Well, little did we know that Richard Seitz didn't have his game in very many stores. Probably none outside of Lancaster. But... Harold Richman wasn't Richard Seitz. Strat-o-Matic Baseball was on the shelf, and we picked it up and showed it to our dad, and ten minutes later we walked out of that Kay-Bee store with a box full of dice, charts and little paper men.
I learned quite a bit that summer. I learned that four slashes within a circle stood for a homerun, I learned that home teams bat last and visitors first, I learned that errors counted as at-bats but sacrifice flies were not. I learned what a sacrifice fly was. I learned that a three games to one lead in the World Series was not necessarily safe. And I learned to love Ron LeFlore.
The retail version of the Strat-o-Matic Baseball game only contained two teams of 20 players each. By the luck of the draw, my brother and I got the 1976 Cardinals and 1976 Pirates, along with a coupon that allowed us to order the cards based on the most recent season for a small price. Well, a small price was large for a twelve-year-old boy and his brother, but together.... We summoned our courage and asked our father to write us a check in exchange for a portion of our allowance. He looked at the coupon, looked at us, looked at the coupon again.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
For a fleeting moment I wondered if this Strat-o-Matic Game Company was some fly-by-night organization out to scam me for my money. But just for a moment. Yes, I told my dad, I wanted that check.
A week later my buddy, my brother and I were out in the carport playing a game. Trouble, I believe. May have been some neighbor kids there. I don't remember. What I do remember is the sight of a large brown truck approaching our house, approaching, slowing, stopping. Somehow we knew. We knew.
"I QUIT!" Mike shouted out, and we all ran to the truck. The driver exited his vehicle carrying a brown packing envelope. He handed it to us, and as one of us signed for it another saw the return address in the corner. Strat-o-Matic Game Company.
And so it began.
The idea of a game like this was to form leagues, either of straight teams or drafted players from different teams, and play baseball games. You rolled the dice, you looked on the cards, you got your result. Occasionally you had to consult another chart to determine whether a player on the opposing team committed an error. You kept score, you played nine innings, when nine innings were over you took two more teams and did it again. Eventually you would play enough games that you could compile statistics that would resemble the actual records of major league players. And you would have some fun in the process.
I played the hell out of this game for several years. I subscribed to a small fan-printed publication called the Strat-o-Matic Review. I bought the special set of Hall of Fame player cards and played them against the modern players. The whole process whet my appetite for baseball. I began to read books of baseball history. Players such as Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth came to life.
I received money for my birthday every year, usually enough to order the most recent set of Strat-o-Matic cards. And Columbus Day with its no-mail policy screwed me every year. Always took one extra day to get those cards. But when they came, life was good, and I played.
They began to produce older seasons in addition to the newest cards every year, and around 1986 they released the cardset that made me drool with anticipation. 1930 was the ultimate batter's year. The National League average for all eight teams was about .300. Hack Wilson hit 56 homeruns. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Bill Terry, Lefty Grove, they were all there. I had to have it. So it became my birthday gift to myself that year. When it came eight days later I was working at the college library in town, so I asked my mother to bring it to me. By all rights she should have told me to forget it and wait until I got home, but she drove it up there, and on my break I opened the box and looked through the set. And made plans. I would play every game of that season with these cards. I had access to microfilm in the library. I could print out boxscores. I could make the trades on the day they took place. This 1930 project make me excited at a time when little did, when I couldn't see far enough into the future to believe that I would ever get married, when I couldn't even see far enough into the future to know what I wanted to do as a career. But I knew what I wanted to do when I got home. I wanted to start replaying 1930....
All of these thoughts ran through my mind as I tore the envelope and unwrapped the plastic-wrapped parcel inside. And there they were. The Brooklyn Robins. The Washington Senators. The Boston Braves. Johnny Hodapp. Luke Sewell. Pete Jablonowski. Red Ruffing. Lou Gehrig. Babe Ruth. Lefty Grove. 25 years after its release, and several years after I had abandoned the 1930 project and sold the heavily-stained cards, I was looking at a near-mint set. The 1930 season as produced by the Strat-o-Matic game company. And I was ready to play.
Let the good times roll.
I collected baseball cards when I was young, I went to my first baseball game when I was five years old, but I became a baseball fan in the summer of 1979. I'll never forget it. Lost five bucks on the World Series that year, to my brother no less, but I was hooked. Ernie Harwell and the Detroit Tigers. Steve Kemp, Jack Morris, and Ron LeFlore.
I bought baseball cards and talked baseball with a neighbor buddy of mine. He had these funny looking cards that I really wanted but he wouldn't give up. Told me they were part of some game. Never heard of it, but OK, Mike was cool, so I was intrigued. It was APBA Baseball, a baseball simulation game in existence since 1951.
It was summer and we were bored. Remember, this was in the days before cable television, before VCRs, before the Internet. When our favorite shows were over, they were over until the next week. We had a lot of time to kill. In order that we might have something to occupy our time, my father took us to the mall to buy us a game or some such time-occupying aparatus that didn't cost an arm and a leg. My brother and I quickly made our way to the board games at Kay-Bee, back when toy stores carried racks and racks of board games. We didn't want just any board game, though. We wanted APBA Baseball.
Well, little did we know that Richard Seitz didn't have his game in very many stores. Probably none outside of Lancaster. But... Harold Richman wasn't Richard Seitz. Strat-o-Matic Baseball was on the shelf, and we picked it up and showed it to our dad, and ten minutes later we walked out of that Kay-Bee store with a box full of dice, charts and little paper men.
I learned quite a bit that summer. I learned that four slashes within a circle stood for a homerun, I learned that home teams bat last and visitors first, I learned that errors counted as at-bats but sacrifice flies were not. I learned what a sacrifice fly was. I learned that a three games to one lead in the World Series was not necessarily safe. And I learned to love Ron LeFlore.
The retail version of the Strat-o-Matic Baseball game only contained two teams of 20 players each. By the luck of the draw, my brother and I got the 1976 Cardinals and 1976 Pirates, along with a coupon that allowed us to order the cards based on the most recent season for a small price. Well, a small price was large for a twelve-year-old boy and his brother, but together.... We summoned our courage and asked our father to write us a check in exchange for a portion of our allowance. He looked at the coupon, looked at us, looked at the coupon again.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
For a fleeting moment I wondered if this Strat-o-Matic Game Company was some fly-by-night organization out to scam me for my money. But just for a moment. Yes, I told my dad, I wanted that check.
A week later my buddy, my brother and I were out in the carport playing a game. Trouble, I believe. May have been some neighbor kids there. I don't remember. What I do remember is the sight of a large brown truck approaching our house, approaching, slowing, stopping. Somehow we knew. We knew.
"I QUIT!" Mike shouted out, and we all ran to the truck. The driver exited his vehicle carrying a brown packing envelope. He handed it to us, and as one of us signed for it another saw the return address in the corner. Strat-o-Matic Game Company.
And so it began.
The idea of a game like this was to form leagues, either of straight teams or drafted players from different teams, and play baseball games. You rolled the dice, you looked on the cards, you got your result. Occasionally you had to consult another chart to determine whether a player on the opposing team committed an error. You kept score, you played nine innings, when nine innings were over you took two more teams and did it again. Eventually you would play enough games that you could compile statistics that would resemble the actual records of major league players. And you would have some fun in the process.
I played the hell out of this game for several years. I subscribed to a small fan-printed publication called the Strat-o-Matic Review. I bought the special set of Hall of Fame player cards and played them against the modern players. The whole process whet my appetite for baseball. I began to read books of baseball history. Players such as Ty Cobb and Babe Ruth came to life.
I received money for my birthday every year, usually enough to order the most recent set of Strat-o-Matic cards. And Columbus Day with its no-mail policy screwed me every year. Always took one extra day to get those cards. But when they came, life was good, and I played.
They began to produce older seasons in addition to the newest cards every year, and around 1986 they released the cardset that made me drool with anticipation. 1930 was the ultimate batter's year. The National League average for all eight teams was about .300. Hack Wilson hit 56 homeruns. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Bill Terry, Lefty Grove, they were all there. I had to have it. So it became my birthday gift to myself that year. When it came eight days later I was working at the college library in town, so I asked my mother to bring it to me. By all rights she should have told me to forget it and wait until I got home, but she drove it up there, and on my break I opened the box and looked through the set. And made plans. I would play every game of that season with these cards. I had access to microfilm in the library. I could print out boxscores. I could make the trades on the day they took place. This 1930 project make me excited at a time when little did, when I couldn't see far enough into the future to believe that I would ever get married, when I couldn't even see far enough into the future to know what I wanted to do as a career. But I knew what I wanted to do when I got home. I wanted to start replaying 1930....
All of these thoughts ran through my mind as I tore the envelope and unwrapped the plastic-wrapped parcel inside. And there they were. The Brooklyn Robins. The Washington Senators. The Boston Braves. Johnny Hodapp. Luke Sewell. Pete Jablonowski. Red Ruffing. Lou Gehrig. Babe Ruth. Lefty Grove. 25 years after its release, and several years after I had abandoned the 1930 project and sold the heavily-stained cards, I was looking at a near-mint set. The 1930 season as produced by the Strat-o-Matic game company. And I was ready to play.
Let the good times roll.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Why pro-choice is bullshit
It's all about freedom of choice. It's all about keeping the U.S. Government out of a woman's uterus. It isn't about abortion per se; it's about the freedom to choose between a number of alternatives, abortion being simply one of many.
Or so they would have you believe.
I may be politically left of center, but I have a low tolerance for bullshit, and the pro-choice movement is certainly good at dishing it out. Freedom of choice. Let's unpack that for a minute. It's all about freedom of choice, until a woman like Pam Tebow makes a choice that doesn't fit their pre-conceived definition of what a good choice is. It's all about freedom of choice, until Michelle Duggar decides to have as many babies as she is allowed by her creator and her biology. Then it's all about ridiculing her choice and comparing her "womanly area" to a clown car.
(And speaking of Pam Tebow, I'm still waiting for this supposedly controversial ad to air. The pro-choice movement of this nation owes me an apology for wasting my time.)
I believe in the freedom to choose; I also believe that that particular freedom is not unlimited. There are certain choices people should not be allowed to make, even if it is dealing solely with their own body. Even the pro-choice factions would agree. Ask the most rabid feminist whether a woman should participate in the production of pornography. They would tell you (and rightfully so) that pornography cheapens our view of women, that it reduces women to a mere function, that of a glorified sex doll. But if a women chooses to pose, to strip, to screw Ron Jeremy… eww, forget I said that last one. But you see what I'm driving at. A person who is "pro-choice" is really only about protecting their choices.
In an age in which tolerance is the new shibboleth, pro-choicers are the most intolerant of them all. Even as they scream otherwise.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Life in a small town, their newspaper, and the people who read their Facebook page
BREAKING NEWS: Elyria Homecoming Queen faces charges after party: Read Story HERE
I'm not even going to write this blog post. The fine people of Elyria who have certain opinions concerning this story are going to write it for me.
Bill Parfitt writes: "Hahahahaha! This is funny! Some "queen" she is, huh? I hope she's stripped of her homecoming title! Give it to another student who knows how to behave!"
To which Nicole Morris writes: "...you're a middle-aged man ragging on a teenage girl, take a step back and look at how insanely pathetic you are."
But wait- Nicole isn't finished! "Anyone on here with something rude to say, you need to keep it to yourself. You're all pathetic for it, you're judging Emily based off of a misleading article on the internet, how sad are you? You don't know this girl at all, you don't know what really happened that night. Emily Norris is the most kind-hearted girl I ever met in my life, and its pathetic how the entire city has to stick their nose in someone else's business. She made a mistake, does that mean she should have to look at lowlife people make rude comments about her online? No. She does not deserve the way people are handling this. It doesn't even have anything to do with you so keep your rude comments to yourselves. Emily deserved Homecoming Queen, and she did not deserve what happened afterwards."
Steven Wallace chimes in: "It's a shame the police got involved in this. It's just some kids having a good time the way kids are supposed to. Shame on any of you that concur with the police on this! Most kids do this kind of thing after homecoming/prom, it's just the unfortunate few that get caught. Keep doing what you're doing, but don't get caught!"
Really? REALLY? That's the life lesson you want to teach? Do what you want, just don't get caught? Oh boy.
THREE times within an hour, Jennifer Nichole Lane has this to say: "I'm not condoning this but how did this get released with juvenile charges? She's only 17...." Then: "I'm just saying, as a juvenile aren't you protected from release of records..." THEN: "Even after all the parties busted in my city, no one released names of any One under age...." Methinks someone is underage and trying to cover her ass.
David Julius Kovacs pulls the "bully" card: "I may be wrong, but this seems like bullying to me. She will suffer the consequences of her immature actions, but is the public flogging worth it?" As a fat kid who was bullied in school, this is not it.
Kaleigh Plato: "you people are heartless. she made a mistake and none of this is helping her move on any faster. grow up and stop judging others. judging her makes you no better." We are assuming that she made a mistake and she is indeed trying to move on. And making a comment about judging people while you are doing that very thing? Hello, Kettle? This is Pot. I'm black!
But Kaleigh isn't finished: "its crazy how some of thoe people saying the worse comments are "adults"..." Yeah, and it's also funny that the people most vociferous about supporting the girl are "kids". But still, Kaleigh isn't finished: "she should be exempt shes 17!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Kaleigh, are you just trying to cover your own ass? Next commenter please.
Ashley Curtis: "This is against the law. You all are 40 year old men and women picking on a 17 year old girl. This is slander which is against the law. You put her name in the paper which is against the law."
Apparently it isn't. I thought so too. But according to the newspaper, it isn't a law to not publish juveniles names, it's just a courtesy.
The entire comments section features several variations on the same three points of view: 1) Leave her alone, didn't you make mistakes when you were a kid?; 2) Serves her right; 3) OMG you people ought to be ashamed of yourselves I know emily she's a great girl you're committing slander i'm glad all of your kids are so perfect OMG!
And it confirms my belief that comments sections on news stories are basically worthless.
I'm not even going to write this blog post. The fine people of Elyria who have certain opinions concerning this story are going to write it for me.
Bill Parfitt writes: "Hahahahaha! This is funny! Some "queen" she is, huh? I hope she's stripped of her homecoming title! Give it to another student who knows how to behave!"
To which Nicole Morris writes: "...you're a middle-aged man ragging on a teenage girl, take a step back and look at how insanely pathetic you are."
But wait- Nicole isn't finished! "Anyone on here with something rude to say, you need to keep it to yourself. You're all pathetic for it, you're judging Emily based off of a misleading article on the internet, how sad are you? You don't know this girl at all, you don't know what really happened that night. Emily Norris is the most kind-hearted girl I ever met in my life, and its pathetic how the entire city has to stick their nose in someone else's business. She made a mistake, does that mean she should have to look at lowlife people make rude comments about her online? No. She does not deserve the way people are handling this. It doesn't even have anything to do with you so keep your rude comments to yourselves. Emily deserved Homecoming Queen, and she did not deserve what happened afterwards."
Steven Wallace chimes in: "It's a shame the police got involved in this. It's just some kids having a good time the way kids are supposed to. Shame on any of you that concur with the police on this! Most kids do this kind of thing after homecoming/prom, it's just the unfortunate few that get caught. Keep doing what you're doing, but don't get caught!"
Really? REALLY? That's the life lesson you want to teach? Do what you want, just don't get caught? Oh boy.
THREE times within an hour, Jennifer Nichole Lane has this to say: "I'm not condoning this but how did this get released with juvenile charges? She's only 17...." Then: "I'm just saying, as a juvenile aren't you protected from release of records..." THEN: "Even after all the parties busted in my city, no one released names of any One under age...." Methinks someone is underage and trying to cover her ass.
David Julius Kovacs pulls the "bully" card: "I may be wrong, but this seems like bullying to me. She will suffer the consequences of her immature actions, but is the public flogging worth it?" As a fat kid who was bullied in school, this is not it.
Kaleigh Plato: "you people are heartless. she made a mistake and none of this is helping her move on any faster. grow up and stop judging others. judging her makes you no better." We are assuming that she made a mistake and she is indeed trying to move on. And making a comment about judging people while you are doing that very thing? Hello, Kettle? This is Pot. I'm black!
But Kaleigh isn't finished: "its crazy how some of thoe people saying the worse comments are "adults"..." Yeah, and it's also funny that the people most vociferous about supporting the girl are "kids". But still, Kaleigh isn't finished: "she should be exempt shes 17!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Kaleigh, are you just trying to cover your own ass? Next commenter please.
Ashley Curtis: "This is against the law. You all are 40 year old men and women picking on a 17 year old girl. This is slander which is against the law. You put her name in the paper which is against the law."
Apparently it isn't. I thought so too. But according to the newspaper, it isn't a law to not publish juveniles names, it's just a courtesy.
The entire comments section features several variations on the same three points of view: 1) Leave her alone, didn't you make mistakes when you were a kid?; 2) Serves her right; 3) OMG you people ought to be ashamed of yourselves I know emily she's a great girl you're committing slander i'm glad all of your kids are so perfect OMG!
And it confirms my belief that comments sections on news stories are basically worthless.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
(no witty post booked)
You try coming up with something clever or profound after taking a dive on the kitchen floor and cracking your head on the linoleum. I'll be back tomorrow.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Richard Head
I found this on someone's Facebook page. Anyone posting this picture with the intention of promoting the message on this guy's jacket is an asshole, OK? First off, no one is forcing anyone to learn a foreign language. Tell me how you are being forced to learn a foreign language. Of course, for you, English is probably pretty foreign. Second, not everyone who speaks a foreign language in this country is here illegally. Some might be here on work visas, some might be new citizens, some might be from Puerto Rico, who knows? Maybe someone is the child of an illegal alien. Does it really hurt you to just press "1" in order to hear the instructions in English?
I need a patch too. Mine will read "I will not be forced to listen to bullshit to accomodate assholes in my country."
Friday, October 7, 2011
Gallows Pole
My grandmother was a great woman. Lived to be 86. Loved her family, and I loved her. Tremendously.
I went to California when she died, and part of the process was helping my aunt clean out her apartment. I hated doing it. I felt like a vulture descending upon the bones. At the same time, it was kind of funny. The woman had old band-aid tins filled with different kinds of buttons. More buttons than anyone could use in a lifetime. She had two dozen cans of grape soda in her refrigerator. Why does an elderly woman need that much soda? She had a filing cabinet with birthday cards set aside for the future. OK, I can see a year in advance, but she had a 21st birthday card for my daughter who was one at the time. My Grandma Mac was not ever going to live to see my daughter's 21st birthday.
So what does a MacNair do when they don't want to confront the seriousness of death? We crack a joke. My siblings and I, when we weren't thinking about how much it sucked that our grandmother wasn't around anymore, joked that she probably had a collection of angel's feathers in heaven. I even cracked in my eulogy that she had my first week's itinerary in heaven all planned out for me, and she had a part-time job as God's secretary already lined up for herself. It brought the house down. Applause, at a funeral.
I told my mother that when she dies, I am going to fill her grave with about three feet of baby powder or flour, and prop her up in front of it. I'll sell shots at her with a baseball, and when she falls in she'll make a cool cloud. My father, when he dies, will be stuffed and placed in his recliner, wearing his skivvies and a t-shirt with holes, his mouth open so we can throw peanuts in it. OR... we will bury him with a pound of scrapple, a puzzle magazine and a Chinese take-out menu. We could cut my mother's legs off so she could fit in a child's casket. I'll bury her up to her neck in the backyard, cover her head with honey and let the ants loose on her.
Good god, am I tasteless. But you know something? Some people have no frame of reference for processing the unthinkable. How in the hell do I go from my mother being there to her not being there? Well, I'm telling you right now, my brother and I will likely crack jokes. So be ready, and just deal with it.
I went to California when she died, and part of the process was helping my aunt clean out her apartment. I hated doing it. I felt like a vulture descending upon the bones. At the same time, it was kind of funny. The woman had old band-aid tins filled with different kinds of buttons. More buttons than anyone could use in a lifetime. She had two dozen cans of grape soda in her refrigerator. Why does an elderly woman need that much soda? She had a filing cabinet with birthday cards set aside for the future. OK, I can see a year in advance, but she had a 21st birthday card for my daughter who was one at the time. My Grandma Mac was not ever going to live to see my daughter's 21st birthday.
So what does a MacNair do when they don't want to confront the seriousness of death? We crack a joke. My siblings and I, when we weren't thinking about how much it sucked that our grandmother wasn't around anymore, joked that she probably had a collection of angel's feathers in heaven. I even cracked in my eulogy that she had my first week's itinerary in heaven all planned out for me, and she had a part-time job as God's secretary already lined up for herself. It brought the house down. Applause, at a funeral.
I told my mother that when she dies, I am going to fill her grave with about three feet of baby powder or flour, and prop her up in front of it. I'll sell shots at her with a baseball, and when she falls in she'll make a cool cloud. My father, when he dies, will be stuffed and placed in his recliner, wearing his skivvies and a t-shirt with holes, his mouth open so we can throw peanuts in it. OR... we will bury him with a pound of scrapple, a puzzle magazine and a Chinese take-out menu. We could cut my mother's legs off so she could fit in a child's casket. I'll bury her up to her neck in the backyard, cover her head with honey and let the ants loose on her.
Good god, am I tasteless. But you know something? Some people have no frame of reference for processing the unthinkable. How in the hell do I go from my mother being there to her not being there? Well, I'm telling you right now, my brother and I will likely crack jokes. So be ready, and just deal with it.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Giving Jobs a Hand
Steve Jobs is dead. Well, we all die, so this isn't totally unexpected. I'm digging the Ipod that he brought to market; the Iphone revolutionized the whole smartphone industry, as did the Ipod for music and the Ipad for tablet computing. Everyone and their brother is posting a tribute to Jobs on Facebook, Twitter, blogs, etc. Everyone except me. I shan't be doing that.
But it does bring up an interesting question, and to get to that question I'm going to tell a story. This happened to a friend of mine, and I hope I get all the details straight, but I'm likely to screw it up. But here's the gist. A kid's father dies. Or mother, I don't know. On the playground one kid after another starts crying. Except my buddy. Finally a kid yells at him, "Why aren't you crying?"
Why should he? It wasn't his father, or mother. It's always a nice thing to mourn with those who mourn, but if you don't, it isn't the end of the world. Especially if you didn't know the person in question.
And here's the question. Why do people publically mourn for those they never knew? A soldier dies, and people close their businesses and line the streets so they can wave a flag as a hearse passes by. A child dies, and a thousand people attend the memorial service. A child goes missing, and the whole community mobilizes. Of course, when a black child goes missing, no one seems to give a shit.
"In a close-knit community, people look out for each other. They care about each other." OK, I can get behind that. But a city of 50,000 population isn't a close-knit community. I am going to propose that many times, indeed most times, when people do the public mourning thing they are doing it not because they care, but because they want to be seen caring. There is a difference.
When you care, you do something practical, and not always for public consumption. If a child dies in my town, and I didn't know the child, or the parents, or the grandparents, I have no place showing up at that funeral. Let the family and friends mourn. A funeral is not a photo-op. But people feel the incessant need to make themselves a part of whatever story is making the rounds. If they are seen at the event, that means they care, right? But showing up at a service is too easy. Waving a flag for a dead soldier or putting a bumper sticker on your car means nothing. If you want to show that you care, really show it, then take a meal to the widow. Offer to mow her lawn. Get her car tuned up. If a family loses a child, drop them a gift card for somewhere. Send flowers. Donate money to a cancer charity if that's how they died. But don't create t-shirts or declare it "wear plaid shirts for Johnny Joe day" or something equally inane, because that doesn't mean shit. You are doing it to make yourself feel better, you aren't doing it because it does something practical for the family, because it does not.
The passing of Steve Jobs is sad. The passing of your next door neighbor is also sad.
And yes, I am aware that I've talked about doing things for show twice now. Maybe because we Americans are so damn good at it.
---The Man
But it does bring up an interesting question, and to get to that question I'm going to tell a story. This happened to a friend of mine, and I hope I get all the details straight, but I'm likely to screw it up. But here's the gist. A kid's father dies. Or mother, I don't know. On the playground one kid after another starts crying. Except my buddy. Finally a kid yells at him, "Why aren't you crying?"
Why should he? It wasn't his father, or mother. It's always a nice thing to mourn with those who mourn, but if you don't, it isn't the end of the world. Especially if you didn't know the person in question.
And here's the question. Why do people publically mourn for those they never knew? A soldier dies, and people close their businesses and line the streets so they can wave a flag as a hearse passes by. A child dies, and a thousand people attend the memorial service. A child goes missing, and the whole community mobilizes. Of course, when a black child goes missing, no one seems to give a shit.
"In a close-knit community, people look out for each other. They care about each other." OK, I can get behind that. But a city of 50,000 population isn't a close-knit community. I am going to propose that many times, indeed most times, when people do the public mourning thing they are doing it not because they care, but because they want to be seen caring. There is a difference.
When you care, you do something practical, and not always for public consumption. If a child dies in my town, and I didn't know the child, or the parents, or the grandparents, I have no place showing up at that funeral. Let the family and friends mourn. A funeral is not a photo-op. But people feel the incessant need to make themselves a part of whatever story is making the rounds. If they are seen at the event, that means they care, right? But showing up at a service is too easy. Waving a flag for a dead soldier or putting a bumper sticker on your car means nothing. If you want to show that you care, really show it, then take a meal to the widow. Offer to mow her lawn. Get her car tuned up. If a family loses a child, drop them a gift card for somewhere. Send flowers. Donate money to a cancer charity if that's how they died. But don't create t-shirts or declare it "wear plaid shirts for Johnny Joe day" or something equally inane, because that doesn't mean shit. You are doing it to make yourself feel better, you aren't doing it because it does something practical for the family, because it does not.
The passing of Steve Jobs is sad. The passing of your next door neighbor is also sad.
And yes, I am aware that I've talked about doing things for show twice now. Maybe because we Americans are so damn good at it.
---The Man
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Fort Knox
So Amanda Knox is home now. Her conviction was overturned by an Italian court and she came back to the U.S.
My thought is this. Why is it so impossible for people to think that an American could commit a crime overseas? Anyone remember Michael Fay? He was convicted of theft and vandalism in Singapore and sentenced to a caning. "Oh, that's horrible!" people cried. It's too bad this happened in the pre-Internet days, otherwise there would have been Facebook pages and online forums declaring his innocence. In any event, there was a public outcry against this "barbaric" form of punishment. Apparently people got caned in Singapore all the time. But they weren't American, so no one gave a shit.
The Iranian hikers. They said they hadn't crossed into Iran, the Iran officials claim they had, and Americans were in an uproar. "Free the Iranian hikers!" was the battle cry. But here's the question. How do we know they didn't illegally cross into Iranian territory? Because they say they didn't? Why don't we let a country's system of justice play itself out before passing judgment in the court of public opinion? If some Mexicans had crossed into the U.S. while hiking, would the government of Arizona give them a pass?
I am not passing judgment on the guilt or innocence of any of these people. I am merely asking the question. Why do we automatically assume the American is innocent? Why do we only care when an American is involved? Take terrorism, for instance. Terrorist attacks have been going on for years. Our country only decided to start giving a shit when it was our people that did the dying. Now we are at war against terrorism, a war that people are rabid about fighting to the end. But if a car bomb goes off in Lebanon, and there are no Americans around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Kind of tired of American hypocrisy. But that's just me.
---The Man
My thought is this. Why is it so impossible for people to think that an American could commit a crime overseas? Anyone remember Michael Fay? He was convicted of theft and vandalism in Singapore and sentenced to a caning. "Oh, that's horrible!" people cried. It's too bad this happened in the pre-Internet days, otherwise there would have been Facebook pages and online forums declaring his innocence. In any event, there was a public outcry against this "barbaric" form of punishment. Apparently people got caned in Singapore all the time. But they weren't American, so no one gave a shit.
The Iranian hikers. They said they hadn't crossed into Iran, the Iran officials claim they had, and Americans were in an uproar. "Free the Iranian hikers!" was the battle cry. But here's the question. How do we know they didn't illegally cross into Iranian territory? Because they say they didn't? Why don't we let a country's system of justice play itself out before passing judgment in the court of public opinion? If some Mexicans had crossed into the U.S. while hiking, would the government of Arizona give them a pass?
I am not passing judgment on the guilt or innocence of any of these people. I am merely asking the question. Why do we automatically assume the American is innocent? Why do we only care when an American is involved? Take terrorism, for instance. Terrorist attacks have been going on for years. Our country only decided to start giving a shit when it was our people that did the dying. Now we are at war against terrorism, a war that people are rabid about fighting to the end. But if a car bomb goes off in Lebanon, and there are no Americans around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Kind of tired of American hypocrisy. But that's just me.
---The Man
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Knee Jerk
Apparently yesterday was Blue Shirt Day. Did anyone realize this? Wear a blue shirt to promote awareness of bullying, or some other load of crap like that. Somehow I think that a kid being bullied would rather you stuff your blue shirt up your ass and actually do something, like maybe, umm, I don't know.. help the kid? Step in while he or she is being bullied and say "Hey! Leave this kid the hell alone!" I know when I was being bullied in junior high and high school that's what I was looking for. Of course, I wasn't being bullied for being gay, so it probably didn't count.
Yeah, that's right, I said it. The issue of bullying didn't come to the forefront until it was gay kids getting bullied. And let's get one thing straight (pardon the pun), bullying a kid for being gay is as much bullshit as bullying a kid for being fat, ugly, or a fan of the wrong rock bands. It isn't homophobia that is my problem here. It is the knee-jerk reactions people display when the media is riding a hobby horse.
"We support the troops!" OK, let's take that one on. How do you support the troops? Do you have a bumper sticker on your car? How exactly does that support the troops? Seriously. That does nothing practical to support the troops. Oh, it might make the driver of the car feel good, feel like they are a part of something, but if I were an Army man I would look at that bumper sticker and say "You know, if you want to support the troops, go mow my wife's lawn when I go on my third tour of duty in Afghanistan. Babysit my kids so my wife can get a breather." The only people that are supported by your bumper sticker are the people that make the damn things.
"But it generates awareness. Anything that can get people talking about important issues isn't a bad thing." Wrong. Might not be a bad thing, but it might very well be a useless thing. Is anyone not aware of the troops overseas? There cannot be one person in this country that doesn't know we are in an endless war in Afghanistan, and still have troops in Iraq. If the yellow ribbons and bumper stickers were for awareness, mission accomplished (to borrow a phrase). We're aware.
It isn't about awareness. It's about Vietnam guilt. You see, the troops returning from Vietnam were treated like shit. And that was deplorable. But because of that we have swung in the other direction. Now I'm supposed to thank a soldier, or a fireman, or a policeman every time I see one. None of these people are thanking the cops that just gave them a ticket, but whatever. Thank the service people because they died for our sins. Kiss the collective ass of the military because they put their lives on the line for YOU.
I am going to propose that this incessant thanking isn't genuine. It isn't about being grateful for soldiers or firefighters or cops, it is all about BEING SEEN being grateful for soldiers, or firefighters, or cops. Two different things. BEING SEEN caring is a painless substitute for actually doing something concrete. Why do people flock to funerals for kids they don't know? They want to be seen. Why do people flock to Ground Zero? They want to be seen. The tragedies of life become one big photo op.
How does anyone not see that people are using the images of the military to prey on people's emotions to sell a product? "At First Central National Bank, we believe in the values of the military. And those values extend beyond the battlefield. We embrace those values..." and then it becomes a commercial for their bank, not a support for the values of the military. How do people not see through this?
One challenge for the "support the troops, thank the vets, blah blah blah" people. Next Veteran's Day forego the free Golden Corral dinner, forget the parade, don't bother painting your car with the flag. Get in said car and drive down to your local nursing care or assisted living facility. Take a handful of flags with you, and visit an elderly veteran. Give them a flag and thank them. It might be the only visit they have all week. It would be something concrete. But it requires effort.
Dump the awareness campaigns. We are aware that breast cancer is bad. There isn't anyone out there saying "Breast cancer? Hooray!" We know it's evil. So quit using the pink ribbon to sell candy and soda pop. If big companies want to see that the Susan Komen people get some money, then give them some money. Here's a better idea. Dump the pink ribbon altogether, because MEN GET BREAST CANCER TOO. But no one gives a shit about the men getting breast cancer. Pink is all over everything. The commercials feature women exclusively. Brochures are published telling women how to examine themselves. Are you a man worried that you might have breast cancer? Well, apparently you can just go sit in a corner and die. No one is interested in saving your ta-ta's.
OK, I'm a judgmental asshole. What am I actually doing? Well, quite frankly, none of your damn business. I have given to Susam Komen walkers. I have given to veteran's causes. But I don't do it to be seen. I don't give a shit if my picture is ever in the paper for supporting a cause. And you shouldn't either.
---The Man
Yeah, that's right, I said it. The issue of bullying didn't come to the forefront until it was gay kids getting bullied. And let's get one thing straight (pardon the pun), bullying a kid for being gay is as much bullshit as bullying a kid for being fat, ugly, or a fan of the wrong rock bands. It isn't homophobia that is my problem here. It is the knee-jerk reactions people display when the media is riding a hobby horse.
"We support the troops!" OK, let's take that one on. How do you support the troops? Do you have a bumper sticker on your car? How exactly does that support the troops? Seriously. That does nothing practical to support the troops. Oh, it might make the driver of the car feel good, feel like they are a part of something, but if I were an Army man I would look at that bumper sticker and say "You know, if you want to support the troops, go mow my wife's lawn when I go on my third tour of duty in Afghanistan. Babysit my kids so my wife can get a breather." The only people that are supported by your bumper sticker are the people that make the damn things.
"But it generates awareness. Anything that can get people talking about important issues isn't a bad thing." Wrong. Might not be a bad thing, but it might very well be a useless thing. Is anyone not aware of the troops overseas? There cannot be one person in this country that doesn't know we are in an endless war in Afghanistan, and still have troops in Iraq. If the yellow ribbons and bumper stickers were for awareness, mission accomplished (to borrow a phrase). We're aware.
It isn't about awareness. It's about Vietnam guilt. You see, the troops returning from Vietnam were treated like shit. And that was deplorable. But because of that we have swung in the other direction. Now I'm supposed to thank a soldier, or a fireman, or a policeman every time I see one. None of these people are thanking the cops that just gave them a ticket, but whatever. Thank the service people because they died for our sins. Kiss the collective ass of the military because they put their lives on the line for YOU.
I am going to propose that this incessant thanking isn't genuine. It isn't about being grateful for soldiers or firefighters or cops, it is all about BEING SEEN being grateful for soldiers, or firefighters, or cops. Two different things. BEING SEEN caring is a painless substitute for actually doing something concrete. Why do people flock to funerals for kids they don't know? They want to be seen. Why do people flock to Ground Zero? They want to be seen. The tragedies of life become one big photo op.
How does anyone not see that people are using the images of the military to prey on people's emotions to sell a product? "At First Central National Bank, we believe in the values of the military. And those values extend beyond the battlefield. We embrace those values..." and then it becomes a commercial for their bank, not a support for the values of the military. How do people not see through this?
One challenge for the "support the troops, thank the vets, blah blah blah" people. Next Veteran's Day forego the free Golden Corral dinner, forget the parade, don't bother painting your car with the flag. Get in said car and drive down to your local nursing care or assisted living facility. Take a handful of flags with you, and visit an elderly veteran. Give them a flag and thank them. It might be the only visit they have all week. It would be something concrete. But it requires effort.
Dump the awareness campaigns. We are aware that breast cancer is bad. There isn't anyone out there saying "Breast cancer? Hooray!" We know it's evil. So quit using the pink ribbon to sell candy and soda pop. If big companies want to see that the Susan Komen people get some money, then give them some money. Here's a better idea. Dump the pink ribbon altogether, because MEN GET BREAST CANCER TOO. But no one gives a shit about the men getting breast cancer. Pink is all over everything. The commercials feature women exclusively. Brochures are published telling women how to examine themselves. Are you a man worried that you might have breast cancer? Well, apparently you can just go sit in a corner and die. No one is interested in saving your ta-ta's.
OK, I'm a judgmental asshole. What am I actually doing? Well, quite frankly, none of your damn business. I have given to Susam Komen walkers. I have given to veteran's causes. But I don't do it to be seen. I don't give a shit if my picture is ever in the paper for supporting a cause. And you shouldn't either.
---The Man
Monday, October 3, 2011
My Least Favorite Year
The past year, between my 44th and 45th birthdays, is one my family affectionately refers to as "the year from hell". The one really good thing, my youngest sister's wedding, was preceded by a family divorce. And then...
On November 18th my mother fainted on the stairs. My father took her to the emergency room where several hours later she was told that she had a growth on the brain. She was transferred to the Cleveland Clinic, where they told her that yes indeed, you have a brain tumor. Well holy shit, that isn't something you hear every day. We had celebrated her 70th birthday in April with a big party, and now she could die? My mother, little feisty Catholic woman that she is, has a brain tumor? Oh hell.
She went into surgery on November 22nd, ironically the 47th anniversary of the day Kennedy got his own hole in the head. We stayed at the Cleveland Clinic all day, until it was finally announced that she was out of surgery, and it was benign. Ah. We can breathe again. I didn't get to see her that day; it was two days later that I got to see my mom in recovery, with her swollen face and receding hair and stitches in her head from one side to the other. I left that day and cried.
If I can point to a time when I gained a newfound respect for my father, that was the time. He drove to Cleveland Clinic every day and spent the whole day with her. He came home drained, but got in the car the next day and repeated the process. Only one day did he miss, and that was because of a big ice storm. Yeah, yeah, I know that the only "real" heroes these days are the soldiers and cops and firefighters, at least according to everyone out there, but my father was nothing but heroic. And don't forget to thank Coast Guardsmen too. I'm just saying.
My mother was transferred to Lorain for therapy, and on December 24th she came home. That was Christmas last year. Screw the gifts. She slowly got back to normal, and now you would never know she had her skull opened up. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
On December 30th I went to bed and had some trouble breathing. As the night went on it continued to hurt, to the point where I decided to drive myself to the emergency room. After several hours I was told I had pneumonia, and oh yeah, you're being hospitalized. Great. So I spent three days in the hospital, including New Year's Eve. Hooray.
About two weeks later my mother went back to the hospital. She had some sort of infection. Was there for three days.
About two weeks after that my father was admitted to the hospital. Breathing issues. I think. It's all a blur sometimes.
Life was stable somewhat, except for the usual autism issues I deal with every day of my life. At the beginning of May, my father was admitted to the hospital with congestive heart failure. He was there a week this time. Left with a prescription for oxygen, 24-7.
Two months later I was at my daughter's Little League game and I got a call. Your dad needs to go to the emergency room, he's having stomach pains. I take him and my mother and stay until 11PM. And go back with my mom the next day. And the next. My mother hasn't driven since the brain surgery, so she needed someone to drive her. So I did. There was no thinking about it- she needed the help, so I gave her the help. She's my mom.
My father's condition worsened; he was scheduled for abdominal surgery, but his heartrate skyrocketed so they cancelled it. Several days later he almost died- he went into cardiac arrest and stopped breathing. He had a pacemaker installed. All the while he was exhibiting all the signs of dementia. He was confused, he couldn't remember things, he kept trying to yank out his tubes, he didn't remember that my brother came to visit him. It was heartbreaking. But every day I went to pick up my mother, and we drove to the hospital to see him. If my mom needed groceries, I took her there too.
My father was transferred to a nursing facility for physical therapy. His memory issues didn't improve. He took a couple of falls. Two weeks in he had to be rushed to the hospital because of his blood pressure. He was there for two days, where they made some medicine adjustments, and finally his mind came out of the clouds. Two weeks after that he was discharged. Now you would never know he had had any trouble at all.
If there was any good that came out of it all, it was that I got to know my parents in a completely different way. I love my parents tremendously. If they need me to step up again, they don't even have to ask. I'm there. But I hope the rest of the year is hospital-free.
Ma and Pa, I love you. Just stay healthy for more than a few weeks at a time :)
On November 18th my mother fainted on the stairs. My father took her to the emergency room where several hours later she was told that she had a growth on the brain. She was transferred to the Cleveland Clinic, where they told her that yes indeed, you have a brain tumor. Well holy shit, that isn't something you hear every day. We had celebrated her 70th birthday in April with a big party, and now she could die? My mother, little feisty Catholic woman that she is, has a brain tumor? Oh hell.
She went into surgery on November 22nd, ironically the 47th anniversary of the day Kennedy got his own hole in the head. We stayed at the Cleveland Clinic all day, until it was finally announced that she was out of surgery, and it was benign. Ah. We can breathe again. I didn't get to see her that day; it was two days later that I got to see my mom in recovery, with her swollen face and receding hair and stitches in her head from one side to the other. I left that day and cried.
If I can point to a time when I gained a newfound respect for my father, that was the time. He drove to Cleveland Clinic every day and spent the whole day with her. He came home drained, but got in the car the next day and repeated the process. Only one day did he miss, and that was because of a big ice storm. Yeah, yeah, I know that the only "real" heroes these days are the soldiers and cops and firefighters, at least according to everyone out there, but my father was nothing but heroic. And don't forget to thank Coast Guardsmen too. I'm just saying.
My mother was transferred to Lorain for therapy, and on December 24th she came home. That was Christmas last year. Screw the gifts. She slowly got back to normal, and now you would never know she had her skull opened up. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
On December 30th I went to bed and had some trouble breathing. As the night went on it continued to hurt, to the point where I decided to drive myself to the emergency room. After several hours I was told I had pneumonia, and oh yeah, you're being hospitalized. Great. So I spent three days in the hospital, including New Year's Eve. Hooray.
About two weeks later my mother went back to the hospital. She had some sort of infection. Was there for three days.
About two weeks after that my father was admitted to the hospital. Breathing issues. I think. It's all a blur sometimes.
Life was stable somewhat, except for the usual autism issues I deal with every day of my life. At the beginning of May, my father was admitted to the hospital with congestive heart failure. He was there a week this time. Left with a prescription for oxygen, 24-7.
Two months later I was at my daughter's Little League game and I got a call. Your dad needs to go to the emergency room, he's having stomach pains. I take him and my mother and stay until 11PM. And go back with my mom the next day. And the next. My mother hasn't driven since the brain surgery, so she needed someone to drive her. So I did. There was no thinking about it- she needed the help, so I gave her the help. She's my mom.
My father's condition worsened; he was scheduled for abdominal surgery, but his heartrate skyrocketed so they cancelled it. Several days later he almost died- he went into cardiac arrest and stopped breathing. He had a pacemaker installed. All the while he was exhibiting all the signs of dementia. He was confused, he couldn't remember things, he kept trying to yank out his tubes, he didn't remember that my brother came to visit him. It was heartbreaking. But every day I went to pick up my mother, and we drove to the hospital to see him. If my mom needed groceries, I took her there too.
My father was transferred to a nursing facility for physical therapy. His memory issues didn't improve. He took a couple of falls. Two weeks in he had to be rushed to the hospital because of his blood pressure. He was there for two days, where they made some medicine adjustments, and finally his mind came out of the clouds. Two weeks after that he was discharged. Now you would never know he had had any trouble at all.
If there was any good that came out of it all, it was that I got to know my parents in a completely different way. I love my parents tremendously. If they need me to step up again, they don't even have to ask. I'm there. But I hope the rest of the year is hospital-free.
Ma and Pa, I love you. Just stay healthy for more than a few weeks at a time :)
Sunday, October 2, 2011
45 is NOT OLD
And today is the day. I turn 45 today. I think that might mean middle age, I don't know. And frankly I can do without such artificial constructs anyway. Today I listened to hip-hop and am about to eat my birthday lemon meringue pie.
Who says I can't listen to hip-hop? Where is this written down?
When I turned 40, that was kind of bothersome. I made a point of listening to hard rock and punk that day. 30 isn't old; 40 kind of is. But what defines old? What authority defines when someone is "too old" for something? Act your age? What does that mean?
Too many people just accept what they are told without asking themselves "Why?" If I wasn't married, hell yeah I would consider dating a 20-year-old! Of course, she would have no interest in dating me, but that's beside the point. Who defines what "too old" is? I would be old enough to be a 20-year-old's father... if I hadn't been 30 when I first had sex. Again, beside the point.
Who makes these rules? Why do people abide by them if they can't answer why? This is today's question of the day.
---The Man
Who says I can't listen to hip-hop? Where is this written down?
When I turned 40, that was kind of bothersome. I made a point of listening to hard rock and punk that day. 30 isn't old; 40 kind of is. But what defines old? What authority defines when someone is "too old" for something? Act your age? What does that mean?
Too many people just accept what they are told without asking themselves "Why?" If I wasn't married, hell yeah I would consider dating a 20-year-old! Of course, she would have no interest in dating me, but that's beside the point. Who defines what "too old" is? I would be old enough to be a 20-year-old's father... if I hadn't been 30 when I first had sex. Again, beside the point.
Who makes these rules? Why do people abide by them if they can't answer why? This is today's question of the day.
---The Man
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