Many of you don’t have any idea who Hal David is, nor do you probably care. Tough shit, I’m going to tell you anyway. He was a lyricist who, along with composer Burt Bacharach, formed one of the most successful and prolific music tandems ever. They were the Rogers and Hammerstein of my parent’s generation. Think a schmaltzy version of Lennon and McCartney, or Elton John and Bernie Taupin for that matter. The point is, the opening line to one of many corny songs he wrote asked the question “What’s it all about…” Well, several events featured prominently in the past week’s news make me ask the same question.
I have been blogging for over a year. Every Wednesday without fail, I weigh in on some subject matter. The content ranges from the irreverent to the sublime, from the ridiculous to pieces historically factual, sometimes all of the above. It was my understanding that a blog is just such a forum for that type of thing. Today, I ponder. I also apologize for the Debbie Downer content. If you’re not up for it, pass this week, I’ll understand.
As a disclaimer, I am not a pillar of virtue. I was never purported to be. However, all that “he who has not sinned,” “judge ye not, lest ye be judged” crap aside, murders disturb me. Due to their frequency, I have not become so jaded that when I hear one has occurred, it at least elicits a shaking of a cast down head. Two murders happened recently that have grabbed headlines. One has garnered national attention, while the other happened a mere twenty-five miles away here in South Florida.
The murder of Connecticut Husky defensive back Jasper Howard has received attention because Howard was a college football player of note. The murder of fourteen year old Matthew Gorzynski of Coral Springs is notable because the alleged perpetrator is Matthew’s fifteen year old brother William. One does not sadden me more than another. Christ, people are dying everyday everywhere. There are two separate conflicts going on where people intentionally try to kill each other. In the big picture, all of this upsets me, but the killings disturb me in terms of what’s happening in our society.
I’m not stupid. I know murder, though we may not like it, is part of our culture. That does not mean I have to understand it. As a matter of fact, I’m trying to wrap my brain around why these murders have taken up space in my head. Why did a kid from Miami, who wanted to get out of his environment so badly, that he went to a college town located, as my son put it “in the middle of nowhere.” He devoted himself to the goals of getting his college degree, and while he was at it, perhaps honing his football skills to such a level that playing professional football might be in his future. If he did indeed succeed at the next level, the money provided would allow him to move the rest of his family out of the toxic environs of inner-city Miami. The very thing Jasper Howard desperately sought to escape, found him sixteen-hundred miles away.
I don’t know the particulars of this case. Authorities have not indicated the motive of the three assailants currently in custody. Police investigating the crime said that one of the suspects pulled the fire alarm to vacate the building where a campus dance was taking place. Once, outside, a fracas broke out. It was during the melee Howard was stabbed by John William Lomax III. (why do killers always have three names when being identified?) Did these three young men travel thirty miles just to start a ruckus for lack of something to do? Was a girl involved? Was this a crime of passion? Was this a crime of boredom? These are questions that keep running through my head. The bottom line is, why did it happen at all? I don’t much like not being able to figure any of this out. To compound my inability to grasp the meaning behind this heinous event, another occurs even more bizarre, sad, and puzzling.
Yesterday, the news reported that William Gorzynski (maybe he doesn’t warrant a third name because he’s a minor) stabbed his younger brother Matthew in the chest with a kitchen knife. What drove William to commit such an act? The two brothers had an argument over the volume on the computer speakers. When I heard this I thought my ability to disseminate information had gone drastically awry. Again, all the information surrounding the confrontation is sketchy at best. Was the suspect a troublemaker at school? Had he been causing problems since his mother left “several” years ago. Is this an isolated incident? What’s been building for so long that would prompt this sort of outburst over speaker volume? I can’t even fathom what the father of these two boys must be feeling, and/or agonizing over. Then to add insult to injury, my wife watched Oprah yesterday.
The program focused on a case involving a woman who loaded seven eleven year old girls into her minivan after a sleepover. She drove at a high rate of speed eventually crashing. Two of the girls were seriously injured. Another, the woman’s own daughter, did not survive. The woman was drunk. She killed her own kid. She’s hospitalized, under police guard while she recuperates from her injuries. She’s under a suicide watch. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!? My god, I’m getting depressed (incensed) all over again writing this.
As I get older, there are several nagging questions l don’t have definitive answers to. The standard “what’s the meaning of life” is one. Why do some people die, while others get the opportunity to live? Why do some kids get cancer at age six, and others live to ninety before they’re diagnosed? Why do things happen that gnaw at me, like the ones I just mentioned? I don’t want to summarily dismiss it as “all part of god’s plan,” whatever the fuck that’s suppose to mean. That sounds like a copout to me. I used to say I hope the answers to these questions, and all the others much less significant, will be revealed to me when I die. It won’t matter then though. This “me” will no longer exist and I won’t give a shit. I give a shit now!
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Taking a Stroll
I have often been asked the question of my age. My standard response has always been another question, “Chronologically, physically, or mentally?” To state, mentally I like to think twenty-one, though people who know me don’t even give me that maturation level. My chronological age is fifty-two. However, physically, I’m well over one hundred. But, as far as my memories go, they occasionally fall into the “old” category. Today is one of those days, as I wax nostalgic about the Halloween’s I remember which remotely resemble the one being celebrated next Saturday.
The Halloween’s of my early youth let both good and bad recollections out of my mental foot locker. If Halloween fell on a school day, we were to wear our costumes to class. It was either first or second grade, I don’t exactly recall, or want to for that matter; my mother made me wear a panther costume she had fabricated, complete with little pointy ears, and straw-filled tail. I was mortified. I cried at the very thought of appearing at each of the front doors of the neighbor’s when it came time to go trick or treating. Going to school dressed like that, I was confident my grandfather would not have to pick me up from school that afternoon, for I was surely going to die from embarrassment at some point in the day, and the local first aid squad would be bringing me home. At least I would get out of trick or treating in that humiliating atrocity. The costume my mother had made was not for my benefit, but hers. She considered the get-up “cute,” while I thought it “sissy.” Her little boy was growing up, and she wanted to keep him little for one more holiday season. I wanted no part of it. My father coaxed me until he was blue in the face, I eventually relented. If my father didn’t see anything wrong (outwardly) with wearing such a heinous outfit, I would go to school and suffer the barbs of my classmates. That was the last year my mother “surprised” me by making my costume.
In subsequent years I dressed up as a hobo, a football player, a skeleton, the devil, a baseball player, GI Joe, Frankenstein, and with my sister’s creative help, the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow. My machismo was never threatened. I wore these costumes to school proudly, never enduring ridicule from my peers. I may have, but that’s the way I remember it. The parties at school were nice, but trick or treating was what I thought about the nearest one was going to get to childhood nirvana.
Oh I participated in what was commonly known as “Mischief Night” the evening before Halloween. My friends and I rang doorbells, soaped windows, toilet paper was strewn about, and as we got older, the pranks became more sophisticated for lack of a better word. Bags of dog shit set aflame accompanied the ringing of a doorbell. Soaping windows became an art form. Still, the tomfoolery did not compare with what was to follow the next evening.
Once I turned nine, my friends and I were allowed out way beyond our normal curfews. Parental whistles, cowbells, and bellowing that normally began about an hour after dusk, were delayed until at least nine o’clock. By the time Tom Rowlands and I had reached the sixth grade, ten o’clock was quite an acceptable hour to return home from our legal pillaging.
Collecting candy was a no holds barred exercise in conspicuous consumption. Once school let out, Tom and I, being the oldest of the brood we were entrusted with bringing home without incident; would gather those joining us to map out the proposed route of plenty.
There were twenty-one homes considered by our parents, to be part of our neighborhood. If we were to go beyond that predetermined boundary, we needed to give an approximate time and whereabouts. Tom and I shrewdly, with the input of our co-conspirators, devised alternate means with which to “hit” as many houses in the time allotted. Darkness fell around six-thirty, if we could clean up Valley View Road in thirty minutes, that left us three hours to ravage the surrounding area.
Halloween was the one night of the year my parents made the concession of eating dinner before seven. Under normal circumstances, my friends all ate between six and six-thirty. Then they were allowed back out for about an hour as long as everyone stayed in the neighborhood. I on the other hand, once called in for dinner, due to the lateness of the hour, had to remain indoors to do the homework that never got done. In order to make the six-thirty rendezvous, we ate at six. I was grateful.
Once the sweep was completed of the immediate area, we’d make our way through the Mowles’ back yard to the homes on Hillside Avenue. There weren’t many homes, but the owners knew all of us, and were always glad to see us. No turning off the lights making it seem as if no one was home back then. Sometimes we’d bump into other classmates. Some joined our assemblage, others stuck to their appointed rounds. We would then double back at The Hillside Lounge, making our way past Cooperative Industries, ending up at the intersection of Furnace Road and Pleasant Hill. If time allowed we’d make a quick pit stop at the McGloghlins and the Knox abode. About this time some of the younger of our gaggle began to run out of steam. The prospect of heading up Furnace to another of the “Melrose” developments seemed daunting to them. Some years we made Ernie’s the last stop.
Ernie was, at least to us, a very old man, who lived alone, in a very old house. Hell, he was old, and so was the house. It served as a tool and die establishment since the late nineteenth century. Ernie, by the looks of him, may have worked there from the very beginning. A rumor that circulated was the house was haunted. Very few children ever dared enter, much less on Halloween. But as Tom and I, and the rest of our inner circle knew, Halloween was the best time to go inside Ernie’s.
Ernie could be espied several times a week walking to town to buy groceries. Due to his advanced age, Ernie had to be prudent on the quantity of his purchase. He used a cane, and a ride back the two miles home wasn’t always a certainty. My guess was, around Halloween, he needed to make two trips to town just so he could haul back the candy he bought for the kids who did venture inside his decrepit looking domicile.
On Halloween, a low wattage bug light was lit on the front porch. If it no longer shown, Ernie had gone to bed. Timing was crucial. It was worth eschewing an entire neighborhood just to make sure you made it to Ernie’s before he retired for the night.
The porch stairs creaked as we all made our way up. The faint of heart had baled. The ones in our crew who the seasoned veterans convinced going to Ernie’s was a wise move, ventured forth, albeit with a certain amount of trepidation. Us big kids assured the younger we wouldn’t let anything happen to them.
There were no decorations hinting it was a holiday. There was no jack-o-lantern aglow, or scarecrow guarding the doorway as at other houses we had been to, just the bug light which, technically speaking, was a festive orangey-yellow. There was always a discussion as to who would do the knocking; this was done mostly for the benefit of those who’d never been there before. The one designated to hail our arrival, opened the unoiled screen door, and pounded on the solid oak front door. Ernie was hard of hearing; you had to make your presence known. Even though Ernie kept his vigil from a chair right inside the door, it took a couple of beats for him to answer.
The door did not slowly creep ajar as with most “haunted” houses. Ernie opened it with a hardy, toothless “Oh my goodness!!” He waved us in with his cane, absolutely delighted to have visitors, any visitors, even if it was only the neighborhood kids who weren’t afraid of him. Once inside, a huge old cauldron that was once used for smelting metals sat in the middle of the room, brimming with the largest assortment of candies one could imagine. He’d quietly fuss over our variety of costumes; he’d gently muss a head of hair or two while he led us to our very own version of Candyland. Inside the caldron rested a ladle. As we all gathered around the caldron, Ernie instructed us to open our bags, pillow cases and the like. With the ladle, Ernie would dig down into the sweet booty, and begin to pour the goodies in our various receptacles. One, two, three ladles full, we all got the same VIP treatment. Had we left our bags open Ernie would have continued to fill them until there was no more to be had. You see, this was Ernie’s treat, not just ours. He was so appreciative that we would stop to see him, the candy was our reward. I didn’t know then why he went to so much trouble, or why he was so kind to us, but I certainly know why today.
After Ernie’s we’d scramble back to our neighborhood to divvy up our haul. Trades for personal favorites would be made. We’d comment on who gave out “full size” candy bars. We’d admire who went to all the trouble of making real candied apples for god knows how many kids. We did this all alone, without parental interference. We knew the rule of throwing out all loose unpackaged candy. We didn’t need to have our candy X-Rayed. Sure, you always heard about some asshole putting pins or razor blades into apples, so you kept an eye out. The people handing out treats really aren’t that much different today than the way they were back when I was a kid. However, the paranoia, and those that fan the flames have grown considerably.
Gone are the days of seeing a hundred or more laughing children come up your walk-way. I haven’t seen a UNICEF container in years. Most kids are in and done by 8:30, even though anything considered a neighborhood is lit up like Times Square. Most kids are accompanied by parents, no more older kids looking out for the little ones. The media warns of the possibility that a John Wayne Gacy lurks behind every door, and poisoning candy is commonplace, though I believe no more prevalent that when I was a young.
I no longer have the same feeling for Halloween I once did. Everything has been scaled down. The time allotted for trick or treating, the care taken in preparing a costume, the “fun size” candy bars, the number of kids coming around has dwindled. The whole thing now seems like Halloween is being rushed to a premature conclusion. Kids today probably wouldn’t be given the opportunity to experience going to “an Ernie’s.” I’m glad I got the chance. I’m quite sure Ernie is.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Bigger than Life
Technologically speaking, we’ve come a long way since Joseph Henry and Michael Faraday started farting around with electromagnetism in 1831. The list of those who contributed, for better or worse, to the advent of television, is numerous. Those Generation Y sexters probably can’t fathom that Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone, and Thomas Alva Edison, the inventor the electric light, collaborated in 1880 to explore the possibility of telephone devices capable of transmitting images as well as sound. From Paul Nipkow sending sixteen line resolution images over wires in 1884, to the 1900 World’s Fair in Paris where Constantin Perskyi first used the term “television,” men, sorry ladies, worked tirelessly to bring this new vehicle of entertainment to the general public.
Vladimir Zworkin patented a color television system in 1925 with the research backing of RCA and General Electric. In 1927, Philo (Philco) Farnsworth, much to the chagrin of those entities, filed for a patent for his “Image Dissector.” Personally, the word “television” had a lot more potential. 1936 brought us coaxial cable, and after an experimental testing between Philadelphia and New York; the first coaxial cables for everyday use were laid between Minneapolis and Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Wow, to think Stevens Point had more going for it than just Point Beer. RCA chairman David Sarnoff used the 1939 New York World’s Fair to showcase his “television” with a broadcast of a Presidential speech. However, if you wanted to hear it, tough shit. It wouldn’t be until the Dumont Company located in Dumont, New Jersey-I couldn’t resist- marries the two mediums of radio and sound, so you can hear and see (what a novel idea) what is being broadcast. Dumont, the company not the town, began mass production of the odd boxes.
Peter Goldmark invented 343 resolution color TV in 1940, but it would be a decade before the FCC approved it. And Howard Stern thinks he's had FCC troubles. I guess they didn’t want Peter sending color pictures of his peter over the airwaves from his lab. The UFO craze was starting about then. Maybe the FCC didn’t want the primitive tinting process that made everything and everyone green, alarming the public, giving the impression we were being invaded by Martians. What a gullible lot our parents and grandparents were. Christ, it’s embarrassing really. They bought into that duck and cover bullshit in the event of a nuclear attack. Yeah, good thinking.
In the case of the topic at hand; my grandfather swore he’d never buy a color TV until it was perfected. I sure glad he wasn’t hanging by his balls waiting. It’s not perfected yet, but not for lack of trying. Pop finally broke down and bought one in 1977 I think. He was eighty-two years old. I'm glad he didn't wait much longer, because he didn't have much longer.
If I wanted to watch programs on a color set, I had to go to my friend Tom Rowlands’ house. They had a color set when they moved into the neighborhood in 1965. Tom’s father working for RCA may have had something to do with it. I’d appear at their door early Saturday mornings, just after dawn if the truth be known, to watch cartoons in color. Had I been capable of an orgasm at eight years old, I’m sure this would have served as the impetus. Enough about that, I’m getting off the subject.
Over the years, television technology has leapt forward. Today, we have flat screen, stereo, surround sound, LCD, DLP, HD, plasma, climax inducing TVs. That last part I made up. However, when my wife and I got our first too large to do your eyes any good, flat screen Sony Bravia TV, we nearly did. And that was watching a commercial.
I remember growing up having seven channels to choose from. If it was an especially clear day, you could add four more Philadelphia stations. That was one of the advantages of living in the New York Metropolitan area. Hell, the Mets and the Yankees had stations that broadcast the majority of their games, WOR for the Mets, and WPIX for the Yankees. Now we have to buy a baseball “package” if we want to follow the teams we grew up with just because we’ve relocated. Our house had the antenna neatly, and securely located in the attic. The Rowlands’ had a motorized antenna for optimum reception for all their channels. They even got Hartford and Boston with just a touch of the dial. Now I’m starting to sound like my parents and grandparents.
It’s 2009, and you have either cable or satellite. After a decades long festering feud with cable, my wife and I opted for the unsightly dish on the roof. We now get over seven-hundred channels, not including music stations. We can’t watch any of them if a severe storm strikes.
Why is it that the same technology that can take a picture from outer space of me pissing in my backyard cannot provide a signal that can penetrate through cloud cover, and I get to pay handsomely for this distinction? I guess I’m supposed to feel privileged to be able to access all of the quality entertainment at our fingertips. However, this household does not take advantage of this endless, thought provoking, engaging, assault on the senses. The reason for this is because television programming in my opinion, for the most part, sucks. For the price that’s charged, every single one of the shows and sporting events should take place live in my living room. However, with HD television, at least it looks like they do. I’m still undecided if this is a good thing.
HD television is reported to make everything look more “real.” Isn’t “real” an oxymoron when it comes to TV? First, it’s said the camera adds fifteen pounds to a person. That’s unreal isn’t it? If that’s the case, then people have to be thinner than they want to just to keep their careers afloat, a sometimes “unreal” expectation (see John Goodman). This distortion does not count when it comes to sporting events and the various forms of “reality” television.
Second, with HDTV, more makeup is needed because of the clarity this technology achieves. Hence, a person on camera then looks more unreal, in some cases, surreal. Movie viewing has brought out the worst, best? in HD television. In each movie the features of each actor are clearer than I think I want. You see each and every zit, scar, pockmark, nose hair, facial and dental flaw or cosmetic reconstruction, no matter how much makeup is put on. You can even see exactly how much makeup is used, and what color, which often times is also unreal. Sometimes seeing these supposed visions of genetic perfection makes me feel good at the way I look. I see Art Pacino’s collection of bad hair pieces. I saw in Oceans Thirteen the awful condition of his fingernails. You see the bad dye jobs, the wrinkled, veiny hands. You see the five o’clock shadows. The crow’s feet are amplified, as are the chicken necks. In some instances, it’s so bad the last time I saw that much dangling, John Holmes was alive. We get to see stretch marks, cellulite, and age spots. J-Lo’s and Jennifer Love Hewitt’s more than ample asses take up as much of the screen as they are so entitled. All of this dispels the myth of starlet glamour, and brings a dose of realism to our living rooms. I’m reminded of the song “More human than Human” by White Zombie. I kinda like that aspect. What I don’t like is the price.
Sports and movies are my thing. DirecTV preys on people like me. If I want a particular movie channel, I don’t get the sports channels I want. I can only get those if I were to upgrade, which would include other movie channels that I don’t give a shit about. It is not cost effective to get just what you want. Therein lies the rub.
The word love does not accurately describe the affection I feel toward the Cincinnati Bengal football team. Since no one else outside of Cincinnati feels this way, their games are rarely shown on national television. That and they usually suck. In order to watch their games, I have to subscribe to NFL Ticket to the tune of $250 per season. This I have done for the past three years. To see these games broadcast in HD, I need to pony up another hun. I’m already paying ten extra dollars a month for an HD converter. I don’t understand if the games are being broadcast in HD on networks, and I have the converter box (original cost $100), why do I have to pay extra to have them broadcast in HD with NFL Ticket? Oh, DirecTV says you get all sorts of other wonderful features that also fall into my I don’t give a shit category. You can watch eight games at the same time! Is that really possible without missing something? Only a hard core gambler needs this feature. Besides, all the games at the same time means they’re all very small. What’s the point of having a big screen if they shrink the games? This is a bonus?
Viewing every other team in the league I treat with equal disregard. I don’t give a shit about them save the Giants. I have splurged on my beloved Bengals for three years, in HD. You do the math.
If I want to watch my New York Mets, no matter how pathetic they are, I would need to ante up another $350 for baseball season. The same goes for the NBA, NHL, and college football. I cannot select one team in a specific sport. I must get access to all, but what a bargain so says DirecTV. This year I told them that due to infrequency in paychecks, they would need to take a backseat in the bill pay line. They offered to take $50 off if I renewed. How magnanimous! All because of what a loyal customer I’ve been! For the amount I pay per month, and my little extravagance the past three falls, they should give me my own goddamn channel. I would settle for uninterrupted reception when it gets cloudy. That, they can’t help me with. Aside from that really fucking annoying periodic inconvenience, HDTV is spectacular. Ask my wife.
She is not a big sports fan, the main reason for the extra expense. However, the weekend the TV arrived three summers ago, coincided with the playing of golf’s last major of the year, The PGA Championship. We didn’t move from the couch, not even during the commercials due to our sensory heightened viewing experience, and boy are we glad we didn’t.
A commercial came on advertising the most advanced form of high definition television available, the Sharp Aquos system. A multi-colored bejeweled blond woman dressed in black, walking a multi-colored bejeweled white leopard, with a multi-colored bejeweled leash, graced the screen. My wife and I oooohed and ahhhhed. The colors jumped off the screen. I inquired why would I want to buy the TV they were advertising if the picture was this phenomenal on our set? The point taken, we couldn’t wait for the commercial to be shown again.
The vibrant colors no longer cause such unbridled awe. We’ve grown used to it. We’ve come to expect it for that matter. I guess HDTV is worth the money, the cost for getting over 700 channels of shit is not. I don’t know how they are going to make any real discernable improvements in picture quality and clarity in the near future. 1080p, or one-thousand and eighty megapixels of resolution per square inch is a far cry from eighteen lines for the entire screen. I better go cut my grandfather down.
Vladimir Zworkin patented a color television system in 1925 with the research backing of RCA and General Electric. In 1927, Philo (Philco) Farnsworth, much to the chagrin of those entities, filed for a patent for his “Image Dissector.” Personally, the word “television” had a lot more potential. 1936 brought us coaxial cable, and after an experimental testing between Philadelphia and New York; the first coaxial cables for everyday use were laid between Minneapolis and Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Wow, to think Stevens Point had more going for it than just Point Beer. RCA chairman David Sarnoff used the 1939 New York World’s Fair to showcase his “television” with a broadcast of a Presidential speech. However, if you wanted to hear it, tough shit. It wouldn’t be until the Dumont Company located in Dumont, New Jersey-I couldn’t resist- marries the two mediums of radio and sound, so you can hear and see (what a novel idea) what is being broadcast. Dumont, the company not the town, began mass production of the odd boxes.
Peter Goldmark invented 343 resolution color TV in 1940, but it would be a decade before the FCC approved it. And Howard Stern thinks he's had FCC troubles. I guess they didn’t want Peter sending color pictures of his peter over the airwaves from his lab. The UFO craze was starting about then. Maybe the FCC didn’t want the primitive tinting process that made everything and everyone green, alarming the public, giving the impression we were being invaded by Martians. What a gullible lot our parents and grandparents were. Christ, it’s embarrassing really. They bought into that duck and cover bullshit in the event of a nuclear attack. Yeah, good thinking.
In the case of the topic at hand; my grandfather swore he’d never buy a color TV until it was perfected. I sure glad he wasn’t hanging by his balls waiting. It’s not perfected yet, but not for lack of trying. Pop finally broke down and bought one in 1977 I think. He was eighty-two years old. I'm glad he didn't wait much longer, because he didn't have much longer.
If I wanted to watch programs on a color set, I had to go to my friend Tom Rowlands’ house. They had a color set when they moved into the neighborhood in 1965. Tom’s father working for RCA may have had something to do with it. I’d appear at their door early Saturday mornings, just after dawn if the truth be known, to watch cartoons in color. Had I been capable of an orgasm at eight years old, I’m sure this would have served as the impetus. Enough about that, I’m getting off the subject.
Over the years, television technology has leapt forward. Today, we have flat screen, stereo, surround sound, LCD, DLP, HD, plasma, climax inducing TVs. That last part I made up. However, when my wife and I got our first too large to do your eyes any good, flat screen Sony Bravia TV, we nearly did. And that was watching a commercial.
I remember growing up having seven channels to choose from. If it was an especially clear day, you could add four more Philadelphia stations. That was one of the advantages of living in the New York Metropolitan area. Hell, the Mets and the Yankees had stations that broadcast the majority of their games, WOR for the Mets, and WPIX for the Yankees. Now we have to buy a baseball “package” if we want to follow the teams we grew up with just because we’ve relocated. Our house had the antenna neatly, and securely located in the attic. The Rowlands’ had a motorized antenna for optimum reception for all their channels. They even got Hartford and Boston with just a touch of the dial. Now I’m starting to sound like my parents and grandparents.
It’s 2009, and you have either cable or satellite. After a decades long festering feud with cable, my wife and I opted for the unsightly dish on the roof. We now get over seven-hundred channels, not including music stations. We can’t watch any of them if a severe storm strikes.
Why is it that the same technology that can take a picture from outer space of me pissing in my backyard cannot provide a signal that can penetrate through cloud cover, and I get to pay handsomely for this distinction? I guess I’m supposed to feel privileged to be able to access all of the quality entertainment at our fingertips. However, this household does not take advantage of this endless, thought provoking, engaging, assault on the senses. The reason for this is because television programming in my opinion, for the most part, sucks. For the price that’s charged, every single one of the shows and sporting events should take place live in my living room. However, with HD television, at least it looks like they do. I’m still undecided if this is a good thing.
HD television is reported to make everything look more “real.” Isn’t “real” an oxymoron when it comes to TV? First, it’s said the camera adds fifteen pounds to a person. That’s unreal isn’t it? If that’s the case, then people have to be thinner than they want to just to keep their careers afloat, a sometimes “unreal” expectation (see John Goodman). This distortion does not count when it comes to sporting events and the various forms of “reality” television.
Second, with HDTV, more makeup is needed because of the clarity this technology achieves. Hence, a person on camera then looks more unreal, in some cases, surreal. Movie viewing has brought out the worst, best? in HD television. In each movie the features of each actor are clearer than I think I want. You see each and every zit, scar, pockmark, nose hair, facial and dental flaw or cosmetic reconstruction, no matter how much makeup is put on. You can even see exactly how much makeup is used, and what color, which often times is also unreal. Sometimes seeing these supposed visions of genetic perfection makes me feel good at the way I look. I see Art Pacino’s collection of bad hair pieces. I saw in Oceans Thirteen the awful condition of his fingernails. You see the bad dye jobs, the wrinkled, veiny hands. You see the five o’clock shadows. The crow’s feet are amplified, as are the chicken necks. In some instances, it’s so bad the last time I saw that much dangling, John Holmes was alive. We get to see stretch marks, cellulite, and age spots. J-Lo’s and Jennifer Love Hewitt’s more than ample asses take up as much of the screen as they are so entitled. All of this dispels the myth of starlet glamour, and brings a dose of realism to our living rooms. I’m reminded of the song “More human than Human” by White Zombie. I kinda like that aspect. What I don’t like is the price.
Sports and movies are my thing. DirecTV preys on people like me. If I want a particular movie channel, I don’t get the sports channels I want. I can only get those if I were to upgrade, which would include other movie channels that I don’t give a shit about. It is not cost effective to get just what you want. Therein lies the rub.
The word love does not accurately describe the affection I feel toward the Cincinnati Bengal football team. Since no one else outside of Cincinnati feels this way, their games are rarely shown on national television. That and they usually suck. In order to watch their games, I have to subscribe to NFL Ticket to the tune of $250 per season. This I have done for the past three years. To see these games broadcast in HD, I need to pony up another hun. I’m already paying ten extra dollars a month for an HD converter. I don’t understand if the games are being broadcast in HD on networks, and I have the converter box (original cost $100), why do I have to pay extra to have them broadcast in HD with NFL Ticket? Oh, DirecTV says you get all sorts of other wonderful features that also fall into my I don’t give a shit category. You can watch eight games at the same time! Is that really possible without missing something? Only a hard core gambler needs this feature. Besides, all the games at the same time means they’re all very small. What’s the point of having a big screen if they shrink the games? This is a bonus?
Viewing every other team in the league I treat with equal disregard. I don’t give a shit about them save the Giants. I have splurged on my beloved Bengals for three years, in HD. You do the math.
If I want to watch my New York Mets, no matter how pathetic they are, I would need to ante up another $350 for baseball season. The same goes for the NBA, NHL, and college football. I cannot select one team in a specific sport. I must get access to all, but what a bargain so says DirecTV. This year I told them that due to infrequency in paychecks, they would need to take a backseat in the bill pay line. They offered to take $50 off if I renewed. How magnanimous! All because of what a loyal customer I’ve been! For the amount I pay per month, and my little extravagance the past three falls, they should give me my own goddamn channel. I would settle for uninterrupted reception when it gets cloudy. That, they can’t help me with. Aside from that really fucking annoying periodic inconvenience, HDTV is spectacular. Ask my wife.
She is not a big sports fan, the main reason for the extra expense. However, the weekend the TV arrived three summers ago, coincided with the playing of golf’s last major of the year, The PGA Championship. We didn’t move from the couch, not even during the commercials due to our sensory heightened viewing experience, and boy are we glad we didn’t.
A commercial came on advertising the most advanced form of high definition television available, the Sharp Aquos system. A multi-colored bejeweled blond woman dressed in black, walking a multi-colored bejeweled white leopard, with a multi-colored bejeweled leash, graced the screen. My wife and I oooohed and ahhhhed. The colors jumped off the screen. I inquired why would I want to buy the TV they were advertising if the picture was this phenomenal on our set? The point taken, we couldn’t wait for the commercial to be shown again.
The vibrant colors no longer cause such unbridled awe. We’ve grown used to it. We’ve come to expect it for that matter. I guess HDTV is worth the money, the cost for getting over 700 channels of shit is not. I don’t know how they are going to make any real discernable improvements in picture quality and clarity in the near future. 1080p, or one-thousand and eighty megapixels of resolution per square inch is a far cry from eighteen lines for the entire screen. I better go cut my grandfather down.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
A State of Disrepair
I am not what one would consider to be a handy guy. I am not embarrassed to admit this by any means. My testosterone level does not increase when I go to Home Depot. I do not meet my friends at the local Ace Hardware to shoot the breeze like Tim Allen’s character on Home Improvement. A different definition of “Tool,” (as in “he’s such a…”) comes to mind when it comes to me fixing, replacing, building, or repairing most things. Sure, I’ve had my moments in the sun. However, these construction moments are not only few and far between, but an eclipse that lasts for an infinitely long periods usually follows. That’s what makes what happened yesterday a little different.
It is difficult to pinpoint when the seeds of my mechanical ineptitude began to take root. My maternal grandfather, who I believed as a very small child, possibly helped Noah erect his Ark, had his own workshop complete with machinery. You couldn’t call them just “tools” because of the sheer mass of these industrial strength behemoths. As a pretty good size teenager, I recall having to help load these monstrosities into the U-Haul when my grandparents moved to a retirement community. I was quite sure the thought of ever having children was rendered moot by the lifting of these cast iron and steel relics.
My grandparents had a two car garage in their home with a wall separating one unit from the other. The left side was for the car, the right was The Shop, where my grandfather puttered on projects great and small. Sometimes my grandmother would assign him to fix this, that, or the other thing. Sometimes he would build shit just because he could. He once fabricated a stereo system for his television set out of old portable radio speakers when his hearing started to go. They straddled either side of his La-Z-Boy Strat-O-Lounger. Now as far as I was concerned, his hearing started to go shortly after I was born. I never knew of a time when my grandfather did not keep the volume of the TV so high that the majority of his neighbors knew what he was watching even in the dead of winter.
He made his own ammunition for his collection of target pistols being the good card carrying NRA man and Son of the American Revolution that he was. He made refrigeration elements from scratch. He made cabinets, tables, recaned and reupholstered chairs. He owned his own lathe, drill press, table saw, etc. My grandmother would bellow “Weh-esss” summoning him from the upstairs of their neat bi-level home, just to ask him what he was doing. The standard response was always, “I’M WORKING IN THE SHOP!!” voicing his distain for being disturbed. I was often by his side as he unsuccessfully tried to expand my dexterous horizons. I recall how he painstakingly talked me through a head gasket replacement on my ’67 Mustang. I retained little. A tradesman I was not. However, at two very different times in my life did I work in a trade.
I worked as a laborer for three different masons in my younger years. I did every duty imaginable except lay brick and block, but carried plenty of both. I even got a job once to pour a patio for someone, and it turned out great. I just never had the inherent inclination to improve on my limited knowledge.
I pumped gas at a full service station, yet never utilized the lift and tools at my disposal to do work on my own vehicle after hours. I had different priorities, like drugs, sports, and a girlfriend, not necessarily in that order.
Later in life, at the tender age of forty-three, and sans one leg, I labored for a neighbor who did tile work on the side. Again, my sieve-like mind held nothing while my own home was in need of said tile work. I don’t know if any of these prospective tutors found my incompetence frustrating, but I know my father did.
My father was handy, and he learned more still from my grandfather. My Dad even suggested at one time learning a trade so I’d have something to fall back on in case my career plans were derailed. Since that train jumped the track before it ever left the station, there was nothing to fall back to.
My father-in-law found me to be apt pupil when I could fit it in. He was also very well versed in all aspects concerning anything that required use of his hands. When he asked for my assistance, I was either nowhere to be found, or my hands were in my pockets. He maintained his own boats, planes, and homes; both the summer house on Long Beach Island in New Jersey, and the year round abode in the suburb of Madison. When it came time for his daughter and I to move into our first home, he was the first to offer a hand to fix whatever needed fixing. The one time he asked for my help, I remaining sleeping after a long night of drinking and doing drugs. He clattered and banged while I snored. When we turned the basement of my teenage home into an efficiency apartment, he stepped to the proverbial plate and hit a refurbishment grand slam. This time I did my part, with our answer to Bob Vila guiding my hand while I put down new flooring, and paneled the walls. I could not duplicate one moment of what I’d accomplished so long ago. Gone those lessons were, like so much chalk erased from a blackboard. Since then, there have been several minor erection victories, none with penile implications.
I could always put together things at Christmas time without taking out my frustrations on the general public with an assault weapon. I’ve put together computer desks, computer chairs, and the maze of wiring necessary for most home electronics. Granted, when it came to the electronic stuff, I often needed my son to do it once or twice before I got it down. I erected a shed out back, the last surviving monolith from my drinking days. This was no small feat, believe you me.
Back in 1999, in dire need of additional storage since two new members were added to my new wife’s household, we went shopping for a shed. The pleasant young gentleman at Home Depot assured my wife and I that the model we were interested in, which stood before us in all its floor display glory, took two people four hours to complete. Our fears of a time consuming project beyond my elementary levels of assembly aptitude allayed, we made our purchase with our confidence in tact. The hulking massive box of vinyl had to be delivered. How the hell I was going to get it in the backyard was anybody’s guess. I’ve gone blank trying to remember exactly how it did make its way back there. I’m sure it’s some sort of a painful memory I’ve suppressed. Insert maniacal hearty laughter here.
I borrowed my neighbor’s cordless power drill, along with a couple of concrete penetrating drill bits. I bought my initial case of beer, and commenced my industrious project alone. The optimum word in that sentence is alone. The guy at Home Depot said “two people, four hours.” I just assumed one person eight hours. I assumed wrong. I measured each distance precisely. I used a square to make sure my corners were perfect. It was time to bore the holes to which I would anchor by screws, the frame of the shed to the concrete. After breaking two drill bits, wearing out another two, I made my first trip back to Home Depot for a few more. In ninety-five degree heat, I drank and drilled, and drank some more before my first day’s work was done. One-hundred and twelve holes had to be drilled into that god-forsaken concrete. Nothing more was done that day, just 112 holes. Exhausted, hot, sweaty, and smelly, I mentally prepared myself for day two.
I was unaware that global warming could occur over night. The directions, written in Sanskrit, were obviously some sadists attempt at humor. Yet I persevered. Most of my adult life I had endured the jibes centering on my incompetence when it came to things of this nature. I would show everyone, but first I needed another case of beer. That task complete, I trudged onward, frequently screaming profanities in what I’m sure my neighbors thought was some sort of practice for a weird X-rated operatic aria. Once the frame was in place, made all the more stout due to the copious amount of steel-like caulking I’d used, it was time to put up the walls. My structure now had form. Pleased at what I saw, I attached the doors. Much to my dismay, as well as drunken mind, I had neglected to compensate for the crown in the concrete that allowed for drainage run off. The goddamn doors were out of square. This unappealing revelation elicited two mental responses. One, I could just stick a small bit of C4 to the partially finished exterior and give up the ghost; or two, admit a minor setback which everyone could live with and resume my task. Sadly, reason prevailed and I chose the latter, a decision I would soon regret. I had had enough, darkness was falling on my little corner of the world, it probably wasn’t, I think I was just on the verge of passing out. Satisfied at the dissatisfaction that stood before me, I packed it in so as to fight another day. And fought I did.
After stopping at the local quickie mart for case three for day three, I had a daunting revelation that took the wind out of my sails on a day where there was no wind to be had due to the fucking horrendous heat. If the doors were out of sync, that must mean other things were out of sync. The first was the roof, and the second was the location which had nothing to do with my measurements and everything to do with my stupidity.
In order to put the roof panels in this fucking albatross, I needed a ladder. My wife forbade me from using a ladder due to my legless condition. If I fell, there was no one to dial “911” as I often instructed my son to do when I tackled other jobs that required some sort of physical labor. I would wait for my wife so I could complete my version of the Guggenheim. Once the last panel had been slipped, well, really more like pounded into place, I stood back to witness the splendor that only a construction deficient individual can feel. It has withstood four hurricanes, and suffered no ill effects while the surrounding homes lost roofs and sustained structural damage. It stands today, a legend to my lack of ability. I frequently point to it proudly when another project comes along I’m certain I can handle, many of which I couldn’t until yesterday.
After several unsuccessful attempts at replacing the inner workings of both our toilets, I decided it was time to move forward; that, and a faucet that had been dripping for two years, increased the speed of the flow. My wife and I had purchased two new faucets six and half years ago. Her son replaced one. But before he could replace the other he moved. Perhaps spurred on by the prospect of having to replace the other? I thought I’d surprise the little women and do it myself. I’d show her that I’m not the unhandiest of handymen.
The area in which I had to work was small. I am large. Think of Shaq in a Smart Car. I have little range of motion in my left knee to which is attached a prosthetic devise that makes doing anything laborious a huge fucking pain in the ass, but I would not complain. With the same grit and determination that kept me plodding forward ten long years ago, sans the beer, I was going to replace the faucet before my wife came home. Blew that deadline due to a part I neglected to install. Once that was replaced, I was done, with little outside help. We went to test my handiwork and no water was forthcoming. There was no blood curdling profanity laced tirade. I would ask my friend Cliff, who’s really fucking handy; he would know what ails my faucet. Low and behold it was dirt. I cleaned out the end thingy, and eureka! Paydirt! In deep need of affirmation I asked the all-knowing Cliff if aside from the dirt, was my installation correct. What he said was music to my ears even though it was only one note. “Perfect” he said. I told him to say it louder so my wife could hear. I really wanted him to go out on the front porch and announce it at the top of his lungs to the entire neighborhood, but I settled for just my wife. He did as instructed and I gloated. I’m really glad this kind of stuff only needs to be done once every ten years. I guess I’m just one of those people who keep tradesmen employed. Why upset the natural order of things if you don’t have to. Some people are born to do, I am one of those that’s born to pay to have them done.
It is difficult to pinpoint when the seeds of my mechanical ineptitude began to take root. My maternal grandfather, who I believed as a very small child, possibly helped Noah erect his Ark, had his own workshop complete with machinery. You couldn’t call them just “tools” because of the sheer mass of these industrial strength behemoths. As a pretty good size teenager, I recall having to help load these monstrosities into the U-Haul when my grandparents moved to a retirement community. I was quite sure the thought of ever having children was rendered moot by the lifting of these cast iron and steel relics.
My grandparents had a two car garage in their home with a wall separating one unit from the other. The left side was for the car, the right was The Shop, where my grandfather puttered on projects great and small. Sometimes my grandmother would assign him to fix this, that, or the other thing. Sometimes he would build shit just because he could. He once fabricated a stereo system for his television set out of old portable radio speakers when his hearing started to go. They straddled either side of his La-Z-Boy Strat-O-Lounger. Now as far as I was concerned, his hearing started to go shortly after I was born. I never knew of a time when my grandfather did not keep the volume of the TV so high that the majority of his neighbors knew what he was watching even in the dead of winter.
He made his own ammunition for his collection of target pistols being the good card carrying NRA man and Son of the American Revolution that he was. He made refrigeration elements from scratch. He made cabinets, tables, recaned and reupholstered chairs. He owned his own lathe, drill press, table saw, etc. My grandmother would bellow “Weh-esss” summoning him from the upstairs of their neat bi-level home, just to ask him what he was doing. The standard response was always, “I’M WORKING IN THE SHOP!!” voicing his distain for being disturbed. I was often by his side as he unsuccessfully tried to expand my dexterous horizons. I recall how he painstakingly talked me through a head gasket replacement on my ’67 Mustang. I retained little. A tradesman I was not. However, at two very different times in my life did I work in a trade.
I worked as a laborer for three different masons in my younger years. I did every duty imaginable except lay brick and block, but carried plenty of both. I even got a job once to pour a patio for someone, and it turned out great. I just never had the inherent inclination to improve on my limited knowledge.
I pumped gas at a full service station, yet never utilized the lift and tools at my disposal to do work on my own vehicle after hours. I had different priorities, like drugs, sports, and a girlfriend, not necessarily in that order.
Later in life, at the tender age of forty-three, and sans one leg, I labored for a neighbor who did tile work on the side. Again, my sieve-like mind held nothing while my own home was in need of said tile work. I don’t know if any of these prospective tutors found my incompetence frustrating, but I know my father did.
My father was handy, and he learned more still from my grandfather. My Dad even suggested at one time learning a trade so I’d have something to fall back on in case my career plans were derailed. Since that train jumped the track before it ever left the station, there was nothing to fall back to.
My father-in-law found me to be apt pupil when I could fit it in. He was also very well versed in all aspects concerning anything that required use of his hands. When he asked for my assistance, I was either nowhere to be found, or my hands were in my pockets. He maintained his own boats, planes, and homes; both the summer house on Long Beach Island in New Jersey, and the year round abode in the suburb of Madison. When it came time for his daughter and I to move into our first home, he was the first to offer a hand to fix whatever needed fixing. The one time he asked for my help, I remaining sleeping after a long night of drinking and doing drugs. He clattered and banged while I snored. When we turned the basement of my teenage home into an efficiency apartment, he stepped to the proverbial plate and hit a refurbishment grand slam. This time I did my part, with our answer to Bob Vila guiding my hand while I put down new flooring, and paneled the walls. I could not duplicate one moment of what I’d accomplished so long ago. Gone those lessons were, like so much chalk erased from a blackboard. Since then, there have been several minor erection victories, none with penile implications.
I could always put together things at Christmas time without taking out my frustrations on the general public with an assault weapon. I’ve put together computer desks, computer chairs, and the maze of wiring necessary for most home electronics. Granted, when it came to the electronic stuff, I often needed my son to do it once or twice before I got it down. I erected a shed out back, the last surviving monolith from my drinking days. This was no small feat, believe you me.
Back in 1999, in dire need of additional storage since two new members were added to my new wife’s household, we went shopping for a shed. The pleasant young gentleman at Home Depot assured my wife and I that the model we were interested in, which stood before us in all its floor display glory, took two people four hours to complete. Our fears of a time consuming project beyond my elementary levels of assembly aptitude allayed, we made our purchase with our confidence in tact. The hulking massive box of vinyl had to be delivered. How the hell I was going to get it in the backyard was anybody’s guess. I’ve gone blank trying to remember exactly how it did make its way back there. I’m sure it’s some sort of a painful memory I’ve suppressed. Insert maniacal hearty laughter here.
I borrowed my neighbor’s cordless power drill, along with a couple of concrete penetrating drill bits. I bought my initial case of beer, and commenced my industrious project alone. The optimum word in that sentence is alone. The guy at Home Depot said “two people, four hours.” I just assumed one person eight hours. I assumed wrong. I measured each distance precisely. I used a square to make sure my corners were perfect. It was time to bore the holes to which I would anchor by screws, the frame of the shed to the concrete. After breaking two drill bits, wearing out another two, I made my first trip back to Home Depot for a few more. In ninety-five degree heat, I drank and drilled, and drank some more before my first day’s work was done. One-hundred and twelve holes had to be drilled into that god-forsaken concrete. Nothing more was done that day, just 112 holes. Exhausted, hot, sweaty, and smelly, I mentally prepared myself for day two.
I was unaware that global warming could occur over night. The directions, written in Sanskrit, were obviously some sadists attempt at humor. Yet I persevered. Most of my adult life I had endured the jibes centering on my incompetence when it came to things of this nature. I would show everyone, but first I needed another case of beer. That task complete, I trudged onward, frequently screaming profanities in what I’m sure my neighbors thought was some sort of practice for a weird X-rated operatic aria. Once the frame was in place, made all the more stout due to the copious amount of steel-like caulking I’d used, it was time to put up the walls. My structure now had form. Pleased at what I saw, I attached the doors. Much to my dismay, as well as drunken mind, I had neglected to compensate for the crown in the concrete that allowed for drainage run off. The goddamn doors were out of square. This unappealing revelation elicited two mental responses. One, I could just stick a small bit of C4 to the partially finished exterior and give up the ghost; or two, admit a minor setback which everyone could live with and resume my task. Sadly, reason prevailed and I chose the latter, a decision I would soon regret. I had had enough, darkness was falling on my little corner of the world, it probably wasn’t, I think I was just on the verge of passing out. Satisfied at the dissatisfaction that stood before me, I packed it in so as to fight another day. And fought I did.
After stopping at the local quickie mart for case three for day three, I had a daunting revelation that took the wind out of my sails on a day where there was no wind to be had due to the fucking horrendous heat. If the doors were out of sync, that must mean other things were out of sync. The first was the roof, and the second was the location which had nothing to do with my measurements and everything to do with my stupidity.
In order to put the roof panels in this fucking albatross, I needed a ladder. My wife forbade me from using a ladder due to my legless condition. If I fell, there was no one to dial “911” as I often instructed my son to do when I tackled other jobs that required some sort of physical labor. I would wait for my wife so I could complete my version of the Guggenheim. Once the last panel had been slipped, well, really more like pounded into place, I stood back to witness the splendor that only a construction deficient individual can feel. It has withstood four hurricanes, and suffered no ill effects while the surrounding homes lost roofs and sustained structural damage. It stands today, a legend to my lack of ability. I frequently point to it proudly when another project comes along I’m certain I can handle, many of which I couldn’t until yesterday.
After several unsuccessful attempts at replacing the inner workings of both our toilets, I decided it was time to move forward; that, and a faucet that had been dripping for two years, increased the speed of the flow. My wife and I had purchased two new faucets six and half years ago. Her son replaced one. But before he could replace the other he moved. Perhaps spurred on by the prospect of having to replace the other? I thought I’d surprise the little women and do it myself. I’d show her that I’m not the unhandiest of handymen.
The area in which I had to work was small. I am large. Think of Shaq in a Smart Car. I have little range of motion in my left knee to which is attached a prosthetic devise that makes doing anything laborious a huge fucking pain in the ass, but I would not complain. With the same grit and determination that kept me plodding forward ten long years ago, sans the beer, I was going to replace the faucet before my wife came home. Blew that deadline due to a part I neglected to install. Once that was replaced, I was done, with little outside help. We went to test my handiwork and no water was forthcoming. There was no blood curdling profanity laced tirade. I would ask my friend Cliff, who’s really fucking handy; he would know what ails my faucet. Low and behold it was dirt. I cleaned out the end thingy, and eureka! Paydirt! In deep need of affirmation I asked the all-knowing Cliff if aside from the dirt, was my installation correct. What he said was music to my ears even though it was only one note. “Perfect” he said. I told him to say it louder so my wife could hear. I really wanted him to go out on the front porch and announce it at the top of his lungs to the entire neighborhood, but I settled for just my wife. He did as instructed and I gloated. I’m really glad this kind of stuff only needs to be done once every ten years. I guess I’m just one of those people who keep tradesmen employed. Why upset the natural order of things if you don’t have to. Some people are born to do, I am one of those that’s born to pay to have them done.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
You’ve Got To Be In It, To Win It.
A couple of year’s ago during a master’s class in sociology, the discussion focused on traits of certain socio-economic classes. Soon, the dialogue turned, quite innocently, to rudimentary stereotypes. A particular student, for whom I considered to be enlightened and well-informed, began to list what type of individual played the lottery. Urban poor, rural poor, lower middle-class to middle class all played for the obvious reasons. To get out of their various level of indebtedness, to escape whatever predicament they found themselves in brought on by financial circumstance, to obtain all the things associated with success. She pointed to the lack of education “most” members of these classes had for their frivolous spending. Not once did she note that this affinity for playing games of chance could have been an addiction. Not once did she refer to the possibility that this characteristic had been cultivated over many generations.
While she pompously, with an air of pretention never before exhibited, droned on with her supposed deep, meaningful analysis, the rest of the class snickered in agreement, everyone but me. I nodded politely at her observations, while inside I seethed at the thought of being so neatly categorized by someone who I thought was at least their intellectual equal. And now I was being summarily dismissed to a lower cerebral rung because of my penchant for games of chance. I could have sat there in silent approval, cowering under peer pressure. But that’s not me. So…I raised my hand, and told my story of lottery play.
Quietly, I said “I play the lottery.” The young woman looked as though I had slapped her with a newspaper for peeing on the floor. Her face turned a nice crimson color, and before she could unhinge the one foot that was firmly embedded inside her mouth, I explained to her my reasons which she, in her wildest dreams, and those of my classmates as well, never could possibly have fathomed.
“Look,” I said. “How many amputees do any of you know?” No one out of a class of fifteen said they had ever met, much less knew another besides myself. “Pretty long odds to become one don’t you think?” Next, I asked what were the odds of getting primary custody of a child back in the ‘80s? Again, expressions of bewilderment crossed their faces. “Now” I went on, “what are the chances of an amputee, alcoholic, drug addict, convicted felon, not just getting custody, but raising a child who’d become co-captain of his high school baseball team, and a 100% Bright Futures Academic Scholar?” Silence. I saved the best for last. “What are the odds, the father of that child, cleaning his act up, returning to school, and graduate Magna Cum Laude?” A long shot at best, I asserted. “Put all those odds, of all those things, happening to one person, phenomenal eh?” “That’s why I play the lottery. The odds of winning Fantasy 5 are around 1-400,000, Mega Money, 1-3,000,000, Lotto, 1-23,000,000.” (There was no Powerball yet. In case you’re interested the odds there are about 1-195,000,000.) “All things considered, I’ll take those odds over the other stuff that has happened.” Not one soul in the room argued with my reasoning, though it did elicit some good natured chuckles. But there’s more to it than that.
I had a rather serious gambling problem at one time. I’m an addictive personality, what can I say? Years ago I went to the casino in Atlantic City with $200, been up $3500, and lost it all, so utterly wiped out that I had to stop at toll booths to scrounge the ground for quarters to pay the tolls. During the same period, I’ve gambled a few large on a football game, with no means to pay if I lost, and lost I did. You get the idea. Playing the lottery, participating in my wife’s office football pool, picking a couple of boxes on Super Bowl boards, fill the void from my youth quite nicely thank you. Sometimes there even has been a modest payoff.
Back in the late ‘80s while still living in New Jersey, I got 5 of 6 numbers twice in thirty-five days, in that state’s version of Lotto called Pick Six. I won around 9 G’s. I have yet to be that fortunate here in Florida, but I’m not dead yet.
On each drawing date I approximate what the payout will be for any of the games I wager on, and plan accordingly. If the day ever comes, I want to be prepared. There will first be phone calls to a good tax attorney, an accountant, and an investment house that specializes in annuities. No squandering of a windfall for me. There are donations to institutions of higher learning to be made, and trust funds to be set up for family members. You won’t be reading about how I went off the deep end, bought multiple houses, boats, cars, and the like. So much good can be done with something as sizable as a Lotto pool, or better yet, a Powerball pot. Like the line from Forrest Gump, you can only be so rich, the rest is just for showing off, or something like that.
I’m curious whether any of my former classmates were still in school when a young lady I was in a master’s French class with won. She and her husband were not Lotto savvy. Rather than take a lump sum payment of $11 million, they opted for $770,000 a year for 30 years. The interest alone, had they been careful with their initial spending, in five years time, would far exceed their yearly installment. I guess the lottery commission counts on people to not think things through; otherwise, I don’t believe the payout amounts would regularly be as high as they are. By the way, the husband of the young lady from French class was an accountant. He’ll never get my business that’s for sure. Also, she quit school six credits shy of obtaining her master’s degree. The rest of the class discussed this decision, and we all agreed, we’d never leave school with that kind of income. The young lady claimed she’d be harassed by her fellow students begging for handouts, a little too full of herself I think.
Besides myself, there are other unlikely participants in the weekly Florida Lotto and Powerball drawings. My ex-wife’s father, who has been rather prudent with his money throughout his life, giving him quite a sizable nest egg, plays when the pool is over $10 million. I guess he considers $3 million (the minimum pot) not worth the effort. I am not trying to justify what many, my former sociology classmate being one, consider to be a wasteful expenditure. I’m just saying, to me, it’s not wasteful. As I see it, I’ve already beaten more unlikely odds.
I don’t sit around waiting for Publishers Clearing House to call, nor do I use up my valuable time entering any and all contests that claim riches await me. Superstition dictates that I buy my lottery tickets from the same business establishment everyday. It’s located across the street from my house. If I ever win, Abdul (of course) the store owner, and his family will benefit handsomely, got to pay the vig you know. Besides, it’s the right thing to do. The winnings will do so much for so many others, that’s the real payoff, not what the money would do for me. Well, I’ve got to go. It’s Wednesday, that means Lotto and Powerball. Maybe they’ll be a neat follow-up blog next week. If not, I’ll keep trying to get published, keep trying to secure the next speaking engagement, and keep taking on other assorted jobs that require my expertise. It’s always good to have a back up plan.
While she pompously, with an air of pretention never before exhibited, droned on with her supposed deep, meaningful analysis, the rest of the class snickered in agreement, everyone but me. I nodded politely at her observations, while inside I seethed at the thought of being so neatly categorized by someone who I thought was at least their intellectual equal. And now I was being summarily dismissed to a lower cerebral rung because of my penchant for games of chance. I could have sat there in silent approval, cowering under peer pressure. But that’s not me. So…I raised my hand, and told my story of lottery play.
Quietly, I said “I play the lottery.” The young woman looked as though I had slapped her with a newspaper for peeing on the floor. Her face turned a nice crimson color, and before she could unhinge the one foot that was firmly embedded inside her mouth, I explained to her my reasons which she, in her wildest dreams, and those of my classmates as well, never could possibly have fathomed.
“Look,” I said. “How many amputees do any of you know?” No one out of a class of fifteen said they had ever met, much less knew another besides myself. “Pretty long odds to become one don’t you think?” Next, I asked what were the odds of getting primary custody of a child back in the ‘80s? Again, expressions of bewilderment crossed their faces. “Now” I went on, “what are the chances of an amputee, alcoholic, drug addict, convicted felon, not just getting custody, but raising a child who’d become co-captain of his high school baseball team, and a 100% Bright Futures Academic Scholar?” Silence. I saved the best for last. “What are the odds, the father of that child, cleaning his act up, returning to school, and graduate Magna Cum Laude?” A long shot at best, I asserted. “Put all those odds, of all those things, happening to one person, phenomenal eh?” “That’s why I play the lottery. The odds of winning Fantasy 5 are around 1-400,000, Mega Money, 1-3,000,000, Lotto, 1-23,000,000.” (There was no Powerball yet. In case you’re interested the odds there are about 1-195,000,000.) “All things considered, I’ll take those odds over the other stuff that has happened.” Not one soul in the room argued with my reasoning, though it did elicit some good natured chuckles. But there’s more to it than that.
I had a rather serious gambling problem at one time. I’m an addictive personality, what can I say? Years ago I went to the casino in Atlantic City with $200, been up $3500, and lost it all, so utterly wiped out that I had to stop at toll booths to scrounge the ground for quarters to pay the tolls. During the same period, I’ve gambled a few large on a football game, with no means to pay if I lost, and lost I did. You get the idea. Playing the lottery, participating in my wife’s office football pool, picking a couple of boxes on Super Bowl boards, fill the void from my youth quite nicely thank you. Sometimes there even has been a modest payoff.
Back in the late ‘80s while still living in New Jersey, I got 5 of 6 numbers twice in thirty-five days, in that state’s version of Lotto called Pick Six. I won around 9 G’s. I have yet to be that fortunate here in Florida, but I’m not dead yet.
On each drawing date I approximate what the payout will be for any of the games I wager on, and plan accordingly. If the day ever comes, I want to be prepared. There will first be phone calls to a good tax attorney, an accountant, and an investment house that specializes in annuities. No squandering of a windfall for me. There are donations to institutions of higher learning to be made, and trust funds to be set up for family members. You won’t be reading about how I went off the deep end, bought multiple houses, boats, cars, and the like. So much good can be done with something as sizable as a Lotto pool, or better yet, a Powerball pot. Like the line from Forrest Gump, you can only be so rich, the rest is just for showing off, or something like that.
I’m curious whether any of my former classmates were still in school when a young lady I was in a master’s French class with won. She and her husband were not Lotto savvy. Rather than take a lump sum payment of $11 million, they opted for $770,000 a year for 30 years. The interest alone, had they been careful with their initial spending, in five years time, would far exceed their yearly installment. I guess the lottery commission counts on people to not think things through; otherwise, I don’t believe the payout amounts would regularly be as high as they are. By the way, the husband of the young lady from French class was an accountant. He’ll never get my business that’s for sure. Also, she quit school six credits shy of obtaining her master’s degree. The rest of the class discussed this decision, and we all agreed, we’d never leave school with that kind of income. The young lady claimed she’d be harassed by her fellow students begging for handouts, a little too full of herself I think.
Besides myself, there are other unlikely participants in the weekly Florida Lotto and Powerball drawings. My ex-wife’s father, who has been rather prudent with his money throughout his life, giving him quite a sizable nest egg, plays when the pool is over $10 million. I guess he considers $3 million (the minimum pot) not worth the effort. I am not trying to justify what many, my former sociology classmate being one, consider to be a wasteful expenditure. I’m just saying, to me, it’s not wasteful. As I see it, I’ve already beaten more unlikely odds.
I don’t sit around waiting for Publishers Clearing House to call, nor do I use up my valuable time entering any and all contests that claim riches await me. Superstition dictates that I buy my lottery tickets from the same business establishment everyday. It’s located across the street from my house. If I ever win, Abdul (of course) the store owner, and his family will benefit handsomely, got to pay the vig you know. Besides, it’s the right thing to do. The winnings will do so much for so many others, that’s the real payoff, not what the money would do for me. Well, I’ve got to go. It’s Wednesday, that means Lotto and Powerball. Maybe they’ll be a neat follow-up blog next week. If not, I’ll keep trying to get published, keep trying to secure the next speaking engagement, and keep taking on other assorted jobs that require my expertise. It’s always good to have a back up plan.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Glorious and Victorious
It’s that time of year again when I make my annual trek to Gainesville to see Cory. Oh yeah, I get to go to a University of Florida Gator football game while I’m there. Wait, that didn’t sound right. Let’s start this over.
As soon as the football schedule for the upcoming season is posted on the UF website I pick which game I would like to attend. Don’t get me wrong, I go to spend time with my son. However, when I get to spend that time at a sporting event with him, well, there’s nothing that equals that, unless it’s spending the weekend, and attending said sporting event with a dozen or so of his closest friends. That’s what this past weekend was all about. If it were a beer ad it would have been an old Lowenbrau commercial. On the other hand, that commercial never made me feel the way I felt last weekend. Indulge me if you will, and let me tell you about it, no homo.
Cory thinks I can be a big emotional pussy sometimes. I can’t blame him. I do apple up every now and again. Not as much as I used to when I drank, but still from time to time. I think it started after I had my motorcycle accident, which resulted in the loss of my left leg. The outpouring of kindness from everyone I knew overwhelmed me, thus tapping into new depths of my emotional well. I was unfamiliar with this uncharted territory, and it showed in my outward displays. I like to think now I just experience things more fully than before. There doesn’t have to be tears shed to get emotional. There can be times when my heart beats faster, or my insides swell. Besides, it had been building for months.
Lane Kiffin is the head coach of the University of Tennessee football team. He replaced Philip Fullmer, after a distinguished run that ended rather ignominiously last season. Kiffin was recently fired as head coach of the Oakland Raiders, which made him available to coach in the college ranks. He was obviously unprepared to head a professional program. At the press conference announcing his hiring, Kiffin made it a point to declare the pleasure he was going to get out of singing “Rocky Top,” (the Tennessee fight song) all night after beating Florida. Not too long before this proclamation, Florida had been crowned National Champion. The Gators were returning eleven starters on defense. They still have a stacked running attack. They still had Tim Tebow, and this guy is predicting victory? I was furious. How dare he! I knew then which game I wanted to attend. Shortly after, Kiffin added insult to injury in an address to Tennessee alumni, when he inferred Urban Meyer, the head coach of Florida, cheated. I don’t know Lane Kiffin personally, but his behavior thus far indicated to me the man was a bit of a douchebag. Now I had to be at that game. I was aware of the chaos that would ensue that particular football weekend. I was there for the LSU game last year. I waited for the announcing of the Gator schedule.
Meanwhile, I followed the rantings of the Gator faithful on Facebook, each responding as if personally affronted by Kiffin’s utterances. The day the football schedule was posted I made my motel reservations. Tom Bodett always leaves the light on whenever I go to Gainesville, though he does price gouge me on football weekends. While many of you may turn your nose up at Motel 6, consider this. I spend a maximum of fourteen hours over three days in my room. Why on earth would I spend $300 plus a night at a frillier establishment? All I need is a bed, a shower, and Sportscenter, and I’m good to go. I couldn’t wait.
Many of Cory’s friends who’d graduated would be there. Dan Linden was flying in from New York. A contingent from Tampa that included another Cory, P. Scott and Fera, were coming. Will Pelzer, and his brother Cole were coming. Rob McCoy, the senior member of The Brothers McCoy would make the duo whole. Jarrod Hess, and his brother Jordan- do you sense a trend here- were driving up. Devin and John Domm, Meredith, now over her bout with the swine flu, would join in the festivities. Wilhelm, and his significant other Berkley, the Leaning Tower of Perez, who secured his mention after National Championship. In addition, new roommates of Cory’s would befriend me, emphasis on befriend. The mental defective league, great individuals all, was called to order, with the Tennessee football game serving as the impetus. Everyone being assembled to share a common bond made me grateful to be part of it. Let the games begin.
I have seen the Gators play Arkansas, Kentucky, Vanderbilt, Alabama, Florida Atlantic (my alma mater), LSU, Oklahoma (National Championship), and never before have I ever left so early in the morning. At 6:00AM on Florida’s Turnpike was a seen directly out of Stephan King’s The Langoliers. I hit a straight, flat, stretch of road where I was the lone vehicle for as far as I could see. I did not take this opportunity to test the auto- fuel shut off mechanism, you never know where 5-0 could be lurking...out there…in the dark. I did have a fleeting thought about how I would be the first to arrive, and that got my heart pumping. Eventually, others Gainesville-bound would join the solitary caravan.
There wasn’t much to see once the sun came up, save the Red Bull energy drink delivery truck whose rate of speed was less than that of what was posted. It felt wrong. It was like something out of a living Salvatore Dali painting. An armadillo that was on the losing end of a confrontation with a moving vehicle, laid dormant on the roadside. One of its brethren suffered a similar fate several miles away. No dead raccoons. No dead possums. No dead cats, dogs, snakes, turtles, or iguanas, just armadillos. I thought of the efficient clean up job done by some of Florida’s prison population.
As I pulled off the Archer Road exit of Interstate 75, I glanced at my dashboard clock. The normally four and half hour drive was completed in three hours fifty-eight minutes, with the aid of an on-board wide mouth.
After the requisite checking in, meeting with the University Athletic Association in the continued hope of them one day booking me to speak, purchasing a new Gator hat, and acquiring a fresh bottle of Dr. Bronner’s Original Peppermint Soap, the festivities truly began. They arrived to Trip Deuce alone, and in pairs, these loyal friends of Cory’s, and I’ve come to believe of me as well. Friendship by association; I’ll take it. Once assembled, we made our way to Gator City, a favorite drinking establishment of the Midtown Mafia. One by one more of the delegation arrived. My National Championship saviors Danny and Sara were there which delighted me no end. All were appropriately hailed with handshakes and hugs. A special tribute to Fera when he graced us with his presence gave me chills. Oh, to be welcomed with such unbridled enthusiasm! I hope he never forgets that moment, I surely won’t.
There was no closing of the bar this time, my beat up body only going twenty hours without sleep, I was operating on adrenalin and the caffeine in the numerous Diet Pepsis I’d consumed for the final three. I needed to get some rest, there was an ass kicking to watch the next day.
Gameday! Weeks of hubris and bravado peppered the Facebook pages, and now the day was here! Tailgate preparations were made the previous evening, unbeknownst to me. More familiar faces appeared at the designated tent area. Though I did not engage in the consumption of potables, I was a very interested observer of the camaraderie on display. Many of the throng engaged me, not out of sympathy or obligation as I used to think, but because they were genuinely interested in what I had to say. Talk about being made to feel a part of! As game time approached we made our way to “The Swamp.”
Like the National Championship game, I did not sit with Cory and the others I’ve come to know. My saviors this year, The Pelzers, provided me with one of the hardest to come by tickets around. Let me publically express my gratitude here. Just like the game last January, once inside the stadium, there are no strangers, only Gator fans you haven’t met, to paraphrase.
There would be no systematic annihilation this day. I dutifully stood most of the game even after the mechanism on my prosthetic limb broke, making it rather unpleasant to get around during, and after the game. I scrambled to stand at the end of the third quarter to participate in the “We Are the Boys” tradition. Arm in arm I stood, sang (badly) and swayed, thinking of what the University means to my son and his cohorts. A tear did escape…as usual, shame on me, but I wasn’t the only one. At the conclusion of the well fought contest, the Orange and Blue came out Victorious, 23-13. After, the majority of the record crowd stayed to sing the Alma Mater (a couple more tears). Exiting “The Swamp” Grumblings were heard throughout the melancholy horde. A victory was not enough, pity the pressure those student-athletes must endure; their following only satisfied only if the head of each Tennessee Volunteer were displayed on a pike, and paraded across campus. Me? A victory is a victory. The Gators, who did not play their best football (if you watched), remain atop the polls undefeated.
The following day Cory and I spent some alone time watching my Cincinnati Bengals play. I only stayed for the first half. I would listen to the remainder of the game on the way home in the car, trying hard to focus while the weekend’s events replayed over in my head. My weekend? Its true value and meaning was felt during the long drive.
I thought of those who made sure I was comfortable. I thought of those whose company I so enjoy. I thought of Cory, who goes to any length to make each and every visit so special. And I thought of his friends, many who I’ve known for the last six years. A tear, maybe two, slowly rolled down my face outside of Ocala. My weekend? Glorious! The memories of these football weekends shared with, and because of my son, I will carry with me for the rest of my days.
Florida, our Alma Mater, thy glorious name we praise
All thy loyal sons and daughters, a joyous song shall raise.
Where palm and pine are blowing, where southern seas as flowing,
Shine forth thy noble gothic walls, thy lovely vine clad halls!
Neath the orange and blue victorious, our love shall never fail,
There's no other name so glorious, all hail, FLORIDA HAIL!
As soon as the football schedule for the upcoming season is posted on the UF website I pick which game I would like to attend. Don’t get me wrong, I go to spend time with my son. However, when I get to spend that time at a sporting event with him, well, there’s nothing that equals that, unless it’s spending the weekend, and attending said sporting event with a dozen or so of his closest friends. That’s what this past weekend was all about. If it were a beer ad it would have been an old Lowenbrau commercial. On the other hand, that commercial never made me feel the way I felt last weekend. Indulge me if you will, and let me tell you about it, no homo.
Cory thinks I can be a big emotional pussy sometimes. I can’t blame him. I do apple up every now and again. Not as much as I used to when I drank, but still from time to time. I think it started after I had my motorcycle accident, which resulted in the loss of my left leg. The outpouring of kindness from everyone I knew overwhelmed me, thus tapping into new depths of my emotional well. I was unfamiliar with this uncharted territory, and it showed in my outward displays. I like to think now I just experience things more fully than before. There doesn’t have to be tears shed to get emotional. There can be times when my heart beats faster, or my insides swell. Besides, it had been building for months.
Lane Kiffin is the head coach of the University of Tennessee football team. He replaced Philip Fullmer, after a distinguished run that ended rather ignominiously last season. Kiffin was recently fired as head coach of the Oakland Raiders, which made him available to coach in the college ranks. He was obviously unprepared to head a professional program. At the press conference announcing his hiring, Kiffin made it a point to declare the pleasure he was going to get out of singing “Rocky Top,” (the Tennessee fight song) all night after beating Florida. Not too long before this proclamation, Florida had been crowned National Champion. The Gators were returning eleven starters on defense. They still have a stacked running attack. They still had Tim Tebow, and this guy is predicting victory? I was furious. How dare he! I knew then which game I wanted to attend. Shortly after, Kiffin added insult to injury in an address to Tennessee alumni, when he inferred Urban Meyer, the head coach of Florida, cheated. I don’t know Lane Kiffin personally, but his behavior thus far indicated to me the man was a bit of a douchebag. Now I had to be at that game. I was aware of the chaos that would ensue that particular football weekend. I was there for the LSU game last year. I waited for the announcing of the Gator schedule.
Meanwhile, I followed the rantings of the Gator faithful on Facebook, each responding as if personally affronted by Kiffin’s utterances. The day the football schedule was posted I made my motel reservations. Tom Bodett always leaves the light on whenever I go to Gainesville, though he does price gouge me on football weekends. While many of you may turn your nose up at Motel 6, consider this. I spend a maximum of fourteen hours over three days in my room. Why on earth would I spend $300 plus a night at a frillier establishment? All I need is a bed, a shower, and Sportscenter, and I’m good to go. I couldn’t wait.
Many of Cory’s friends who’d graduated would be there. Dan Linden was flying in from New York. A contingent from Tampa that included another Cory, P. Scott and Fera, were coming. Will Pelzer, and his brother Cole were coming. Rob McCoy, the senior member of The Brothers McCoy would make the duo whole. Jarrod Hess, and his brother Jordan- do you sense a trend here- were driving up. Devin and John Domm, Meredith, now over her bout with the swine flu, would join in the festivities. Wilhelm, and his significant other Berkley, the Leaning Tower of Perez, who secured his mention after National Championship. In addition, new roommates of Cory’s would befriend me, emphasis on befriend. The mental defective league, great individuals all, was called to order, with the Tennessee football game serving as the impetus. Everyone being assembled to share a common bond made me grateful to be part of it. Let the games begin.
I have seen the Gators play Arkansas, Kentucky, Vanderbilt, Alabama, Florida Atlantic (my alma mater), LSU, Oklahoma (National Championship), and never before have I ever left so early in the morning. At 6:00AM on Florida’s Turnpike was a seen directly out of Stephan King’s The Langoliers. I hit a straight, flat, stretch of road where I was the lone vehicle for as far as I could see. I did not take this opportunity to test the auto- fuel shut off mechanism, you never know where 5-0 could be lurking...out there…in the dark. I did have a fleeting thought about how I would be the first to arrive, and that got my heart pumping. Eventually, others Gainesville-bound would join the solitary caravan.
There wasn’t much to see once the sun came up, save the Red Bull energy drink delivery truck whose rate of speed was less than that of what was posted. It felt wrong. It was like something out of a living Salvatore Dali painting. An armadillo that was on the losing end of a confrontation with a moving vehicle, laid dormant on the roadside. One of its brethren suffered a similar fate several miles away. No dead raccoons. No dead possums. No dead cats, dogs, snakes, turtles, or iguanas, just armadillos. I thought of the efficient clean up job done by some of Florida’s prison population.
As I pulled off the Archer Road exit of Interstate 75, I glanced at my dashboard clock. The normally four and half hour drive was completed in three hours fifty-eight minutes, with the aid of an on-board wide mouth.
After the requisite checking in, meeting with the University Athletic Association in the continued hope of them one day booking me to speak, purchasing a new Gator hat, and acquiring a fresh bottle of Dr. Bronner’s Original Peppermint Soap, the festivities truly began. They arrived to Trip Deuce alone, and in pairs, these loyal friends of Cory’s, and I’ve come to believe of me as well. Friendship by association; I’ll take it. Once assembled, we made our way to Gator City, a favorite drinking establishment of the Midtown Mafia. One by one more of the delegation arrived. My National Championship saviors Danny and Sara were there which delighted me no end. All were appropriately hailed with handshakes and hugs. A special tribute to Fera when he graced us with his presence gave me chills. Oh, to be welcomed with such unbridled enthusiasm! I hope he never forgets that moment, I surely won’t.
There was no closing of the bar this time, my beat up body only going twenty hours without sleep, I was operating on adrenalin and the caffeine in the numerous Diet Pepsis I’d consumed for the final three. I needed to get some rest, there was an ass kicking to watch the next day.
Gameday! Weeks of hubris and bravado peppered the Facebook pages, and now the day was here! Tailgate preparations were made the previous evening, unbeknownst to me. More familiar faces appeared at the designated tent area. Though I did not engage in the consumption of potables, I was a very interested observer of the camaraderie on display. Many of the throng engaged me, not out of sympathy or obligation as I used to think, but because they were genuinely interested in what I had to say. Talk about being made to feel a part of! As game time approached we made our way to “The Swamp.”
Like the National Championship game, I did not sit with Cory and the others I’ve come to know. My saviors this year, The Pelzers, provided me with one of the hardest to come by tickets around. Let me publically express my gratitude here. Just like the game last January, once inside the stadium, there are no strangers, only Gator fans you haven’t met, to paraphrase.
There would be no systematic annihilation this day. I dutifully stood most of the game even after the mechanism on my prosthetic limb broke, making it rather unpleasant to get around during, and after the game. I scrambled to stand at the end of the third quarter to participate in the “We Are the Boys” tradition. Arm in arm I stood, sang (badly) and swayed, thinking of what the University means to my son and his cohorts. A tear did escape…as usual, shame on me, but I wasn’t the only one. At the conclusion of the well fought contest, the Orange and Blue came out Victorious, 23-13. After, the majority of the record crowd stayed to sing the Alma Mater (a couple more tears). Exiting “The Swamp” Grumblings were heard throughout the melancholy horde. A victory was not enough, pity the pressure those student-athletes must endure; their following only satisfied only if the head of each Tennessee Volunteer were displayed on a pike, and paraded across campus. Me? A victory is a victory. The Gators, who did not play their best football (if you watched), remain atop the polls undefeated.
The following day Cory and I spent some alone time watching my Cincinnati Bengals play. I only stayed for the first half. I would listen to the remainder of the game on the way home in the car, trying hard to focus while the weekend’s events replayed over in my head. My weekend? Its true value and meaning was felt during the long drive.
I thought of those who made sure I was comfortable. I thought of those whose company I so enjoy. I thought of Cory, who goes to any length to make each and every visit so special. And I thought of his friends, many who I’ve known for the last six years. A tear, maybe two, slowly rolled down my face outside of Ocala. My weekend? Glorious! The memories of these football weekends shared with, and because of my son, I will carry with me for the rest of my days.
Florida, our Alma Mater, thy glorious name we praise
All thy loyal sons and daughters, a joyous song shall raise.
Where palm and pine are blowing, where southern seas as flowing,
Shine forth thy noble gothic walls, thy lovely vine clad halls!
Neath the orange and blue victorious, our love shall never fail,
There's no other name so glorious, all hail, FLORIDA HAIL!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Glass House
Rude [rood] >adj. 1 offensively impolite or ill-mannered: she had been rude to her boss [with infinitive] it’s rude to ask a lady her age.
Referring to a taboo subject such as sex in a way considered improper and offensive: he made a rude gesture. [attrib.] having startling abruptness: the war came as a very rude awakening.2 roughly made or done; lacking subtlety or sophistication: a rude coffin.
archaic, ignorant and uneducated: the new religion was first promulgated by rude men.
3 [attrib.] chiefly Brit. Vigorous or hearty: Isabel had always been in rude health.
-DERIVATIVES rude-ly adv.; rude-ness n.; ru-der-y n.
-ORIGIN Middle English (in sense 2, also ‘uncultured’): from Old French, from Latin rudis ‘unwrought’ (referring to handicraft), figuratively ‘uncultivated’; related to rudus ‘broken stone.’
Dominating the headlines this week have been several high profile cases of indecorous public behavior. In this age of around the clock “news” coverage, in competition for ratings, all forms of media have latched onto this topic with both claws. Like the old wives’ tale of celebrity deaths coming in threes, so to are the most recent Miss Manners felons. Joe Wilson, Republican Congressional Representative from South Carolina, Kanye West, inarticulate egomaniacal pop star, and tennis great Serena Williams, all find themselves amid a maelstrom of public outcry led by those who are acting as today’s moral entrepreneurs. Is this really news, and do we need everyone weighing in with their opinion on proper decorum?
In 1922, Emily Post published her world renowned best seller on proper etiquette. The timing of this publication couldn’t have been better; the Roaring 20’s weren’t called “roaring” for nothing. America was coming out of the period of strict Victorian morals. It was time for society to finally let its collective hair down. The finishing school contingent was appalled at the deprivation of societal norms as they new them. Most of these young ladies of “old money” wealth and privilege wanted to remind the nouveau riche a certain moral respectability comes with affluence; a message which many ignored. Post’s book has remained the standard for the last eighty-seven years and seventeen printings. It is this same set of manners the hoity-toity of today refer. Antiquated yes; needed, in some cases, but not enough to warrant the overblown, overhyped scrutiny that is prevailing in the previously mentioned cases. Let’s take a look at each scenario.
Congressman Wilson, who shouted “You lie!” at the President during his speech to Congress concerning health care, represents the great state of South Carolina, home of Preston Brooks. Who is Preston Brooks you say? In 1856, Preston Brooks beat the living shit out of Charles Sumner with a gold tipped cane right on the Senate floor. Over what? In today’s vernacular, Sumner ‘dissed his uncle, A.P. Butler and his views on slavery. Though Brooks was censured for this little fiasco, his constituents re-elected him, and sent him numerous gold-tipped canes to boot. When Congress reconvened after the summer break, most members came armed. Needless to say, they had to check their weapons at the door. Wilson’s constituents love him as well or they wouldn’t have elected him for his forth consecutive term.
The Congressman is so far to the right, he voted for keeping the Confederate flag flying over his states Capital building. Found out this bit of news at a website called thinkprogress.org., isn’t that an oxymoron? Several news sources have made reference to Wilson’s stance, alluding to his overt racism as the cause for his behavior. Wilson claims it was just a “spontaneous outburst” during an emotionally charged moment. Wilson apologized to the President, who readily accepted. It did not matter one iota whether the apology was sincere or not. The President was quick to put the matter behind him, and focus on the health care issue, going so far as to instruct Congress not to sanction Representative Wilson. It is the media who keeps fanning the flames of discord. The same may be said in the case of Serena Williams.
Williams went into a profanity laced tirade at the U.S. Open tennis championships recently. She forfeited the match, was fined, and made a contrite apology. The media and the USTA won’t put the matter to bed. Williams’ apology wasn’t timely. It wasn’t sincere. Her behavior deemed deplorable. The USTA is going to form a committee to investigate the matter further to see if perhaps Williams should forfeit her winnings from her and her sister Venus capturing the doubles title. This committee is going to consider whether Serena should possibly be banned from participating in future Grand Slam events. Why don’t we just draw and quarter her, and be done with it. Don’t these people remember John McEnroe, Ivan Tirilac, Ilie Nastasie, or Jimmy Connors? Can you imagine the USGA fining or suspending Tiger Woods from competition for all the expletives he spews after bad shots? The rest of the world would think the Americans have finally gone off the deep end. The PGA Tour would suffer tremendously, as would its current global appeal. The continual media glare has done the trick. The holier than thou have had their say. Now let Serena Williams get back to playing tennis, instead of explaining her demeanor. As for Kanye West, well, he’s just a “jackass.”
That’s what the President called West during what he believed was an “off the record” moment. And now the President is under fire. Jesus Christ! Can you imagine what a field day the press would have had if they were all vying for soundbites from Presidents Lyndon B. Johnson and Richard Nixon, pottymouths both!? And besides, Kanye West did behave like a jackass at the MTV video music awards. (they still show videos on MTV?). Does anyone want to disagree? I didn’t think so. The thing that galls me the most is now, everyone and their brother are examining why all this rude behavior.
It couldn’t possibly be that we’ve become a culture so permissive that “shit” was uttered on the mainstream program ER. Maybe it’s because we’ve stretched the boundaries of propriety so far, and now a couple of incidents bring to our attention that maybe this isn’t such a good thing. Maybe we just haven’t caught up with the rest of the world about not taking everything so goddamn seriously.
We as a society have allowed the moral self-righteous to become so preoccupied with how others are behaving that they forgot to examine their motives. Like the politicians who rail on behalf of some cause, only to be accused of what they’re railing against. (See Mark Foley, Eliot Spitzer, and South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, what’s up with these South Carolina folk?) When did those in the media become the shining stars of moral purity? They cast aspersions in the same tone of voice that Alex Trebek uses when he tells the correct answer to a contestant who has erred. Trebek always acts as though he knew the answer, and makes the person feel as if their fly is down.
When you come right down to it, I’m with Emily Post. Stuff like keep your elbows off the table, chew with your mouth closed, no double dipping at the veggie platter, don’t fart in front of strangers, don’t use your fork as if it were a steam shovel, and open doors for others. If they don’t thank me, I’ll let them know about it. But when they return the favor, I will say thank you.
Those in the media better take a long hard look in the mirror, and make sure their demeanor is flawless enough to cast stones. Let’s get a thicker skin, and lighten up. There are much more serious matters that deserve our attention. I don’t know about you, but I have enough concerns with my own behavior; I really don’t give a shit about someone else’s crassness. Maybe that’s because I say “fuck” a lot.
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