The inspiration for this week’s blog comes by Cynn Chadwick, an accomplished writer and professor, as well as a friend of mine from high school. She recently shared her thoughts concerning the passing of a beloved or not so much -depending on what you get out of the piece- family pet, specifically a cat. Dog lover’s stifle your gag reflexes. This piece is not some sort of literary equivalent similar to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama to Neil Young’s Southern Man. What Cynn’s essay did was give me pause, evoking thoughts of son/father/cat relationships. The treatise also struck a nerve. Shea, my son’s cat who resides with my wife and I while my son is away at school, is getting on in years. Though spirited, and in fine health, I know what the future holds.
Shea, like the stadium, is not my son’s first cat. That would be Ramone, like the band where everyone was clad in black. Ramone was a present to my son for his first birthday. The reasons for a cat instead of a dog were numerous. A dog requires walking. My son was one year old; he couldn’t very well do it. Still recovering from a rather severe motorcycle accident, I had enogh trouble walking myself, much less a dog. My future ex-wife worked full time, walking the dog would be just an added unnecessary burden. Sure, she or I could have just let the dog out into our ample backyard to do its business. The problem with that, I would have been assigned poop pickup duty. I had been cleaning up dogshit since I was six, if I didn’t have to, I wasn’t going to. Therefore, we settled on a cat. Cats can be pretty much maintenance-free. Give them food, water, a couple of toys, and a cat box, and they’re good to go. Some are so aloof, there is no need for any interaction with humans. I suspected the frenetic behavior of a toddler would surely test the patience of the most stoic of felines. It was a risk I was willing to take.
On January 10th,1986, my son’s mother and I stopped by a locale animal shelter to see what was available. There was the usual selection of older, probably abandoned, full grown cats. There were full litters of eight week old kittens. Then there was a lone twelve week old black kitten. We surmised that an eight week old was too small. A full grown would be too set in its ways. Ramone was our Goldilocks.
As we approached the cage, the black generic kitten immediately awoke from its slumber to greet us. I pushed my face near the cage for a closer look, the stray purred loudly, reaching its paw through the small opening to gently bat at my face. We asked the volunteer if we could hold him, she obliged. The little kitten seemed thrilled at the attention. It licked my hand, my face, my chin, purring madly the entire time. We were sold, with Ramone in hand, home we went.
Ramone and my son hit it off immediately. Adult one word reminders of “gentle,” “easy,” and “careful” were plentiful for the first couple of hours. My son was quick on the uptake after that. Guests began to arrive for my son’s inaugural celebration. Ramone selected a comfy spot in the middle of the living room floor to nap while the adult humans negotiated around him. Through the tearing of wrapping paper, and much frivolity, Ramone remained sleeping. He had adapted well.
Ramone got into the usual amount of scrapes, with raccoons, opossums, and even other cats, but he always seemed to come out these skirmishes with only minor damage. When it came time for my son to attend school, Ramone would occasionally escort to the end of the driveway, wait for the bus, then cross the street after the coast was clear. In 1993, my son and I moved to Florida. For one month prior to the move, we groomed our next door neighbors who loved Ramone, to take care of him until we got settled, and then we’d send for him. I left behind enough cash for the shipping, and my vinyl classic LP collection. We haven’t seen either since.
When I informed my son that Ramone had run away, he was devastated. I tried to soothe him by promising to make good one day. After our first year in Florida was nearly complete, a co-worker of mine informed me that her cat was having kittens, and was I interested. Bingo! The time had come for a new pet to enhance our lives. I say enhance because studies have shown that people live longer who own cats. See, they’re good for more than visual amusement for humans who are stoned.
My son spent summers with his mother in New Jersey. He was due back the week before school started at the end of August. The kittens were born on the forth of July. Exactly eight weeks, the recommended adopting age, passed when he returned home. The number one priority was not buying school clothes or school supplies that first day back; it was to drive to Kendall to pick out a new kitten.
Only four kittens were in the litter. I received daily updates from my co-worker as to their progress and health. She had given them all temporary names. This woman was obviously a lunatic. I had heard of cat lover’s before, but this was ridiculous. I couldn’t wait for my son to get home so we could put an end to this non-stop barrage of insignificant feline information she alone found so enthralling. She would giggle with glee regaling me with anecdotes about “Holstein,” the lone female in the litter. She told me the kitten had the markings “exactly like a cow, wait till you see it!” She seemed disappointed when I did not share her zeal. She periodically would query me about our living environment, making sure her “babies” were all going to proper homes. I was sure she was loony now. My son would get to witness her eccentricity first hand.
When we arrived at my co-worker’s apartment, my son decided to sit on the floor. I asked why, he said he could better judge the kittens from there. Who’s to argue with a nine-year old? The kittens were all let out at the same time. Within minutes, “Holstein” had made her way upon my son’s lap, and was licking his chin. He declared this is the one. No need to check your tickets ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner! “Shea,” he had decided on the name weeks ago when I told him he was getting a kitten; rode home in the car carrier-less, asleep on the back seat.
Unlike Ramone, Shea would be an indoor cat. The rural expanse of Long Valley, may have been fine for Ramone; but the growing ever more congested, zero lot line, call me when done doing five to ten, firecracker up the bunghole when no one is looking, Hitler youth of Pembroke Pines, is no place for an easy going cat like Shea. Yes, that’s right, I said easy going. A stark contrast to my friend’s Jet, the pissy, pissing machine, though they do share some of the same annoying traits.
It is my wife and son that Shea enjoys taking a swipe at, claws out, when either of them walk by, just because she can, without fear of retribution. She wouldn’t dare pull this stunt with me. Why? Because I’m the designated head scratcher. If she wants any of that ever again, she’ll leave my foot and ankles alone. I also change her litter box. She knows which side her bread is buttered on.
If her water or food dish is empty regardless of hour, she let’s out a “meow” that I swear has caused fluid to leak from my ears. She flops, anywhere, at any time, in front of where you are walking. This could cause a wee bit of trouble were my wife and I twenty years older. Then Shea has the audacity to get pissed if you step on her. And if you scold her, she’ll turn her back to you, with her ears laying down, telling “in cat” to whoever is speaking about her, to kiss her ass. She assumes the same position in front of her food dish if what’s in there is not fresh enough to suit her. I did mention cats can be aloof.
She was once fat, a live version of the Kliban Cat, big body, little head. Shea’s motto might as well be “All are welcome ye who enter here!” A visitor, be it a neighbor, close friend, work associate, the UPS driver, an unwelcome solicitor, trips Shea’s inner radar signaling a new arrival. She makes a beeline to said victim, making her figure eight around the legs of the former stranger, her face saying “please pet me, scratch my head, anything but ignore me, because I’m not going away.” Once her mission is accomplished, a firm “Shea that’s enough,” usually sends her on her way, nose in the air, as if scorned. Shea has never had to play second fiddle to anyone or anything. She has been queen of the castle for the last fifteen years.
When it came time for my son to go off to college, he contemplated taking Shea with him. That thought passed rather quickly, and for a myriad of good reasons, I’ll let you think of several. However, I will give him credit for thinking of her. Shea has been “his cat” in title only for quite some time. I don’t think he has ever changed her litter box. Since my son began high school, he has rarely fed or watered her. But, when he comes home for a visit, Shea is on him like white on rice.
Shea has never been one to get on the furniture, save the two beds my son has used over the years. Her favorite spot is upstairs on the former bed in the loft. Shea no longer navigates the steep stairs the way she once did. She has on occasion fallen down, descending those treacherous stairs. When she goes outdoors, she no longer chases the tiny lizards that are so numerous here in South Florida. She sleeps more now, and also drinks more water. She has become more vocal, maybe it’s their version of nagging. All these telltale signs caused my son some consternation this last trip home for the summer.
When it came time for him to make his way back up to Gainesville, he said, “I guess I’d better say good-bye to Shea” as he sideways glanced in my direction. I knew what the look meant. It was the same feeling we shared our last visit to Ohio to see my father. My boy, now a man, might be saying good-bye for the final time to one of the last living remnants of his childhood. He was relived that Shea did not pass while he was home. The day is coming when my son will visit, and he won’t be greeted at the door by “his” cat. I will cry when Shea goes. I will cry alone, with my son, and for him; both of us helpless children that day, coping with the inevitable.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Can You Hear Me Now?
In Bowling for Columbine, Michael Moore asked the question, “Do we have locks on our doors to keep the world out, or us locked in?” If what is broadcast on the evening news is any indication, I’d say it’s the latter as opposed to the former. With all the gloom and doom, as it’s spoon fed to us at the end of a long day, it’s no wonder we venture out of the house at all. We are constantly reminded of all the bad things we are forever putting into our ever expanding temples we laughingly call bodies. Too much sun is bad, not enough sun is bad. During any given week we are told lean red meat is healthy for us, no wait, this week it isn’t. Every-goddamn thing causes cancer. I’m amazed the average life expectancy continues to go up for both men and women with all of these horrible things we consume, do, inhale, and expose ourselves to.
We’ve been told drinking alcohol is bad for us. It is if you drink like I used to. But we’ve also been told that an occasional drink prevents clots by thinning the blood. Hold on, each drink destroys a kabillion brain cells, although a recent 60 Minutes expose reported that the drug resveratrol stored in the grapes used to make certain red wines, can delay the aging process. If all this is true, I’ll eventually become a youthful, dim witted alcoholic, who doesn’t understand why I don’t stop bleeding when I cut myself. But blissfully, I won’t care. Even our technology harms us in some way, shape or form.
Watching too much television is bad for us. It makes us fat. It turns us into tapioca pudding brained vege heads. It skews our perception of the real world. You can’t blame anybody for bringing this to our attention. Have you seen the crap that’s aired on the two-hundred and whatever channels we have access to? And for christ’s sake, don’t sit so close to your sixty inch screens or you’ll go blind!
Don’t stand in front of the microwave if you’re pregnant, or if you want to get pregnant. Make sure you don’t live too close to power lines. Man, if your property was adjacent to high tension wires, and you were warming a bottle of formula, both you and your kid would probably internally combust. Can you imagine if you were talking on your cellphone at the same time? The results are too terrifying to fathom.
We’ve been warned about these miniature creations of the devil. They cause cancer if we talk too much. They can cause our cars to explode if we’re on them while we’re filling our gas tanks. And now a recent British public service announcement is garnering quite a bit of attention because-brace yourselves- texting while driving is dangerous!!!!! Holy shit, I’m sure glad someone told me. I was under the impression that not looking at the road while my hands were off the wheel was perfectly safe as long as I let my vehicle be driven by “The Force.” Are you fucking kidding me? No one knows this is a bad idea?
The PSA depicts a car smaller than my coffee maker loaded with four teenage young ladies, engaged in witless conversation, while the driver sends a text message regarding whether or not a particular young man “fancies” one of young ladies present. All four pairs of eyes are transfixed to the tiny cellphone screen, waiting in breathless anticipation, the incoming response. Not once does it dawn on any of the twits that they are indeed traveling in a motor vehicle. No one picks their head up just for shits and giggles to see if the car’s auto-pilot is still functioning properly. The vehicle, unaware that it is now responsible for navigating the roadway without the assistance of a human, though four are present, drifts into oncoming traffic. After what seems to be a text exchange resembling the Camp David Accords, they simultaneously realize they are fucked with a capital F. A head-on collision occurs, closely followed by a t-bone, because that douche who seemed to be following at a safe distance must have been texting as well. The full length version of the PSA can be seen in its four minute and seventeen second entirety on-line with full gory details and EMT response. For those of you with the “train-wreck” mentality many of us possess, you can view it after you’re done reading this.
None of what I just mentioned should come as any surprise to any of you. Talking on a cellphone while driving has hit epidemic proportions. The “walk and chew gum” concept has weaseled its way into the realm of operating an automobile. Inevitably, while I sit behind the wheel seething, mumbling to myself “Bet that putz is on the phone,” some insipid vehicular challenged pinhead obliviously meanders at fifteen miles per hour less than the posted speed limit unaware that other human life exists besides themselves. And while we’re at it, “GET OUT OF THE FUCKING FAST LANE!!” Texting while driving must be worse.
The automobile insurance industry must be going ape shit right about now. For years drunk driving has been the number one cause of automobile accidents. We got tougher laws and stiffer penalties for those who transgress. We got M.A.D.D. We even have Kathleen Rice, district attorney of Nassau County, New York, who thinks DUI manslaughter should be prosecuted as murder, and she’s done just that in fourteen cases. Now we have cellphone usage as the number one cause of traffic accidents. The DUI manslaughter case of former New York Yankee Jim Leyritz, has the cellphone records which indicate that the victim was on the cellphone at the time of the accident. As an added bonus, she had been drinking as well. So if you’re driving drunk while on the cellphone, the likelihood of lightning striking is pretty high.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am not emitting some sort of aura moral superiority. Nor am I saying we’ve gone overboard in our policing of the issue. Everyone can continue putting others at risk having banal exchanges -“What are you doing?” “Nothing, what are you doing”- can be oral or written.
The point here is cellphones are a concern yes, but there is a need for a Scared Straight type of video that addresses the hazards of texting while driving? (Truthfully, I’m surprised some women’s organization hasn’t filed suit yet on behalf of those four young ladies, citing chauvinism, and gender discrimination.) Isn’t that kind of like the priest telling you you’ll go to hell if you don’t change your behavior? Yet, some folks still continue on their merry way without fear of retribution. Not everybody thinks the rules pertain to them, so they abide by their own. Hence, the resulting societal ill which plagues us, acute self-absorption.
Look, teens are, and have always been, fearless. There is a tendency to feel you’re invincible. The “Oh, that’ll never happen to me” sort of attitude wears off after awhile. However, stupidity does not. Scare tactics don’t always achieve the desired results, visual hyperbole might not either. You’ve got to think that a least one in four people is bright enough to realize that it might not be such a brilliant idea to text while driving down the highway. Let’s give the next generation a little more credit than the PSA does. People will continue to text while driving, just like they continue to drink and do drugs regardless of the consequences. Insurance rates will climb. New laws and restrictions will be passed. Grass roots “anti” movements will form. When is everybody going to realize that everyday life has risks? Just be alert to them. It isn’t necessary to beat us over the head. We might not pay any attention anyway.
Will the PSA serve as a deterrent? I don’t know. When I was younger I did anything and everything with the expected results and it didn’t stop me. Maybe I’m not the best judge. I think you should ask someone else. I leave my front door unlocked.
We’ve been told drinking alcohol is bad for us. It is if you drink like I used to. But we’ve also been told that an occasional drink prevents clots by thinning the blood. Hold on, each drink destroys a kabillion brain cells, although a recent 60 Minutes expose reported that the drug resveratrol stored in the grapes used to make certain red wines, can delay the aging process. If all this is true, I’ll eventually become a youthful, dim witted alcoholic, who doesn’t understand why I don’t stop bleeding when I cut myself. But blissfully, I won’t care. Even our technology harms us in some way, shape or form.
Watching too much television is bad for us. It makes us fat. It turns us into tapioca pudding brained vege heads. It skews our perception of the real world. You can’t blame anybody for bringing this to our attention. Have you seen the crap that’s aired on the two-hundred and whatever channels we have access to? And for christ’s sake, don’t sit so close to your sixty inch screens or you’ll go blind!
Don’t stand in front of the microwave if you’re pregnant, or if you want to get pregnant. Make sure you don’t live too close to power lines. Man, if your property was adjacent to high tension wires, and you were warming a bottle of formula, both you and your kid would probably internally combust. Can you imagine if you were talking on your cellphone at the same time? The results are too terrifying to fathom.
We’ve been warned about these miniature creations of the devil. They cause cancer if we talk too much. They can cause our cars to explode if we’re on them while we’re filling our gas tanks. And now a recent British public service announcement is garnering quite a bit of attention because-brace yourselves- texting while driving is dangerous!!!!! Holy shit, I’m sure glad someone told me. I was under the impression that not looking at the road while my hands were off the wheel was perfectly safe as long as I let my vehicle be driven by “The Force.” Are you fucking kidding me? No one knows this is a bad idea?
The PSA depicts a car smaller than my coffee maker loaded with four teenage young ladies, engaged in witless conversation, while the driver sends a text message regarding whether or not a particular young man “fancies” one of young ladies present. All four pairs of eyes are transfixed to the tiny cellphone screen, waiting in breathless anticipation, the incoming response. Not once does it dawn on any of the twits that they are indeed traveling in a motor vehicle. No one picks their head up just for shits and giggles to see if the car’s auto-pilot is still functioning properly. The vehicle, unaware that it is now responsible for navigating the roadway without the assistance of a human, though four are present, drifts into oncoming traffic. After what seems to be a text exchange resembling the Camp David Accords, they simultaneously realize they are fucked with a capital F. A head-on collision occurs, closely followed by a t-bone, because that douche who seemed to be following at a safe distance must have been texting as well. The full length version of the PSA can be seen in its four minute and seventeen second entirety on-line with full gory details and EMT response. For those of you with the “train-wreck” mentality many of us possess, you can view it after you’re done reading this.
None of what I just mentioned should come as any surprise to any of you. Talking on a cellphone while driving has hit epidemic proportions. The “walk and chew gum” concept has weaseled its way into the realm of operating an automobile. Inevitably, while I sit behind the wheel seething, mumbling to myself “Bet that putz is on the phone,” some insipid vehicular challenged pinhead obliviously meanders at fifteen miles per hour less than the posted speed limit unaware that other human life exists besides themselves. And while we’re at it, “GET OUT OF THE FUCKING FAST LANE!!” Texting while driving must be worse.
The automobile insurance industry must be going ape shit right about now. For years drunk driving has been the number one cause of automobile accidents. We got tougher laws and stiffer penalties for those who transgress. We got M.A.D.D. We even have Kathleen Rice, district attorney of Nassau County, New York, who thinks DUI manslaughter should be prosecuted as murder, and she’s done just that in fourteen cases. Now we have cellphone usage as the number one cause of traffic accidents. The DUI manslaughter case of former New York Yankee Jim Leyritz, has the cellphone records which indicate that the victim was on the cellphone at the time of the accident. As an added bonus, she had been drinking as well. So if you’re driving drunk while on the cellphone, the likelihood of lightning striking is pretty high.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am not emitting some sort of aura moral superiority. Nor am I saying we’ve gone overboard in our policing of the issue. Everyone can continue putting others at risk having banal exchanges -“What are you doing?” “Nothing, what are you doing”- can be oral or written.
The point here is cellphones are a concern yes, but there is a need for a Scared Straight type of video that addresses the hazards of texting while driving? (Truthfully, I’m surprised some women’s organization hasn’t filed suit yet on behalf of those four young ladies, citing chauvinism, and gender discrimination.) Isn’t that kind of like the priest telling you you’ll go to hell if you don’t change your behavior? Yet, some folks still continue on their merry way without fear of retribution. Not everybody thinks the rules pertain to them, so they abide by their own. Hence, the resulting societal ill which plagues us, acute self-absorption.
Look, teens are, and have always been, fearless. There is a tendency to feel you’re invincible. The “Oh, that’ll never happen to me” sort of attitude wears off after awhile. However, stupidity does not. Scare tactics don’t always achieve the desired results, visual hyperbole might not either. You’ve got to think that a least one in four people is bright enough to realize that it might not be such a brilliant idea to text while driving down the highway. Let’s give the next generation a little more credit than the PSA does. People will continue to text while driving, just like they continue to drink and do drugs regardless of the consequences. Insurance rates will climb. New laws and restrictions will be passed. Grass roots “anti” movements will form. When is everybody going to realize that everyday life has risks? Just be alert to them. It isn’t necessary to beat us over the head. We might not pay any attention anyway.
Will the PSA serve as a deterrent? I don’t know. When I was younger I did anything and everything with the expected results and it didn’t stop me. Maybe I’m not the best judge. I think you should ask someone else. I leave my front door unlocked.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Friend Specific
Refusing to be roped into discussing the Michael Vick, Brett Favre soap operas, as if you haven’t got enough of that crap already, those two topics do not warrant any prose from me. As Bruce Springteen said live before launching into a moving acoustic rendition of No Surrender, “this one’s for friendship.” Or lack thereof for that matter.
With all the technological advancements this century has put at our disposal, you’d think maintaining friendships would be simpler than ever. No more having to sit down with a pen and paper to try to accurately convey a precise emotional state to loved one too far away. No more having to wait until after six o’clock on a Sunday for the rates to go down so you can make that cross country call to a friend who’s moved, but certainly not forgotten. No more waiting for pictures to be developed so they can be sent to someone near and dear so as to keep them abreast of the latest happenings in your life. We can e-mail the latest news of our lives with those who care. We can sign up for phone plans that grant us more time than we could ever spend talking if we suffered from a severe case of insomnia. We can take pictures with our cameras and shoot them via the internet to whoever would be interested. And if the moment captured is particularly scintillating, causing us to immediately share the three-legged iguana taking a crap in our front yard with those in our diaspora posses, we can do so via our cellphones. Armed with all this knowledge and technology we now all have so many friends we can no longer go to work because we spend up to eighty hours a week keeping in touch. Not so. We have a ranking system, and a weeding out process that allows us to continue with what resembles a normal life.
There are many categories of friends. Everyone has at least one, if not several “lifelong friends.” These are the people you’ve been friends with since minimally, grade school. This group can be broken into differing levels of loyalty, and intensity. Sometimes you are so close with these friends that you refuse to move your families away from them. Or, when one moves, so does the other. They’re the person you’d push out of the way of an oncoming vehicle only to get struck yourself. This is the most exalted friendship status reserved for the truly rare friend. There can be variations within this level as well. These friends can move away, but the relationship remains extremely close. There are numerous weekly phone calls. Trips are made to one another’s homes. The main difference in this vein is that daily interaction does not take place face to face. Also, you may make friendships later in life that rival the ardor of the “lifelong” friend, the only difference is the length of time knowing one another. The best thing about these friends is that you revel in their company no matter what the circumstances, and for the most part they’ll always be there for you no matter what.
Then there are the friendships formed from “group interface.”This is a coming together due to a shared singular bond or common cause. Church friends, work friends, and friendships from joining a particular association fall into the “group interface” category. Occasionally, a “lifelong friendship” may develop from this type of relationship, but not as often as the less intense “keeping in touch” result. From the “group interface” faction, the level of friendship can vary greatly.
I belonged to the Pembroke Lakes Optimist Club for ten years where my son played baseball, and I coached and umpired. I was vice-president of the PTA for two years where my son went to middle school. I was a member of, and later vice-president of the Cooper City High School Baseball Booster Club. Like the irresponsible and immature individual I am, I have held numerous jobs over the course of my life. Sadly, very few relationships that flourished through constant interaction remained once I was no longer part of any of the former organizations, or places of employment.
You always say the standard “Let’s keep in touch,” or, the ever popular “I’ll call you, we’ll get together for lunch,” when it comes time for us to part ways, but nothing ever comes to fruition. Through my son’s baseball activities, there were many trips where we ate, slept, and partied with the other parents whom I had befriended, nearly all of what I once considered “close” relationships, have fallen by the wayside. All that remain are the smattering few token Christmas card contacts every year. Of what had to be three dozen people, wives and husbands, today I only speak to one, my son’s first baseball coach from 1993. And now his wife no longer speaks to me. The same may be said for the folks who sat in the same section as I did at Shea Stadium.
For five years we were as close knit as a group could be. Our common thread was our affection for the New York Mets. Even the bathroom attendant, Bennie Nesbitt, and our beer vendor Lorraine, all received Christmas cards with notes enclosed for those years. In 1992, I did not renew my tickets, and those relationships came to an abrupt halt. I considered these people my friends. We truly cared about one another, shared intimate moments and secrets, yet not a single contact, save one, since then. I made my way back to Shea for Opening Day in 1992. Lorraine now manned the beer station located behind home plate. I introduced my wife to her, and that was it. We exchanged pleasantries, reminisced a bit, and said our good-byes. Nearly all of the “friends” I made during my work career, I no longer keep in contact with, even though I have the means. I do not have a definitive answer for this, only excuses.
We may use the standard “we’ve grown apart” to absolve ourselves from maintaining older relationships. But, memories of those once forgotten, still rear their heads every now and then, only to be suppressed rather than make that phone call, or write that letter. We may ask ourselves “I wonder what so-and-so is up to these days” yet rarely take the time to find out. If we really wanted to know, it wouldn’t be too much trouble. You can search for them on Facebook.
Facebook has rekindled friendships from long, and not so long ago. However, even with this extraordinary networking tool, we still have a tendency to treat each other the same way we treat all our other relationships. Lengthy messages written to old friends to bring them up to date either go unanswered, or you get a token briefing back, never to hear from them again. Then you have the group of people who seem genuinely happy to get back in touch with you again, or that you’re interested enough to make them part of your daily interaction. This group is much smaller than the first I mentioned, but infinitely rewarding. My high school junior prom date and I frequently comment to each other. The sister of a “lifelong friend” and I exchange observations. A couple of other “friends” from my high school days share what’s on our minds via the magic of Facebook. The same is true for real friends of my son’s, who have been kind enough to “friend” me. Currently, I have one hundred and fifteen “friends” on Facebook. Maybe twenty percent really are.
Be it Facebook, e-mail, texts, or the good ol’ phone, perhaps most of those people who make up the various forms of relationships I’ve established over the years are not friends at all, but acquaintances. I assume part of the blame. A lot of responsibility comes with being a friend to someone, and I’m not always willing or able to put in what’s necessary. At my age, it takes a very long time to cultivate and maintain a friendship. Regardless of status, length of time knowing, infrequency of correspondence, I value and cherish each and every one. And as long as it’s alright with them, I think I’ll still call them friends, it makes me feel good.
With all the technological advancements this century has put at our disposal, you’d think maintaining friendships would be simpler than ever. No more having to sit down with a pen and paper to try to accurately convey a precise emotional state to loved one too far away. No more having to wait until after six o’clock on a Sunday for the rates to go down so you can make that cross country call to a friend who’s moved, but certainly not forgotten. No more waiting for pictures to be developed so they can be sent to someone near and dear so as to keep them abreast of the latest happenings in your life. We can e-mail the latest news of our lives with those who care. We can sign up for phone plans that grant us more time than we could ever spend talking if we suffered from a severe case of insomnia. We can take pictures with our cameras and shoot them via the internet to whoever would be interested. And if the moment captured is particularly scintillating, causing us to immediately share the three-legged iguana taking a crap in our front yard with those in our diaspora posses, we can do so via our cellphones. Armed with all this knowledge and technology we now all have so many friends we can no longer go to work because we spend up to eighty hours a week keeping in touch. Not so. We have a ranking system, and a weeding out process that allows us to continue with what resembles a normal life.
There are many categories of friends. Everyone has at least one, if not several “lifelong friends.” These are the people you’ve been friends with since minimally, grade school. This group can be broken into differing levels of loyalty, and intensity. Sometimes you are so close with these friends that you refuse to move your families away from them. Or, when one moves, so does the other. They’re the person you’d push out of the way of an oncoming vehicle only to get struck yourself. This is the most exalted friendship status reserved for the truly rare friend. There can be variations within this level as well. These friends can move away, but the relationship remains extremely close. There are numerous weekly phone calls. Trips are made to one another’s homes. The main difference in this vein is that daily interaction does not take place face to face. Also, you may make friendships later in life that rival the ardor of the “lifelong” friend, the only difference is the length of time knowing one another. The best thing about these friends is that you revel in their company no matter what the circumstances, and for the most part they’ll always be there for you no matter what.
Then there are the friendships formed from “group interface.”This is a coming together due to a shared singular bond or common cause. Church friends, work friends, and friendships from joining a particular association fall into the “group interface” category. Occasionally, a “lifelong friendship” may develop from this type of relationship, but not as often as the less intense “keeping in touch” result. From the “group interface” faction, the level of friendship can vary greatly.
I belonged to the Pembroke Lakes Optimist Club for ten years where my son played baseball, and I coached and umpired. I was vice-president of the PTA for two years where my son went to middle school. I was a member of, and later vice-president of the Cooper City High School Baseball Booster Club. Like the irresponsible and immature individual I am, I have held numerous jobs over the course of my life. Sadly, very few relationships that flourished through constant interaction remained once I was no longer part of any of the former organizations, or places of employment.
You always say the standard “Let’s keep in touch,” or, the ever popular “I’ll call you, we’ll get together for lunch,” when it comes time for us to part ways, but nothing ever comes to fruition. Through my son’s baseball activities, there were many trips where we ate, slept, and partied with the other parents whom I had befriended, nearly all of what I once considered “close” relationships, have fallen by the wayside. All that remain are the smattering few token Christmas card contacts every year. Of what had to be three dozen people, wives and husbands, today I only speak to one, my son’s first baseball coach from 1993. And now his wife no longer speaks to me. The same may be said for the folks who sat in the same section as I did at Shea Stadium.
For five years we were as close knit as a group could be. Our common thread was our affection for the New York Mets. Even the bathroom attendant, Bennie Nesbitt, and our beer vendor Lorraine, all received Christmas cards with notes enclosed for those years. In 1992, I did not renew my tickets, and those relationships came to an abrupt halt. I considered these people my friends. We truly cared about one another, shared intimate moments and secrets, yet not a single contact, save one, since then. I made my way back to Shea for Opening Day in 1992. Lorraine now manned the beer station located behind home plate. I introduced my wife to her, and that was it. We exchanged pleasantries, reminisced a bit, and said our good-byes. Nearly all of the “friends” I made during my work career, I no longer keep in contact with, even though I have the means. I do not have a definitive answer for this, only excuses.
We may use the standard “we’ve grown apart” to absolve ourselves from maintaining older relationships. But, memories of those once forgotten, still rear their heads every now and then, only to be suppressed rather than make that phone call, or write that letter. We may ask ourselves “I wonder what so-and-so is up to these days” yet rarely take the time to find out. If we really wanted to know, it wouldn’t be too much trouble. You can search for them on Facebook.
Facebook has rekindled friendships from long, and not so long ago. However, even with this extraordinary networking tool, we still have a tendency to treat each other the same way we treat all our other relationships. Lengthy messages written to old friends to bring them up to date either go unanswered, or you get a token briefing back, never to hear from them again. Then you have the group of people who seem genuinely happy to get back in touch with you again, or that you’re interested enough to make them part of your daily interaction. This group is much smaller than the first I mentioned, but infinitely rewarding. My high school junior prom date and I frequently comment to each other. The sister of a “lifelong friend” and I exchange observations. A couple of other “friends” from my high school days share what’s on our minds via the magic of Facebook. The same is true for real friends of my son’s, who have been kind enough to “friend” me. Currently, I have one hundred and fifteen “friends” on Facebook. Maybe twenty percent really are.
Be it Facebook, e-mail, texts, or the good ol’ phone, perhaps most of those people who make up the various forms of relationships I’ve established over the years are not friends at all, but acquaintances. I assume part of the blame. A lot of responsibility comes with being a friend to someone, and I’m not always willing or able to put in what’s necessary. At my age, it takes a very long time to cultivate and maintain a friendship. Regardless of status, length of time knowing, infrequency of correspondence, I value and cherish each and every one. And as long as it’s alright with them, I think I’ll still call them friends, it makes me feel good.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Not I, Said the Pig
Sadly, America has become a litigious society. A little spilled hot coffee here, a fender bender resulting in chronic back pain there, and pretty soon everybody is blaming everybody else but themselves, and everyone expects someone to pay. Women marry men for their money, and then divorce the person they married due to irreconcilable differences. Do they admit fault? Do they realize the error of their superficial ways, no; they make sure their no longer significant other pays for their lack of foresight. Men share this burden of guilt for the want of a trophy wife with their wallets. Shallow is, what shallow does. Recently this absurdity has reached new heights. Just ask Ben Roethlisberger and Rick Pitino.
In 1971, Lee Marvin found himself in a California courtroom thanks to the first “palimony” suit brought against him by longtime girlfriend Michelle Triola. Who the hell is Michelle Triola you may ask? Precisely. You’d have absolutely no idea who she was had not she had an ongoing relationship with the rich and famous Marvin. It wasn’t enough that for many years she led a charmed jet-set lifestyle at the expense of Marvin. No, after he broke off the relationship, Ms. Triola felt she was entitled to a significant amount of Mr. Marvin’s assets. Thankfully, the courts finally ruled her allegations were unfounded. But the die had been cast for future live-ins to lay claim to the accumulated wealth of another just because they enjoyed, (and I mean enjoyed if they’re a member of the privileged) some quality time together. The reason behind this thinking being, the jilted party would have been rich and famous in their own right had they not chose to be a glorified armpiece. And monkeys might fly out of my ass. However, it’s great “work” if you can get it. This happens occasionally to men, but less frequently. With a divorce, no matter the gender, coughing up dough is SOP. Guy Richie, Madonna’s former betrothed, wouldn’t have even had a career had not he married The Material Girl. It’s safe to say Mr. Richie was quite a bit better off when she dumped him, than before they exchanged nuptials. It seems as though any situation that doesn’t turn out the way the individuals involved expects it to, can be cured by financial compensation.
Everything from the infamous McDonald’s hot coffee incident, to waiting too long on the tarmac for your flight to take off, results in monetary dispensation. The unfathomable case of the prospective burglar who hurt himself falling through the roof of the potential victim’s home, which resulted in a pecuniary award from the homeowner’s insurance company, is a perfect example of what this country has come to. Not only does "why work when you can steal" apply here, but also, if the theft is unsuccessful, sue. Frivolous lawsuits abound unchecked like some sort of conciliatory runaway locomotive gone drastically awry. These types of lawsuits similar to the ones previously mentioned, have been glorified in such films as Philadelphia, A Civil Action, and Erin Brockovich. Mercifully, those cases served as a prelude to a more noble cause. Jacoby & Meyers, the first law firm to advertise on television, ought to be ashamed of themselves. Others will say that they should be lauded for their intuition concerning the future of law. Had they been a publically traded company, their stock would have skyrocketed before the market became flooded with personal injury attorneys. In the cases of Ben Roethlisberger and Rick Pitino, we get the best of both twisted legal worlds, frivolity and the want of a big payday by the plaintiff.
Ben Roethlisberger is the star quarterback for the reigning Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers. On July 17th, of this year, Andrea McNulty (bet you never heard of her before this), filed a civil suit against the Steeler QB, claiming that Roethlisberger sexually assaulted her, not on July 16, or even the 15th, 2009, but in July of 2008. Ms. McNulty is seeking damages for emotional pain she has had to endure. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, I’m not a woman thankfully, but I was always under the impression that rape is a serious crime that causes severe trauma to the victim. If anyone can clear this up for me, it would be greatly appreciated. Why does anyone wait a year before coming forward, and when they do, why a civil complaint, and not a criminal one? Let me venture a guess.
The shame from rape often inhibits a woman from coming forward. However, I’ve never heard of a woman being “boastful, and bragging” about “being with” Roethlisberger. But, according to the sworn statement of Angela Antonetti, a co-worker of McNulty’s, that’s exactly how McNulty behaved after the incident. Antonetti stated further, that McNulty expressed her hope for a “little Roethlisberger” according to published reports in The Reno-Gazette-Journal. Well, if you’re as sleazy as this sworn statement indicates, of course you want to be impregnated by a celeb. That’s like winning the fucking Powerball to the rest of us with a shred of moral decency. However, if what has been revealed thus far is true, Andrea McNulty wouldn’t recognize a moral if it bit her on the ass. And let’s not start making excuses for this cheap, manipulative bitch, by delving into her “troubled past” so we can come up with the source of her ethical impropriety, even though that’s the prevailing attitude today. Hey, maybe she can claim she has ADHD, or some shit like that; which has altered her behavior so dramatically, she can’t help herself from sleeping with a celebrity, then trying to extort money from them when she finds out she’s not having the golden fetal dump she was hoping for. The case concerning Rick Pitino is even more bizarre.
Pitino is the coach of the University of Louisville Cardinal basketball team. For the last twelve years Tim Sypher has worked for Rick Pitino. Currently, Sypher serves as equipment manager for the Louisville basketball team. Before that, Sypher was an assistant of Pitino’s when he was head coach of the Boston Celtics. Prior to that, ironically, Sypher worked as an investigator for the state of Massachusetts. Sypher is in the process of getting a divorce from his wife Karen. It is she who the FBI is investigating concerning the allegations of attempting to extort Pitino. This all stems from the consensual sex (Sypher claims it was rape) Pitino had with Karen Sypher at a restaurant, get this, back in 2003. That’s right, not one, but six years ago. Then things got strange.
Karen Sypher, according to a published report by the Associated Press, stated that two weeks after their tryst, Sypher claimed she was pregnant. I didn’t know a menstrual cycle could be bi-weekly. Also, she was married at the time, call me crazy, but couldn’t her husband possibly be the father of the alleged (no evidence indicates she was pregnant) fetus? Sypher and Pitino, who probably immediately rued his indiscretion, thought an abortion was best. I guess after five kids for Pitino, and four for Sypher, they both had enough of that shit. Sypher claimed she’d get an abortion, but she didn’t have health insurance. So, Pitino gave her the money not for an abortion, but for health insurance, three-thousand dollars worth. Christ, what did she have, a mink lined uterus? This did not satisfy Sypher. Later, she gave her husband a list of demands. They included “college tuition for her children, two cars, money to pay off her house and $3,000 per month,” according to the AP report. When Pitino wouldn’t cooperate, Karen Sypher upped the ante. She guessed ten million dollars ought to cover a two time sexual liaison. Ya think? It was when she got stone walled; Karen Sypher claimed she was raped by Pitino. Oy vey! Coach Pitino then went to the FBI. Now, a private mistake has become a public one. Karen Sypher (who?) doesn’t suffer publically, Rick Pitino does. She has nothing to lose. As a matter of fact, it was Sypher who went to the press after Pitino went to the FBI. Talk about a woman scorned. She makes Andrea McNulty look like a piker.
The names of two notable sports celebrities get dragged through the mud whether they are innocent of all wrong doing or not. Two lunatic, jilted jezebels are discovered for the shams they are. While one gets mesmerized by gazing into the eyes of Dracula, the same can happen to a man by staring at a woman’s boobs. The only thing Roethlisberger and Pitino seem to be guilty of, and both women preyed on this fact, is that the brains of both men were located in the heads of their purple helmeted warriors instead of the heads on their shoulders. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead.
Like people that clog the court system with nuisance lawsuits in the hope of making a quick buck, and those that get involved in relationships seeking only an eventual big payday; these two women never heeded what I’m sure was said to them throughout their lives to serve as a reminder. Pick any one of the following America, “You reap what you sow,” Be careful what you wish for,” and “It’s nobody’s fault but your own.” Will somebody please man-up and take your medicine for Christ’s sake.
In 1971, Lee Marvin found himself in a California courtroom thanks to the first “palimony” suit brought against him by longtime girlfriend Michelle Triola. Who the hell is Michelle Triola you may ask? Precisely. You’d have absolutely no idea who she was had not she had an ongoing relationship with the rich and famous Marvin. It wasn’t enough that for many years she led a charmed jet-set lifestyle at the expense of Marvin. No, after he broke off the relationship, Ms. Triola felt she was entitled to a significant amount of Mr. Marvin’s assets. Thankfully, the courts finally ruled her allegations were unfounded. But the die had been cast for future live-ins to lay claim to the accumulated wealth of another just because they enjoyed, (and I mean enjoyed if they’re a member of the privileged) some quality time together. The reason behind this thinking being, the jilted party would have been rich and famous in their own right had they not chose to be a glorified armpiece. And monkeys might fly out of my ass. However, it’s great “work” if you can get it. This happens occasionally to men, but less frequently. With a divorce, no matter the gender, coughing up dough is SOP. Guy Richie, Madonna’s former betrothed, wouldn’t have even had a career had not he married The Material Girl. It’s safe to say Mr. Richie was quite a bit better off when she dumped him, than before they exchanged nuptials. It seems as though any situation that doesn’t turn out the way the individuals involved expects it to, can be cured by financial compensation.
Everything from the infamous McDonald’s hot coffee incident, to waiting too long on the tarmac for your flight to take off, results in monetary dispensation. The unfathomable case of the prospective burglar who hurt himself falling through the roof of the potential victim’s home, which resulted in a pecuniary award from the homeowner’s insurance company, is a perfect example of what this country has come to. Not only does "why work when you can steal" apply here, but also, if the theft is unsuccessful, sue. Frivolous lawsuits abound unchecked like some sort of conciliatory runaway locomotive gone drastically awry. These types of lawsuits similar to the ones previously mentioned, have been glorified in such films as Philadelphia, A Civil Action, and Erin Brockovich. Mercifully, those cases served as a prelude to a more noble cause. Jacoby & Meyers, the first law firm to advertise on television, ought to be ashamed of themselves. Others will say that they should be lauded for their intuition concerning the future of law. Had they been a publically traded company, their stock would have skyrocketed before the market became flooded with personal injury attorneys. In the cases of Ben Roethlisberger and Rick Pitino, we get the best of both twisted legal worlds, frivolity and the want of a big payday by the plaintiff.
Ben Roethlisberger is the star quarterback for the reigning Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers. On July 17th, of this year, Andrea McNulty (bet you never heard of her before this), filed a civil suit against the Steeler QB, claiming that Roethlisberger sexually assaulted her, not on July 16, or even the 15th, 2009, but in July of 2008. Ms. McNulty is seeking damages for emotional pain she has had to endure. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, I’m not a woman thankfully, but I was always under the impression that rape is a serious crime that causes severe trauma to the victim. If anyone can clear this up for me, it would be greatly appreciated. Why does anyone wait a year before coming forward, and when they do, why a civil complaint, and not a criminal one? Let me venture a guess.
The shame from rape often inhibits a woman from coming forward. However, I’ve never heard of a woman being “boastful, and bragging” about “being with” Roethlisberger. But, according to the sworn statement of Angela Antonetti, a co-worker of McNulty’s, that’s exactly how McNulty behaved after the incident. Antonetti stated further, that McNulty expressed her hope for a “little Roethlisberger” according to published reports in The Reno-Gazette-Journal. Well, if you’re as sleazy as this sworn statement indicates, of course you want to be impregnated by a celeb. That’s like winning the fucking Powerball to the rest of us with a shred of moral decency. However, if what has been revealed thus far is true, Andrea McNulty wouldn’t recognize a moral if it bit her on the ass. And let’s not start making excuses for this cheap, manipulative bitch, by delving into her “troubled past” so we can come up with the source of her ethical impropriety, even though that’s the prevailing attitude today. Hey, maybe she can claim she has ADHD, or some shit like that; which has altered her behavior so dramatically, she can’t help herself from sleeping with a celebrity, then trying to extort money from them when she finds out she’s not having the golden fetal dump she was hoping for. The case concerning Rick Pitino is even more bizarre.
Pitino is the coach of the University of Louisville Cardinal basketball team. For the last twelve years Tim Sypher has worked for Rick Pitino. Currently, Sypher serves as equipment manager for the Louisville basketball team. Before that, Sypher was an assistant of Pitino’s when he was head coach of the Boston Celtics. Prior to that, ironically, Sypher worked as an investigator for the state of Massachusetts. Sypher is in the process of getting a divorce from his wife Karen. It is she who the FBI is investigating concerning the allegations of attempting to extort Pitino. This all stems from the consensual sex (Sypher claims it was rape) Pitino had with Karen Sypher at a restaurant, get this, back in 2003. That’s right, not one, but six years ago. Then things got strange.
Karen Sypher, according to a published report by the Associated Press, stated that two weeks after their tryst, Sypher claimed she was pregnant. I didn’t know a menstrual cycle could be bi-weekly. Also, she was married at the time, call me crazy, but couldn’t her husband possibly be the father of the alleged (no evidence indicates she was pregnant) fetus? Sypher and Pitino, who probably immediately rued his indiscretion, thought an abortion was best. I guess after five kids for Pitino, and four for Sypher, they both had enough of that shit. Sypher claimed she’d get an abortion, but she didn’t have health insurance. So, Pitino gave her the money not for an abortion, but for health insurance, three-thousand dollars worth. Christ, what did she have, a mink lined uterus? This did not satisfy Sypher. Later, she gave her husband a list of demands. They included “college tuition for her children, two cars, money to pay off her house and $3,000 per month,” according to the AP report. When Pitino wouldn’t cooperate, Karen Sypher upped the ante. She guessed ten million dollars ought to cover a two time sexual liaison. Ya think? It was when she got stone walled; Karen Sypher claimed she was raped by Pitino. Oy vey! Coach Pitino then went to the FBI. Now, a private mistake has become a public one. Karen Sypher (who?) doesn’t suffer publically, Rick Pitino does. She has nothing to lose. As a matter of fact, it was Sypher who went to the press after Pitino went to the FBI. Talk about a woman scorned. She makes Andrea McNulty look like a piker.
The names of two notable sports celebrities get dragged through the mud whether they are innocent of all wrong doing or not. Two lunatic, jilted jezebels are discovered for the shams they are. While one gets mesmerized by gazing into the eyes of Dracula, the same can happen to a man by staring at a woman’s boobs. The only thing Roethlisberger and Pitino seem to be guilty of, and both women preyed on this fact, is that the brains of both men were located in the heads of their purple helmeted warriors instead of the heads on their shoulders. Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead.
Like people that clog the court system with nuisance lawsuits in the hope of making a quick buck, and those that get involved in relationships seeking only an eventual big payday; these two women never heeded what I’m sure was said to them throughout their lives to serve as a reminder. Pick any one of the following America, “You reap what you sow,” Be careful what you wish for,” and “It’s nobody’s fault but your own.” Will somebody please man-up and take your medicine for Christ’s sake.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Worth the Price of Admission
Every now and again something occurs that brings to mind a phrase, or cliché that seems to fit the exact scenario that plays out before your own eyes. A sporting event often serves as the backdrop where something so extraordinary or so entertaining happens that you’re inspired to say aloud, “That was worth the price of admission!” Granted, the idiom may be a bit antediluvian, but there is nothing more hip, more up to date, or more precisely descriptive. Such a deed took place last Friday evening at Joe Robbie, Pro Player, Dolphins, Landshark, Sell the Naming Rights to the Highest Bidder Stadium where the Chicago Cubs were playing the Florida Marlins.
Attending a baseball game is one of my very best favorite things to do. I use the derivative of attend because I am not always totally engrossed in what goes on between the foul lines. I was fortunate enough to go to a game at Wrigley Field in Chicago, where, in addition to receiving the good news my sister-in-law was going to have a baby, the Cubs pitcher Jon Lieber, threw a seventy-nine pitch, one hit shut out, with a forty-three minute rain delay thrown in for good measure. The game did not get my undivided attention as it normally does; there was an important conversation that held priority that day. A conversation of equal importance took place between myself and my sister-in-law’s husband several days later during a Chicago White Sox game at Comiskey Park. I don’t even remember the outcome of that game, much less anything significant enough that it should be stored somewhere in the dank, dark recesses of my memory bank.
Sometimes I go to a baseball game just for the company, the game is an afterthought. There was probably a time or two where something great did occur, but I was too drunk to care, but not likely. Even in an altered state of conscientiousness great baseball moments witnessed first hand have a way of permanently etching themselves on one’s psyche. I was quite drunk the night Reggie Jackson hit a home run off Ron Guidry in the rain in his return to Yankee Stadium as a California Angel, and I’ll never forget that night. While Reggie rounded the bases, I stood upon my seat, (not really my seat, I often resorted to graft when it was necessary to improve my vantage point) shouting “Steinbrenner sucks!” defiantly waving my middle finger at the owner’s private suite located not very far away. Soon, fity thousand people were chanting along with me. My reason for this antic; George Steinbrenner did not resign Reggie; rather, he let him go to the Angels via free agency, after all Reggie had done for the Yankees. That bastard! I’d show him! My childish act warranted a mention in Reggie’s autobiography.
I have seen a no-hitter pitched, albeit a little buzzed, and from a seat situated somewhere near the space station Mir. I have seen several World Series games. My seat at the one that took place in Philadelphia between the Phillies and the Orioles was so high up in the stands, that when the fireworks were shot off at the end of the game, they exploded below where I was standing. I didn’t watch much of that game at all. I didn’t give a shit about either team, and the seats sucked. But for the most part, I have intently watched the majority of the over five hundred Major League baseball games I’ve attended. Last Friday night, I’m really glad I did.
My son and I had made plans back in May to go to a Marlins-Phillies game on July 19. A friend of mine is a member of the event staff at Joe Robbie, Pro Player, Dolphins, Landshark, Sell the Naming Rights to the Highest Bidder Stadium. He offered that whenever I was interested in going to a game, I should let him know, he’d get tickets for me. Nice! It also helps that attendance at most Marlins games is roughly the same as the number of people in the express lane at a busy Publix supermarket. My thinking is, just put asses in the seats so it looks better on TV, since they pay the big money for broadcast rights. Hell, that’s the only reason the Marlins still exist at all, the television revenue money from Major League Baseball. So go ahead Marlins front office, get your employees to lure as many people to a game as they can. My son, Bryan Clark, and I, would be the beneficiaries of my friend Morty’s, generosity. Then it fucking rained. We’d have to make it another day before my son went back to Gainesville.
We planned for Saturday, August 15, versus the Colorado Rockies. It wasn’t the hated Phillies, but both the Marlins and the Rockies are fighting for the Wild Card playoff berth in the National League; that should make the game interesting enough. So okay, I’ll just wait until then. I didn’t need to.
Much to my surprise, Cory invited me to accompany him and my friend Gregg, to the Cubs-Marlins game this past Friday. I was stoked. The Cubs are vying for the Central division title, the lingering animosity stemming from the Steve Bartman affair in 2003, this would be a good game I inwardly predicted. I was not disappointed in the slightest.
Gregg was tardy picking us up due to some work related brain damage that necessitated a conference call on a rare day off. That would mean we’d miss the ceremonial multiple first pitches that have become so commonplace. We’d miss some elongated version of the Star Spangled Banner sung by someone of little notoriety. We’d miss the majority of the first inning, a personal pet peeve. I hate showing up after the game has started. The company made this minor annoyance just that, minor.
On the way to our seats we had a running commentary on what a not so “fan friendly” environment Joe Robbie, Pro Player, Dolphins, Landshark, Sell the Naming Rights to the Highest Bidder Stadium is for a baseball game. We got to our section and chose to sit in seats that weren’t as good as the ones we purchased, for a myriad of reasons, none of which I’ll go into here. It would only confirm what you probably suspect about my neurosis. We people watched, sarcastically commenting at every opportunity. We bitched about the goddamn Marlins cheerleaders. Can you imagine, fucking cheerleaders at a baseball game, sacrilege! We bitch about the lack of replays on the World’s Largest Hi-Def monitor. We poked fun at everything and everyone within our field of vision that was suitable for ridicule. For a welcome change, this pursuit was made easier by the “announced” attendance (meaning paid, as opposed to how many really showed up) of over twenty-five thousand patrons. Police converged on a local Publix to quell the riot in the express lane.
Our extracurricular activities aside, the play on the field was pure theater. We may have arrived late, but not late enough to miss the third inning, because what we witnessed was definitely worth the thirty dollar admission price. I bet you were wondering when I was going to get around to this.
In the top half of the third inning, a Chicago Cub belted a long drive to straight-away center field. As taught, Cody Ross, the Marlins centerfielder, turned his back to the plate, and ran as fast as he could. A dull roar began to build from the Cub contingency; a collective anticipatory groan came from the Marlin rooters, both of relatively the same octaves, just different intonation. One side was speculating whether the hit would be a double or a triple, the other side wishing to keep the offensive damage to a minimum. The two similar noises grew louder the further the ball went, and the faster Ross covered ground. Running full speed, to the deepest part of the ballpark, Cody Ross did his best Willie Mays impression. Up, up the nearly white sphere until it reached its apex and began its slowly descending arc. When there was no more room to run, the ball came to rest in Ross’ outstretched glove, to delight of the hometown crowd, and to the disappointment of the Cub faithful. All that was missing was an overconfident base runner who had strayed, and then Ross could have fired a perfect strike to the base the runner had vacated, for a double play.
Miraculous comes to mind when considering the difficulty of the catch. The dull roar turned into a cacophonous vocal explosion. For a split second, I couldn’t utter a sound, dumbfounded by what I’d just seen. I recovered from my stupefied state, and attempted to cheer, applaud, and search for the sufficiently appropriate adjective to describe what went down. Cory, Gregg, and I congratulated each other on the expertise of another. I started to comment that the catch “was worth…and Gregg finished the price of admission.” You know what they say about like minds. I could have left right then, the outcome of the game yet to be determined, my money well spent, but I didn’t. We stayed. It’s a good thing too, because the leaping, backhanded grab of a screaming line drive off the bat of another Cub for the third out was tremendous in owns right, but a little anticlimactic. By the end of nine innings of play we saw splendid pitching by both starters. We saw a couple of home runs, one by a Marlin, and one by a Cub. We saw a couple more defensive gems. We saw the Marlins win by a score of 5-2.
We also saw a rather stout woman in a replica Cub baseball jersey with the name “Moosecow” stitched across the shoulders. Cory and Gregg had already made fun by the time I brought it up. I guess I was too absorbed in watching the game.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Change from the Penny for My Thoughts
For those of you that have perused my son’s blog, last week he addressed the issue of looking out for ol’ number one. With that in mind, allow me to bear my soul. My friend Cynn (still getting used to that) Chadwick, the novelist/professor, told me that your mood most definitely affects what the storyteller tells. So today my mood is good, but what weighs heavily on mind is similar to the weather outside, cloudy and raining. Be forewarned, what follows is not the usual acid-tongued lambasting of some faction of big business, or some wordy diatribe aimed at the political process and those that work in the confines thereof. Or, a candid look at something on the sports landscape, there’ll be no poking fun at some level of incompetency somewhere rearing its ugly head. No, today I wallow. It’s my blog, and I’m allowed. So don’t read any further if this isn’t what you’re up for.
I was encouraged to start this blog by a friend of my son’s, Jesse Moskowitz. I got to spend some time with him while doing research at the Jimmy Carter library in Atlanta. Jesse was a student at Emory University, and he decided to take me to friend’s apartment where other fellow students were gathering. Immediately upon my arrival I felt comfortable in the company of a room full of strangers half my age. The conversation varied, and I had an opinion on each and every topic. Though I was completely sincere in my passion, my dialogue was colorful and irreverent. There’s something to be said for having a few years experience under you belt, all the while maintaining relevancy. It was then Jesse suggested starting a blog. I was suspect. Who’d want to read what I have to say? He said he would, several of his friends agreed. That was how this weekly exercise in word play began, albeit two years after the fact. Alas, as you can tell by this blogs home page, other than Jesse, none of the other Emory faithful have signed on as “followers.” Initially, I was distressed at the poor showing for those who’ve signed on as such, now I just hope one day everyone I’ve begged, pleaded with, cajoled, threatened, will get the idea how important this is to me.
My pitch went something like this.
“Could you do me a favor please?” “I’m starting this blog, and if I can get enough people to sign on as “followers,” perhaps one day I can sell ad space. I think I’ll need at least fifty, that’s what I heard. You don’t have to read my tripe, just sign up. It doesn’t cost anything, and it would help me out a lot.”
I was assured by one and all, that yes, sure, they’d be delighted to sign on. My son sent not one, but two mass e-mails to his friends exhorting them to sign up, and no, they didn’t have to read it. Weeks passed and very few of the hoards of “supporters” bothered to take the few minutes to sign up. Almost weekly, until I realized how annoying I was becoming; I approached each and every person I knew to once again, please help me out by becoming a “follower.” Did I tell you this small act was free? Did I tell you that these individuals never had to read one fucking word? Still, I wallow in obscurity. Christ! no wonder why I struggled so selling cars here in SoFla, I can’t even get people to do something for me that’s free. How the hell could I expect to get money out of people? It’s a good thing I write in the hopes of entertaining or enlightening. Though, I wouldn’t mind earning some sort of pauperish living off my work.
In an effort to increase exposure for this blog, my son Cory suggested back in December, that I sign up for Facebook, and put the link to my blog there. So every week I post the link in the “What’s on my mind” space on my Facebook homepage. This has resulted in exactly one; let me repeat that, one, new follower. Now, ten months later, I have thirty-nine followers. My son started a blog three weeks ago, he has 110 followers. He taunted me when he launched his blog that he would get fifty followers before I would. I laughed, but it stung. Now, it stings even more.
I also write my blog in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere, will stumble across it, think it’s cleaver, or well written, and offer me some freelance work. Or, someone post it on their web page, and I will gain more exposure that way; a new fangled way of getting one’s foot in the door, if you will. All that I’ve gotten, aside from the psychic remuneration generated from the writing itself, is a foot up my ass. At least that’s how I feel.
I have been in the job market for nearly two years, yielding little results, but I don’t despair. I understand that I’m looked at as being too old for entry level work, though I’d be happy to do it, AND as handicapped, I'm a tax write-off if I'm hired. I understand that I may be over-qualified for many of the positions I’ve sought. I understand that I don't have all the qualifications for some of the positions I've sought. But what I don’t understand is the utter lack of courtesy by those to whom I’ve inquired or solicited. However, the most important thing I do understand is it’s not what you know, but who you blow. I've kissed so much ass these last twenty months, my lips are chapped. Sadly, I guess I just don’t know the right people who’ve tried to open doors for me. The Chancellor of the Florida State University system, and ex-lieutenant governor, Frank Brogan has written a letter of recommendation on my behalf. So has legendary football coach Howard Schnellenberger. There is a letter from a fellow student half my age. There’s another from a former student whom I tutored for several classes. There are many letters from former professors. There’s also a letter from Jesse Moskowitz. Still, there is little work for me.
I thought teaching high school students would be a wonderful way to pass on the knowledge I’ve acquired; not just academic knowledge, but life skills knowledge. But, I can’t pass the Florida State background check because of something I did thirty years ago. Everyone that speaks to me for any period of time has insisted I should write a book. So I have. It has garnered little interest thus far. When I do get odd jobs that I feel I’m well-suited, everyone of my clients beats me up over price. So much so, that a friend recently said I’m whoring myself. Hey, any port in the storm right?
I thought I’ve been a good soldier, and doing, before our President even asked, what he feels will be for the betterment of society, and that is return to school. I did. For six years. And by the way things are going, gainful employment is not the result for which our President is hoping. Is that because so many incompetent people already have positions of such authority, that if someone of advanced education were to be allowed a position within their company, it would jeopardize their job status?
I’ve been told I have a story to tell. Hell, in even in the query for my book I say imagine Pursuit of Happyness on steroids for a frame of reference. So I tell whatever story I can conjure up on a week to week basis for a handful of individual’s kind enough to support me. No one said things were going to come easy just because I got a couple of degrees. I didn’t expect them to. I knew there would be a lot of hard work, toil, and rejection. I was prepared for that, just not nearly two years worth. You know things could always be worse, but I’d prefer not to find out how much worse. At least I’m not selling cars anymore. There, now I feel much better. And no, I don’t want any cheese.
I was encouraged to start this blog by a friend of my son’s, Jesse Moskowitz. I got to spend some time with him while doing research at the Jimmy Carter library in Atlanta. Jesse was a student at Emory University, and he decided to take me to friend’s apartment where other fellow students were gathering. Immediately upon my arrival I felt comfortable in the company of a room full of strangers half my age. The conversation varied, and I had an opinion on each and every topic. Though I was completely sincere in my passion, my dialogue was colorful and irreverent. There’s something to be said for having a few years experience under you belt, all the while maintaining relevancy. It was then Jesse suggested starting a blog. I was suspect. Who’d want to read what I have to say? He said he would, several of his friends agreed. That was how this weekly exercise in word play began, albeit two years after the fact. Alas, as you can tell by this blogs home page, other than Jesse, none of the other Emory faithful have signed on as “followers.” Initially, I was distressed at the poor showing for those who’ve signed on as such, now I just hope one day everyone I’ve begged, pleaded with, cajoled, threatened, will get the idea how important this is to me.
My pitch went something like this.
“Could you do me a favor please?” “I’m starting this blog, and if I can get enough people to sign on as “followers,” perhaps one day I can sell ad space. I think I’ll need at least fifty, that’s what I heard. You don’t have to read my tripe, just sign up. It doesn’t cost anything, and it would help me out a lot.”
I was assured by one and all, that yes, sure, they’d be delighted to sign on. My son sent not one, but two mass e-mails to his friends exhorting them to sign up, and no, they didn’t have to read it. Weeks passed and very few of the hoards of “supporters” bothered to take the few minutes to sign up. Almost weekly, until I realized how annoying I was becoming; I approached each and every person I knew to once again, please help me out by becoming a “follower.” Did I tell you this small act was free? Did I tell you that these individuals never had to read one fucking word? Still, I wallow in obscurity. Christ! no wonder why I struggled so selling cars here in SoFla, I can’t even get people to do something for me that’s free. How the hell could I expect to get money out of people? It’s a good thing I write in the hopes of entertaining or enlightening. Though, I wouldn’t mind earning some sort of pauperish living off my work.
In an effort to increase exposure for this blog, my son Cory suggested back in December, that I sign up for Facebook, and put the link to my blog there. So every week I post the link in the “What’s on my mind” space on my Facebook homepage. This has resulted in exactly one; let me repeat that, one, new follower. Now, ten months later, I have thirty-nine followers. My son started a blog three weeks ago, he has 110 followers. He taunted me when he launched his blog that he would get fifty followers before I would. I laughed, but it stung. Now, it stings even more.
I also write my blog in the hope that maybe someone, somewhere, will stumble across it, think it’s cleaver, or well written, and offer me some freelance work. Or, someone post it on their web page, and I will gain more exposure that way; a new fangled way of getting one’s foot in the door, if you will. All that I’ve gotten, aside from the psychic remuneration generated from the writing itself, is a foot up my ass. At least that’s how I feel.
I have been in the job market for nearly two years, yielding little results, but I don’t despair. I understand that I’m looked at as being too old for entry level work, though I’d be happy to do it, AND as handicapped, I'm a tax write-off if I'm hired. I understand that I may be over-qualified for many of the positions I’ve sought. I understand that I don't have all the qualifications for some of the positions I've sought. But what I don’t understand is the utter lack of courtesy by those to whom I’ve inquired or solicited. However, the most important thing I do understand is it’s not what you know, but who you blow. I've kissed so much ass these last twenty months, my lips are chapped. Sadly, I guess I just don’t know the right people who’ve tried to open doors for me. The Chancellor of the Florida State University system, and ex-lieutenant governor, Frank Brogan has written a letter of recommendation on my behalf. So has legendary football coach Howard Schnellenberger. There is a letter from a fellow student half my age. There’s another from a former student whom I tutored for several classes. There are many letters from former professors. There’s also a letter from Jesse Moskowitz. Still, there is little work for me.
I thought teaching high school students would be a wonderful way to pass on the knowledge I’ve acquired; not just academic knowledge, but life skills knowledge. But, I can’t pass the Florida State background check because of something I did thirty years ago. Everyone that speaks to me for any period of time has insisted I should write a book. So I have. It has garnered little interest thus far. When I do get odd jobs that I feel I’m well-suited, everyone of my clients beats me up over price. So much so, that a friend recently said I’m whoring myself. Hey, any port in the storm right?
I thought I’ve been a good soldier, and doing, before our President even asked, what he feels will be for the betterment of society, and that is return to school. I did. For six years. And by the way things are going, gainful employment is not the result for which our President is hoping. Is that because so many incompetent people already have positions of such authority, that if someone of advanced education were to be allowed a position within their company, it would jeopardize their job status?
I’ve been told I have a story to tell. Hell, in even in the query for my book I say imagine Pursuit of Happyness on steroids for a frame of reference. So I tell whatever story I can conjure up on a week to week basis for a handful of individual’s kind enough to support me. No one said things were going to come easy just because I got a couple of degrees. I didn’t expect them to. I knew there would be a lot of hard work, toil, and rejection. I was prepared for that, just not nearly two years worth. You know things could always be worse, but I’d prefer not to find out how much worse. At least I’m not selling cars anymore. There, now I feel much better. And no, I don’t want any cheese.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
In My Hometown…
…there exists, according to a State Farm survey done focusing on motor vehicle accidents, the most dangerous intersection in America. I am quite confident you find this piece of information very comforting, knowing that the most dangerous intersection in America is not in your hometown. Part of the reason there are so many accidents at this intersection is the heavy volume of traffic that passes through it each day. Many of the various drivers of these vehicles seem to view traffic signals as decoration intended to spruce up the community, completely unaware that they serve a purpose other than aesthetic enhancement. A scene in the movie Starman, depicts Jeff Bridges character intently absorbing the driving methods of Karen Allen’s character. When it is Bridges turn to drive, he blatantly runs a red light, much to the irate dismay of Allen. As she reprimands him, he explains “Red light stop, green light go, yellow light go faster.” A similar principle is often instituted here In My Hometown…
…to combat this rampant problem, cameras were installed at strategic intersections throughout the city. When a scofflaw enters the intersection after the light has turned red, a picture is taken of the automobile’s license plate, and the driver is to be issued a ticket for the offense. I don’t know at what cost to the cities taxpayers these little technological monitoring marvels went for, but it must be racking up a ton of revenue if what I have witnessed lately is any indication. You see In My Hometown…
…there are so many folks on the city payroll with many important duties, that there is no one available to answer my questions over the phone. I need to make a formal request in writing via the Pembroke Pines website, detailing the exact information I require. I am told depending on the questions, “they” may get back to me within seventy-two hours, maybe longer. Boy! “they” sure are busy In My Hometown…
…it wasn’t always that way. When I moved here in 1993, there were only about fifty-five thousand residents. The year before, there were even less. But in August of 1992, Hurricane Andrew swept through Miami-Dade County, destroying pretty much everything in its path, inciting a mass exodus to Broward County to the north, where Pembroke Pines is located. For three consecutive years, Pembroke Pines was listed in the World Almanac as one of the three fasting growing cities in the United States, Las Vegas and Jacksonville being the other two. Since then, Broward County has seen its share of hurricanes since these people moved here, now both Broward and Miami-Dade Counties are starting to see their populations dwindle, you couldn’t tell by the traffic In My Hometown…
…public streets are laid out in a grid with the east and west sides divided by Interstate 75. Gated communities are pretty much the order of the day, except where I live. There four square blocks resemble a real neighborhood. Single family homes are interspersed with several townhome developments. There are a couple of unobtrusive strip malls, two elementary schools, and a high school just one block removed. An expansive youth baseball facility, where there were once fifteen hundred kids (my son was one) signed up to play per season, rests at the northwest corner. Taft Street is a haven for speed traps. Once, traffic was so light that there was no need for such covert sentinels to fill the town coffers. You leisurely traveled from place to place without the thought of hold long it would take to get there. Then the surrounding housing boon hit, more traffic lights were added, teenage drivers leaving themselves approximately six minutes to get to school, funneled onto our formerly sedate little roadway at speeds nearing the speed limit on most major highways. Speed traps became the order of the day. At night, the bordering thoroughfares occasionally serve as DUI checkpoints. I know this because besides seeing them for myself, In My Hometown…
…this information is often published in the “Local” section of The Miami Herald, the newspaper to which my wife and I subscribe. Call us old-fashioned, but there’s something about having a physical newspaper delivered in the morning. Having your laptop while amid the morning sabbatical can be rather cumbersome, especially when stage one is complete, and its time to move on to stage two. However, a newspaper in the bather in the morning is downright American. Putting your feet up on the couch to read what you may have missed before you headed out for work, certainly has it over on sitting down the computer and staring at the screen. I’ve rarely heard of someone taking a nap in their computer chair while reading the news. Alas, the newspaper industry is on the outs. The paper that’s delivered every morning isn’t as wide as it once was, it’s thinner as well. It’s dropped off earlier, so often many items contained inside are literally yesterday’s news. Oh, and the way that it’s written!
Just last week, an item concerning the proliferation of Burmese pythons in the Everglades contained the following: “…the python that was captured during the hunt, was first euthanized, then killed.” This sentence got past the already thinned staff of proof-readers. It then got by the editor, and the typesetter, who probably doesn’t pay attention to that sort of thing. This example serves as a microcosm for what is happening in the newspaper industry around the country. Not only does this feed into my theory concerning the acceptance of mediocrity by today’s society, but also, the best writers have headed to the internet, and the decent ones that have stayed on are oblivious to their predicament.
Case in point, in this morning’s paper, there was an article about the propagation of videos fans are taking of sports celebrities. The writer, in his opinion, voiced his concern over this “new” wave of fishbowl living. Isn’t he aware that he contributed to this mess long ago? There are multiple sports radio stations, multiple sports television stations, multiple written sports forums, all vying to out-scoop the other. In doing so sports media probed, and then revealed the most obscure, “relevant” information. Now this writer is complaining that fans are doing the same. As far as I can tell, the sporting press opened up this can of worms. So starved for original content, one sportswriter resorted to plagiarizing my letter to the editor that the paper, in an effort to stay connected to its readership, never even acknowledged with a form letter response. Odd, how excerpts of what I wrote to the paper magically appeared in a column several weeks later almost verbatim. Nothing would make me happier than to write for The Miami Herald in the hope that what I contributed could somehow help stave off extinction, but they are running scared, and are doing so with the limited “talent” they have. At least I know that euthanize and killed are the same thing. Maybe they don’t know any better? They gave a huge amount of valuable op-ed space for a reprint of a Sarah Palin article, which it was obvious she didn’t write. Talk about grasping at straws to increase circulation…but maybe the Herald, once vibrant, is mirroring My Hometown…
…I betcha Bruce Springsteen never had to worry about crap like this in his hometown. Now, it seems as though in pursuit of efficiency, my hometown has become obsolete. The town has become a city with conflicting priorities and agendas. The city legislators are sitting on a track of land for which there were once great aspirations. Now it’s an albatross, a barren, soulless blight right in the center of its suburban sprawl. I don’t know how much longer I can, or want, to stay In My Hometown.
…to combat this rampant problem, cameras were installed at strategic intersections throughout the city. When a scofflaw enters the intersection after the light has turned red, a picture is taken of the automobile’s license plate, and the driver is to be issued a ticket for the offense. I don’t know at what cost to the cities taxpayers these little technological monitoring marvels went for, but it must be racking up a ton of revenue if what I have witnessed lately is any indication. You see In My Hometown…
…there are so many folks on the city payroll with many important duties, that there is no one available to answer my questions over the phone. I need to make a formal request in writing via the Pembroke Pines website, detailing the exact information I require. I am told depending on the questions, “they” may get back to me within seventy-two hours, maybe longer. Boy! “they” sure are busy In My Hometown…
…it wasn’t always that way. When I moved here in 1993, there were only about fifty-five thousand residents. The year before, there were even less. But in August of 1992, Hurricane Andrew swept through Miami-Dade County, destroying pretty much everything in its path, inciting a mass exodus to Broward County to the north, where Pembroke Pines is located. For three consecutive years, Pembroke Pines was listed in the World Almanac as one of the three fasting growing cities in the United States, Las Vegas and Jacksonville being the other two. Since then, Broward County has seen its share of hurricanes since these people moved here, now both Broward and Miami-Dade Counties are starting to see their populations dwindle, you couldn’t tell by the traffic In My Hometown…
…public streets are laid out in a grid with the east and west sides divided by Interstate 75. Gated communities are pretty much the order of the day, except where I live. There four square blocks resemble a real neighborhood. Single family homes are interspersed with several townhome developments. There are a couple of unobtrusive strip malls, two elementary schools, and a high school just one block removed. An expansive youth baseball facility, where there were once fifteen hundred kids (my son was one) signed up to play per season, rests at the northwest corner. Taft Street is a haven for speed traps. Once, traffic was so light that there was no need for such covert sentinels to fill the town coffers. You leisurely traveled from place to place without the thought of hold long it would take to get there. Then the surrounding housing boon hit, more traffic lights were added, teenage drivers leaving themselves approximately six minutes to get to school, funneled onto our formerly sedate little roadway at speeds nearing the speed limit on most major highways. Speed traps became the order of the day. At night, the bordering thoroughfares occasionally serve as DUI checkpoints. I know this because besides seeing them for myself, In My Hometown…
…this information is often published in the “Local” section of The Miami Herald, the newspaper to which my wife and I subscribe. Call us old-fashioned, but there’s something about having a physical newspaper delivered in the morning. Having your laptop while amid the morning sabbatical can be rather cumbersome, especially when stage one is complete, and its time to move on to stage two. However, a newspaper in the bather in the morning is downright American. Putting your feet up on the couch to read what you may have missed before you headed out for work, certainly has it over on sitting down the computer and staring at the screen. I’ve rarely heard of someone taking a nap in their computer chair while reading the news. Alas, the newspaper industry is on the outs. The paper that’s delivered every morning isn’t as wide as it once was, it’s thinner as well. It’s dropped off earlier, so often many items contained inside are literally yesterday’s news. Oh, and the way that it’s written!
Just last week, an item concerning the proliferation of Burmese pythons in the Everglades contained the following: “…the python that was captured during the hunt, was first euthanized, then killed.” This sentence got past the already thinned staff of proof-readers. It then got by the editor, and the typesetter, who probably doesn’t pay attention to that sort of thing. This example serves as a microcosm for what is happening in the newspaper industry around the country. Not only does this feed into my theory concerning the acceptance of mediocrity by today’s society, but also, the best writers have headed to the internet, and the decent ones that have stayed on are oblivious to their predicament.
Case in point, in this morning’s paper, there was an article about the propagation of videos fans are taking of sports celebrities. The writer, in his opinion, voiced his concern over this “new” wave of fishbowl living. Isn’t he aware that he contributed to this mess long ago? There are multiple sports radio stations, multiple sports television stations, multiple written sports forums, all vying to out-scoop the other. In doing so sports media probed, and then revealed the most obscure, “relevant” information. Now this writer is complaining that fans are doing the same. As far as I can tell, the sporting press opened up this can of worms. So starved for original content, one sportswriter resorted to plagiarizing my letter to the editor that the paper, in an effort to stay connected to its readership, never even acknowledged with a form letter response. Odd, how excerpts of what I wrote to the paper magically appeared in a column several weeks later almost verbatim. Nothing would make me happier than to write for The Miami Herald in the hope that what I contributed could somehow help stave off extinction, but they are running scared, and are doing so with the limited “talent” they have. At least I know that euthanize and killed are the same thing. Maybe they don’t know any better? They gave a huge amount of valuable op-ed space for a reprint of a Sarah Palin article, which it was obvious she didn’t write. Talk about grasping at straws to increase circulation…but maybe the Herald, once vibrant, is mirroring My Hometown…
…I betcha Bruce Springsteen never had to worry about crap like this in his hometown. Now, it seems as though in pursuit of efficiency, my hometown has become obsolete. The town has become a city with conflicting priorities and agendas. The city legislators are sitting on a track of land for which there were once great aspirations. Now it’s an albatross, a barren, soulless blight right in the center of its suburban sprawl. I don’t know how much longer I can, or want, to stay In My Hometown.
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