The top two stories in today's paper provide a sort of good news-bad news tableau. Both Jerry Sandusky and Msgr. William J. Lynn were convicted of crimes involving the sexual abuse of children. Sandusky was found guilty on 45 counts of raping 10 boys during and after his tenure with the Penn State football program. In Philadelphia, Lynn was found guilty of the comparatively mild sounding "child endangerment" for the part he played--or didn't play--in preventing other priests from preying on children. So, good for these juries in helping the cause of justice. It's shameful, though, that--with so many people aware of them to one extent or another--these crimes could have gone on for so long.
(By the way, Penn State? Philadelphia? I'm not saying that the Keystone State has a propensity to generate child molesters, but, well. . . . OK, I guess I am saying that.)
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
Sports Notes
I am sitting here, keeping my fingers crossed that I will soon be watching the Mets play the Yankees. This is another one of those rare nights when, despite the fact that I live in the SF Bay Area, I have access to my team (the Mets) on national television. I am under no illusions: I realize the primary--if not only--reason I am receiving this treat is that the Mets are playing the Yankees, America's team!, the most popular franchise in all of sports! blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-blah I am so sick of all the Yankee SUCK-UPS in this country. . . .
Anyway, I plan to enjoy tonight's game regardless of whatever the outcome. Now I just have to hope that MLB network doesn't decide to cut away to Boston.
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All right, also: Congratulations to LeBron James on his first championship. I still think he acted kind of like a jerk a couple of years ago--not so much for leaving Cleveland as for holding a primetime infotainment special to make the announcement. Still seems like an unnecessarily sadistic thing to have done to his hometown team. But, whatever: He's clearly the best player in the game right now, so, good for him. But just wait 'til next year! Knicks 2013!
A boy can dream, right?
Anyway, I plan to enjoy tonight's game regardless of whatever the outcome. Now I just have to hope that MLB network doesn't decide to cut away to Boston.
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All right, also: Congratulations to LeBron James on his first championship. I still think he acted kind of like a jerk a couple of years ago--not so much for leaving Cleveland as for holding a primetime infotainment special to make the announcement. Still seems like an unnecessarily sadistic thing to have done to his hometown team. But, whatever: He's clearly the best player in the game right now, so, good for him. But just wait 'til next year! Knicks 2013!
A boy can dream, right?
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Bloomberg Outlaws 32-Ounce Sodas, But THIS Is Legal?
I'm not much of a drinker. I drink alcohol only occasionally and then pretty much only beer.
This was not always the case. I used to drink at least a little every day--still mostly beer, but the occasional cocktail, as well, and I was open to experiment.
Sometimes, this would go too far. One night while I was away at college--a night I would call memorable were it not for the fact that the whole thing is hazy--I engaged in a bit of what would later be termed binge drinking. I started out with beer and moved on to that mid-80's cocktail of choice for the discerning underage drinker, Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. At some point in the evening, someone made me an obscenely large drink consisting of cranberry juice mixed liberally with triple sec (which I had never before heard of). That one was the mistake.
At some point, I mercifully passed out and awoke the next morning to my first true hangover. So THAT was what people had been talking about. Aggravating the situation was the fact that, later that day, my parents were coming to pick me up and take me home for the summer. Somehow I had to pack up my room, when all I really felt like doing was crawling into bed and staying there 'til Chanukkah. Fortunately, at that time I also discovered the healing qualities of Dramamine.
After that evening, I was unable for several years to even hear someone mention cranberry juice without feeling my stomach tighten and gorge rise. Even today, I worry that if I were given a large cup of cranberry juice, I would need a basin close by--just in case.
The other night, I saw a commercial for Smirnoff's whipped cream-flavored vodka:
This was not always the case. I used to drink at least a little every day--still mostly beer, but the occasional cocktail, as well, and I was open to experiment.
Sometimes, this would go too far. One night while I was away at college--a night I would call memorable were it not for the fact that the whole thing is hazy--I engaged in a bit of what would later be termed binge drinking. I started out with beer and moved on to that mid-80's cocktail of choice for the discerning underage drinker, Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. At some point in the evening, someone made me an obscenely large drink consisting of cranberry juice mixed liberally with triple sec (which I had never before heard of). That one was the mistake.
At some point, I mercifully passed out and awoke the next morning to my first true hangover. So THAT was what people had been talking about. Aggravating the situation was the fact that, later that day, my parents were coming to pick me up and take me home for the summer. Somehow I had to pack up my room, when all I really felt like doing was crawling into bed and staying there 'til Chanukkah. Fortunately, at that time I also discovered the healing qualities of Dramamine.
After that evening, I was unable for several years to even hear someone mention cranberry juice without feeling my stomach tighten and gorge rise. Even today, I worry that if I were given a large cup of cranberry juice, I would need a basin close by--just in case.
The other night, I saw a commercial for Smirnoff's whipped cream-flavored vodka:
All of a sudden, I have an irresistible craving for cranberry juice.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Unmotivated
I really don't much feel like writing today, so here: Enjoy this feature on deep-fried cereal.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Graduation Inflation
Sometimes, my students--former students, to be exact--and/or my tutors ask me whether I'm planning to attend the college's graduation ceremonies. I explain that, while I am suitably proud of their accomplishments, I will not be attending. Frankly, I have sat through far too many of my own graduations: high school, college (BA), and college (MA) more than sated my appetite for pomp and circumstance. When I finished my second masters, I was quite content to stay home and watch "Seinfeld" reruns rather than sit through another commencement.
Today, FOS posted on Facebook that his youngest was "graduating" from fifth grade. Now, I mean no offense to FOS--and I give all due respect to FOS's son, who is a perfectly charming young man and who I am certain will go on to bigger and better things--but, when in God's name did this happen?!?
Nobody "graduates" from fifth grade! Well, OK, literally, fifth graders "graduate," but this is hardly a milestone! College, sure. High school, OK--although in today's world, a high school diploma has come to mean less and less. And I suppose that kindergarten graduations are cute, but come on! When I "graduated" from fifth grade, I was handed a report card and a reminder note for my parents that sixth grade started on September 9th! And then I was kicked in the teeth! Why do people make a fuss about fifth grade (and, I suppose, sixth and seventh and so on)? Are we surprised that the kids made it?
No "graduation" is deserving of the name if a likely venue for the celebration is Chuck E. Cheese!
Today, FOS posted on Facebook that his youngest was "graduating" from fifth grade. Now, I mean no offense to FOS--and I give all due respect to FOS's son, who is a perfectly charming young man and who I am certain will go on to bigger and better things--but, when in God's name did this happen?!?
Nobody "graduates" from fifth grade! Well, OK, literally, fifth graders "graduate," but this is hardly a milestone! College, sure. High school, OK--although in today's world, a high school diploma has come to mean less and less. And I suppose that kindergarten graduations are cute, but come on! When I "graduated" from fifth grade, I was handed a report card and a reminder note for my parents that sixth grade started on September 9th! And then I was kicked in the teeth! Why do people make a fuss about fifth grade (and, I suppose, sixth and seventh and so on)? Are we surprised that the kids made it?
No "graduation" is deserving of the name if a likely venue for the celebration is Chuck E. Cheese!
Monday, June 18, 2012
In Case You Were Wondering. . .
The total weight of the world's adult population is approximately 633 billion pounds; about 33 billion of those pounds are due to people who are overweight. Not to worry, though: This is approximately the weight of the population of Indonesia. So a quick round of Javasuction should take care of everything.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
In Praise of the Stepfather
Those of you who read this column regularly know that virtually no one ever leaves comments. Rest assured, I will have my vengeance on you all eventually. One of the few (well, TWO) regular commenters, though, is a fellow named "Anonymous." Beknownst to some of you, the mystery person behind most--though not all--of Anonymous's comments is none other than DOS--Dad of Solipsist. To whom I would like to wish a Happy Father's Day.
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Growing up, I actually had two fathers. Now, before I alienate my overwhelmingly right-wing, homophobic readership, let me hasten to add that the second father was in no way a threat to traditional marriage, being the stepfather whom my mother married after my parents divorced. Take THAT, Focus on the Family!
My parents divorced when I was about four, and Stepfather of Solipsist (SFOS) came along about three years after that. He and my Mom got married when I was eight. Born and raised in Brooklyn, SFOS was a good a gentle man; in the dictionary, under the word "Mensch" should be his picture. He worked for New York's somewhat euphemistically named "Human Resources Administration"--better known as the Welfare Bureau, first as a case-worker then later as a supervisor. His job, though, was just that: his job. While he worked diligently and conscientiously, his job was basically just a source of income and camaraderie--not a real source of passion.
Passion was reserved for sports. SFOS loved sports, basketball especially. He played for the City University of New York at a time when that meant something more impressive than it does now--back when CUNY had no open admissions policy and basketball was actually played by Jews (no, honest!). In high school SFOS played against none other than the future two-time NBA Hall of Famer (player and coach) Lenny Wilkens. SFOS pointed out that Wilkens could never go to his left. When asked, then, why SFOS couldn't just overplay him to his right, SFOS replied that he always did. And? "Didn't matter."
At the time SFOS and my mother got married, I was, as I mentioned, eight-years-old. I had not been raised a sports fan. I liked the Mets--because we lived in Queens--and my favorite player was Tom Seaver--because I had heard of him. (Later, my favorite player was Mookie Wilson because, come on, "Mookie"!) Sports, in fact, were something of a pain in my juvenile ass because invariably Sunday football games would go on past 7:00, interrupting the beginning of "Wonderful World of Disney." (Yes, the nerdiness started young.)
As I grew older, I started to pay more attention to the sporting scene. In the mid-80's, of course, the Mets got good. SFOS and I could both thrill to the exploits of the young and godlike Dwight (not yet "Doc") Gooden. SFOS, having grown up in Brooklyn, had been a Dodgers fan, so his National League allegiances transferred readily to the boys at Shea--as did my mother's Giants' allegiance. One shudders to think what domestic strife would have ensued had both teams remained in New York. Anyway, the three of us suffered together through the final agonizing days of the 1985 season, as the Mets fell just short of the Cardinals, and enjoyed the ride to the 1986 World Series title.
By the time the Mets won that title, however, I was away at college. And while I was no longer around SFOS on a daily basis, his influence continued to be felt. I started watching football regularly--what else was there to do on Sundays in Syracuse? And I knew I had arrived at SFOS's level of enthusiasm when, during a Jets playoff loss, I expostulated on the coach's idiotic decision not to take a delay of game penalty late in the fourth quarter that would have set up a better punting situation and probably sealed a victory. What had I become?!?
SFOS died in 1998--a heart attack. At his funeral, I told a story about a day when I had gone in to work with SFOS. This must have been in the late 1970s--possibly pre-"Kramer vs. Kramer"--when "step" families were not as common as they have since become. At his office, SFOS had introduced me to a couple of people, explaining in agonizing detail exactly how I was related to him. Later that day, when we went to lunch, SFOS asked if it would be all right if he simply introduced me as his son. Sure, why not.
In the end, it was true, right?
***************************************************
Growing up, I actually had two fathers. Now, before I alienate my overwhelmingly right-wing, homophobic readership, let me hasten to add that the second father was in no way a threat to traditional marriage, being the stepfather whom my mother married after my parents divorced. Take THAT, Focus on the Family!
My parents divorced when I was about four, and Stepfather of Solipsist (SFOS) came along about three years after that. He and my Mom got married when I was eight. Born and raised in Brooklyn, SFOS was a good a gentle man; in the dictionary, under the word "Mensch" should be his picture. He worked for New York's somewhat euphemistically named "Human Resources Administration"--better known as the Welfare Bureau, first as a case-worker then later as a supervisor. His job, though, was just that: his job. While he worked diligently and conscientiously, his job was basically just a source of income and camaraderie--not a real source of passion.
Passion was reserved for sports. SFOS loved sports, basketball especially. He played for the City University of New York at a time when that meant something more impressive than it does now--back when CUNY had no open admissions policy and basketball was actually played by Jews (no, honest!). In high school SFOS played against none other than the future two-time NBA Hall of Famer (player and coach) Lenny Wilkens. SFOS pointed out that Wilkens could never go to his left. When asked, then, why SFOS couldn't just overplay him to his right, SFOS replied that he always did. And? "Didn't matter."
At the time SFOS and my mother got married, I was, as I mentioned, eight-years-old. I had not been raised a sports fan. I liked the Mets--because we lived in Queens--and my favorite player was Tom Seaver--because I had heard of him. (Later, my favorite player was Mookie Wilson because, come on, "Mookie"!) Sports, in fact, were something of a pain in my juvenile ass because invariably Sunday football games would go on past 7:00, interrupting the beginning of "Wonderful World of Disney." (Yes, the nerdiness started young.)
As I grew older, I started to pay more attention to the sporting scene. In the mid-80's, of course, the Mets got good. SFOS and I could both thrill to the exploits of the young and godlike Dwight (not yet "Doc") Gooden. SFOS, having grown up in Brooklyn, had been a Dodgers fan, so his National League allegiances transferred readily to the boys at Shea--as did my mother's Giants' allegiance. One shudders to think what domestic strife would have ensued had both teams remained in New York. Anyway, the three of us suffered together through the final agonizing days of the 1985 season, as the Mets fell just short of the Cardinals, and enjoyed the ride to the 1986 World Series title.
By the time the Mets won that title, however, I was away at college. And while I was no longer around SFOS on a daily basis, his influence continued to be felt. I started watching football regularly--what else was there to do on Sundays in Syracuse? And I knew I had arrived at SFOS's level of enthusiasm when, during a Jets playoff loss, I expostulated on the coach's idiotic decision not to take a delay of game penalty late in the fourth quarter that would have set up a better punting situation and probably sealed a victory. What had I become?!?
SFOS died in 1998--a heart attack. At his funeral, I told a story about a day when I had gone in to work with SFOS. This must have been in the late 1970s--possibly pre-"Kramer vs. Kramer"--when "step" families were not as common as they have since become. At his office, SFOS had introduced me to a couple of people, explaining in agonizing detail exactly how I was related to him. Later that day, when we went to lunch, SFOS asked if it would be all right if he simply introduced me as his son. Sure, why not.
In the end, it was true, right?
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