Joseph Kennedy, Bobby's oldest child, married an Episcopalian. I remember a time when those mixed marriages were tantamount to a Muslim marrying a Jew. Needless to say, like everybody else these days, they got divorced. Without her knowledge, because he could do that, Joe Kennedy got an annulment through the Catholic church, mainly so he could remarry someone else a couple of years later. I find it interesting that only one party can be permitted to pursue an annulment. Without the knowledge of the party of the first part, if they so choose.
Surprisingly the former Mrs. Kennedy, who would seem to have no ax to grind with the church since she's not a member, appealed the annulment and she won. Which means Kennedy's second marriage is not valid in the eyes of the church right now. Of course it's not over yet, because now Joe Kennedy can appeal the appeal, and so on and so on and so on. Betcha it ends up being a money thing -- the spouse with the biggest donation to the church wins. Sorry, did I say that out loud?
As the wheels of irony begin to turn, you can't help but wonder is a Catholic annulment just one more example of religious equivocacy? Things can mean whatever the Church wants them to mean depending on the situation. In this case, annulment means the church agrees with you that the marriage shouldn't have happened in the first place. Not that it didn't happen. That it was, in effect, an error. Ooops, sorry.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have a Catholic annulment on my list of accomplishments. I don't actually need it since I won't be getting married in the Catholic Church again. Most likely because I have the wrong attitude. I was informed that if I want to marry in the Church next time I have to be counseled first. Ha. Not in this lifetime.
Sometimes you begin to wonder if there isn't a way around all the church bureaucracy. Funny you should ask. It so happens a couple of people I know figured out one way a few years ago.
She was Catholic and never married. He was Protestant and twice divorced. No way he was pursuing two Catholic annulments, mainly because he wasn't Catholic. Regardless, they got married in a Catholic church anyway.
First, a judge married them by standing just in front of the pews and nowhere near the altar or anything that might smite him down. This was achieved by a great deal of subterfuge, since the parish priest church thought he would be involved. Luckily the bride's family had their own priest.
When the judge was finished with the ceremony, he quickly left by the side door and the bride's ordained cousin stepped in to conduct a mass. I wonder if he had to hide anywhere during the actual ceremony so he could say he didn't know what was going on. No matter. Things moved so quickly, it all seemed like any other Catholic wedding. They just avoided all the paperwork.
You can say it's not nice to fool the church. But church folks have been playing fast and loose with us for a long time. Time for some payback.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Euphemia -- a fatal kidney disease or just another name?
One of my college roommates was named Euphemia. The name is Greek in origin, although her family is English and German. We accidentally discovered that there was a saint named Euphemia, when I was trying to pass her off as Catholic in front of the priest who was going to marry me. It was bad enough that I wasn't converting, but having a Protestant matron of honor on top of it all might have pushed him over the edge. When she said her real name, he perked right up and said, "Oh, after St. Euphemia." Why yes, we said, thrilled to learn that she had been named after a martyr who had been burnt at the stake. How lucky we were to have done our due diligence without knowing it.
Euphemia had been named after her mother, Euphemia. But neither one of them was called Euphemia. My roomie was Bonnie and her mother was Peggy. I used to say those names were euphemisms for Euphemia.
The name Euphemia was for more formal occasions. Like births, deaths, and marriages. The other names were for casual use.
Then thirty or so years ago along comes a granddaughter who was named [you had to ask?] Euphemia. But we call her something else of course.
Now she is having a little girl of her own. Will she break the chain? Her brother has already had a daughter that he REFUSED to name Euphemia.
One of my brothers is having his third child, a second boy, in December. All the names he liked, which included Aidan and Cian [pronounced Chewbacca because it's Welsh] have been axed by various family members. I can feel his pain.
But as odd as it is, I can only imagine what will happen if the name Euphemia is replaced by something more euphonious when my roomie's latest granddaughter is born.
Euphemia had been named after her mother, Euphemia. But neither one of them was called Euphemia. My roomie was Bonnie and her mother was Peggy. I used to say those names were euphemisms for Euphemia.
The name Euphemia was for more formal occasions. Like births, deaths, and marriages. The other names were for casual use.
Then thirty or so years ago along comes a granddaughter who was named [you had to ask?] Euphemia. But we call her something else of course.
Now she is having a little girl of her own. Will she break the chain? Her brother has already had a daughter that he REFUSED to name Euphemia.
One of my brothers is having his third child, a second boy, in December. All the names he liked, which included Aidan and Cian [pronounced Chewbacca because it's Welsh] have been axed by various family members. I can feel his pain.
But as odd as it is, I can only imagine what will happen if the name Euphemia is replaced by something more euphonious when my roomie's latest granddaughter is born.
Today's Trip Down Memory Lane
I met Stedman Graham once. Aside from being Oprah's boyfriend, I knew very little about him except that he had a PR firm or something. Once in awhile you'd hear rumors that he was dating someone else on the sly, but that stuff would fade away as quickly as it started.
Then a few years ago I was invited to some event for athletes and didn't know he was the honorary chairman of the evening. I was invited by a woman who has since become a former friend because she put the soup in superficial. She invited me because she claimed to be friends with Juanita Jordan and she wanted me to meet her. Even though the event was being held at one of Michael Jordan's restaurants, Juanita never showed.
There were a bunch of ex-Olympians like Bruce Jenner and Willie Whyte hanging around, along with some second tier TV people, like Angela Lansbury's sidekick on her Miss Marple show.
In those days I always had my Nikon with me, so I snapped a bunch of pictures. Because I was using a fancy ass camera people thought I was shooting pictures professionally, so they would line up happily with very little encouragement, thinking the pictures would be in the paper. Instead they have been in my house all this time. I've got a bunch around here somewhere.
At one point, I spent a lot of time talking to an attractive woman who was with a relatively famous athlete turned actor, not O.J. She was soon telling me that they had been married for over twenty years and he beat her up a lot. We talked about about why she didn't leave him, as well as a number of other battered women's issues. In fact, we talked so long and confidentially that her badass spouse came over to see what the heck was so important that she wasn't by his side. Haaaaaa. Since his wife and I couldn't speak freely anymore, I asked him if I could take a picture of the two of them together. Those photos are also around here somewhere. But I wouldn't post then, so it doesn't matter.
Surprisingly, a high school principal I knew was also there. I had done a very successful fundraising ad for his school years before. He had singlehandedly kept the place open with his own hard work and a dogged dedication to his students, after the Archdiocese of Chicago shut the doors. I hadn't seen him in years. Several other people had written ads for the school before me, but none of them had actually gone to see the place because it was in a really tough Chicago neighborhood. So he never forgot me because I got out of my ivory tower and went there. I remember at the time how surprised I was to discover that I was the first person from the ad agency who spent time at the school instead of writing about it from a distance.
Under his leadership the school had come a long way from wondering where they were going to get money for their next paycheck. Oprah had just given them a million dollar endowment and Stedman Graham was on their board of directors.
Back when I was hanging out there a lot, they asked if I would coach a girls' volleyball team for them, but I had two little kids of my own at home and had to turn them down. So it was nice to hear about all their recent success.
Eventually Stedman arrived at the party and I was introduced. Holy crap is he tall -- at least 6'8". Two other things struck me about the guy -- he not only shook my hand, but he grasped it with both of his hands, looked me right in the eye and said how nice it was to meet me. His hands are HUGE by the way and he seemed like he was trying to be careful not to accidentally crush mine. The other thing that struck me was how soft spoken he was.
I was actually impressed with Stedman. I could see what Oprah liked. We didn't become best buddies or anything. He continued greeting other people and I didn't talk to him after that. I think I was supposed to donate some money to whatever cause I was there for, but I didn't do that either.
Well now, aren't you glad I could answer the one question that's been burning a hole in your pocket all these years -- what is Stedman Graham like anyway?
I'm here to help.
Then a few years ago I was invited to some event for athletes and didn't know he was the honorary chairman of the evening. I was invited by a woman who has since become a former friend because she put the soup in superficial. She invited me because she claimed to be friends with Juanita Jordan and she wanted me to meet her. Even though the event was being held at one of Michael Jordan's restaurants, Juanita never showed.
There were a bunch of ex-Olympians like Bruce Jenner and Willie Whyte hanging around, along with some second tier TV people, like Angela Lansbury's sidekick on her Miss Marple show.
In those days I always had my Nikon with me, so I snapped a bunch of pictures. Because I was using a fancy ass camera people thought I was shooting pictures professionally, so they would line up happily with very little encouragement, thinking the pictures would be in the paper. Instead they have been in my house all this time. I've got a bunch around here somewhere.
At one point, I spent a lot of time talking to an attractive woman who was with a relatively famous athlete turned actor, not O.J. She was soon telling me that they had been married for over twenty years and he beat her up a lot. We talked about about why she didn't leave him, as well as a number of other battered women's issues. In fact, we talked so long and confidentially that her badass spouse came over to see what the heck was so important that she wasn't by his side. Haaaaaa. Since his wife and I couldn't speak freely anymore, I asked him if I could take a picture of the two of them together. Those photos are also around here somewhere. But I wouldn't post then, so it doesn't matter.
Surprisingly, a high school principal I knew was also there. I had done a very successful fundraising ad for his school years before. He had singlehandedly kept the place open with his own hard work and a dogged dedication to his students, after the Archdiocese of Chicago shut the doors. I hadn't seen him in years. Several other people had written ads for the school before me, but none of them had actually gone to see the place because it was in a really tough Chicago neighborhood. So he never forgot me because I got out of my ivory tower and went there. I remember at the time how surprised I was to discover that I was the first person from the ad agency who spent time at the school instead of writing about it from a distance.
Under his leadership the school had come a long way from wondering where they were going to get money for their next paycheck. Oprah had just given them a million dollar endowment and Stedman Graham was on their board of directors.
Back when I was hanging out there a lot, they asked if I would coach a girls' volleyball team for them, but I had two little kids of my own at home and had to turn them down. So it was nice to hear about all their recent success.
Eventually Stedman arrived at the party and I was introduced. Holy crap is he tall -- at least 6'8". Two other things struck me about the guy -- he not only shook my hand, but he grasped it with both of his hands, looked me right in the eye and said how nice it was to meet me. His hands are HUGE by the way and he seemed like he was trying to be careful not to accidentally crush mine. The other thing that struck me was how soft spoken he was.
I was actually impressed with Stedman. I could see what Oprah liked. We didn't become best buddies or anything. He continued greeting other people and I didn't talk to him after that. I think I was supposed to donate some money to whatever cause I was there for, but I didn't do that either.
Well now, aren't you glad I could answer the one question that's been burning a hole in your pocket all these years -- what is Stedman Graham like anyway?
I'm here to help.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
I Know People Who Know People
Tonight, one of my girlfriends called me from the red carpet in Westwood, where an LA movie premiere is being held. The movie she and her husband were invited to see is Transformers, the heartwarming tale of a children's toy car that turns into a robot or vice versa. Actually I have no idea what it's about. But there are two chances I'm going to pay money to see that flick. Slim and none.
My friend's hubba bubba does a lot of work for film studios, but I'm not sure what he did for the one that produced this movie. It could be anything from posters to animation for the opening credits to the website. Meanwhile she's on her phone giving me a play by play of all the famous people walking by her in the lobby of the theater. "Oh, there's Martin Short, no that's not his name, Martin somebody. And there's Angelina Jolie's dad, what's his name? Oh wait, there's Josh Duhamel, the star of the movie. He's so cute, he's meeting and greeting all the fans outside. They're closing down the street after the movie for a big party. . . "
You can have the movie stars. I'd love to be there for the food. Hey, it's free.
I've actually been to the Westwood theaters and I think they have the best sound systems in the country. Well, let's clarify that. Of all the movie theaters I've been to around the country, they're the best. They're full size theaters with big screens -- none of this postage stamp stuff. If you want me to pay ten bucks to see a movie, gimme a big screen to see it on and a great sound system to hear it with.
Meanwhile I'm sitting here in my room, wearing clothing that would get me arrested for indecent exposure and writing an entry in my journal. It's a lifestyle.
My friend's hubba bubba does a lot of work for film studios, but I'm not sure what he did for the one that produced this movie. It could be anything from posters to animation for the opening credits to the website. Meanwhile she's on her phone giving me a play by play of all the famous people walking by her in the lobby of the theater. "Oh, there's Martin Short, no that's not his name, Martin somebody. And there's Angelina Jolie's dad, what's his name? Oh wait, there's Josh Duhamel, the star of the movie. He's so cute, he's meeting and greeting all the fans outside. They're closing down the street after the movie for a big party. . . "
You can have the movie stars. I'd love to be there for the food. Hey, it's free.
I've actually been to the Westwood theaters and I think they have the best sound systems in the country. Well, let's clarify that. Of all the movie theaters I've been to around the country, they're the best. They're full size theaters with big screens -- none of this postage stamp stuff. If you want me to pay ten bucks to see a movie, gimme a big screen to see it on and a great sound system to hear it with.
Meanwhile I'm sitting here in my room, wearing clothing that would get me arrested for indecent exposure and writing an entry in my journal. It's a lifestyle.
Morning Television
Good Morning America, The Today Show, and whatever they call the morning program on CBS, oh yeah, the Early Show -- you can pretty much switch back and forth between them and see the same kinds of features every day. Something about relationships, your finances or children. Maybe a celebrity interview. An author pitching his or her book. A political discussion. More often than not they also make you watch stuff about New York, from interviews with Mayor Bloomberg and Hillary Clinton [even though she grew up in Chicago] to cooking segments with New York chefs. All because they think the whole country wants to know what's going on in the Big Apple.
But here in Chicago we have WGN-TV in the morning. Only on WGN in the morning can you listen to people call in to complain about the show. Or have the sports guy make fun of players on the local sports teams. Or get to watch funny videos from YouTube or see embarrassing interview mistakes by Larry King when he called Ringo "George" and later he called George Harrison George "Hamilton." You don't get any of that on network television. Nope.
Not to mention getting to see an array of mini concerts by former A-list bands trying to resurrect their careers while sitting on uncomfortable stools and being interviewed by the weather guy.
In between reports about some state's Blueberry Queen losing her job because she missed some key events -- like the Apple Fritter Festival and the Cheese Sculpture contest.
Nowhere else can you hear about some guy in Ohio who got a message from God which told him to make wooden paddles so parents can discipline their children.
And there's always someone semi famous who's in Chicago to hype a movie and they make him get up early for an interview with the two anchors, without making an attempt to disguise his puffy eyes and pasty face.
This is all in between reports from the local reporter who's usually on location wearing a silly costume while she's mixing it up in the neighborhoods at a local play or at a factory that makes candy out of cicada wings.
Once they had Mel Gibson on a remote from LA and asked him why a famous person like himself was talking to local yokels in Chicago. Mel said, "Oh," and pretended to leave the set.
Today they announced stuff you won't hear anywhere else -- Hugh Hefner's life story is going to be made into a movie by Brian Grazier. Oprah is going to open a store next to her studio. And Jennifer Hudson got two BET awards.
That's because they're all Chicago people. And it's nice to hear about your peeps.
Speaking of Hugh Hefner -- I watched "The Girls Next Door" the other night for the first time, and I was totally fascinated by Hef's three incredibly blond and voluptuous girlfriends. I think he has to have three to get the IQ points high enough for a conversation.
I was at the old Chicago Playboy Mansion for a party years ago. Before they relocated to LA. Bill Cosby was playing drums with the band. Shel Silverstein, who wrote Where the Sidewalk Ends and other wonderful kids' books, lived there. He propositioned me within ten minutes of starting a conversation. Let's see, short, unattractive bald guy -- pass. Hugh showed up and looked more like a nerdy waiter than the mogul of a sex empire. At least the food was good.
This entry is so far off track I'll never get back. Might as well give it up.
But here in Chicago we have WGN-TV in the morning. Only on WGN in the morning can you listen to people call in to complain about the show. Or have the sports guy make fun of players on the local sports teams. Or get to watch funny videos from YouTube or see embarrassing interview mistakes by Larry King when he called Ringo "George" and later he called George Harrison George "Hamilton." You don't get any of that on network television. Nope.
Not to mention getting to see an array of mini concerts by former A-list bands trying to resurrect their careers while sitting on uncomfortable stools and being interviewed by the weather guy.
In between reports about some state's Blueberry Queen losing her job because she missed some key events -- like the Apple Fritter Festival and the Cheese Sculpture contest.
Nowhere else can you hear about some guy in Ohio who got a message from God which told him to make wooden paddles so parents can discipline their children.
And there's always someone semi famous who's in Chicago to hype a movie and they make him get up early for an interview with the two anchors, without making an attempt to disguise his puffy eyes and pasty face.
This is all in between reports from the local reporter who's usually on location wearing a silly costume while she's mixing it up in the neighborhoods at a local play or at a factory that makes candy out of cicada wings.
Once they had Mel Gibson on a remote from LA and asked him why a famous person like himself was talking to local yokels in Chicago. Mel said, "Oh," and pretended to leave the set.
Today they announced stuff you won't hear anywhere else -- Hugh Hefner's life story is going to be made into a movie by Brian Grazier. Oprah is going to open a store next to her studio. And Jennifer Hudson got two BET awards.
That's because they're all Chicago people. And it's nice to hear about your peeps.
Speaking of Hugh Hefner -- I watched "The Girls Next Door" the other night for the first time, and I was totally fascinated by Hef's three incredibly blond and voluptuous girlfriends. I think he has to have three to get the IQ points high enough for a conversation.
I was at the old Chicago Playboy Mansion for a party years ago. Before they relocated to LA. Bill Cosby was playing drums with the band. Shel Silverstein, who wrote Where the Sidewalk Ends and other wonderful kids' books, lived there. He propositioned me within ten minutes of starting a conversation. Let's see, short, unattractive bald guy -- pass. Hugh showed up and looked more like a nerdy waiter than the mogul of a sex empire. At least the food was good.
This entry is so far off track I'll never get back. Might as well give it up.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Mrs. Linklater's Psychic Readings -- Two for $5.00
I do this thing that's kind of spooky. Well, I do lots of things that are spooky, but this one spooks even me.
For no reason I'll just blurt out something about somebody that normally you just keep to yourself. Nothing like "GEEZ YOU'RE FAT!" or "THAT'S THE WORST TOUPEE I'VE EVER SEEN!"
More like a secret they're trying to keep.
I once met a guy at an ad agency where I worked. I was introduced to him the usual way, "So-and-so [with a very Anglo Saxon name, whose blond hair blue eyes and perfectly pressed white shirts make him look like a Nazi] I'd like you to meet Mrs. Linklater." We shook hands and out of my mouth came the words, "That's not your real name, your real name is Roger Spenser." I remember apologizing for being weird.
To this day I remember the name Roger Spenser, but not the name he gave me. Turned out his dad was head of covert operations for the CIA out of Rome. And the rumor was he was CIA too. The fact that he was transferred to the Frankfurt office confirmed it for me, since NO ONE ever got a transfer to another office when they hadn't been working at the agency for a LONG time. Plus, for a marketing guy, he knew NOTHING about marketing that I could tell.
Well, I did the blurt thing again about two months ago to equal humiliation. But I just got confirmation that my outblurst [Get it? OUTBURST + BLURT = OUTBLURST] was right.
I was with a bunch of friends at the end of April. We were all about to sit down to dinner when I asked the hostess "Are you pregnant?" It was one of those questions that makes everyone stop talking and stare, because, let's face it, it was kind of rude. Like I thought she was overweight or something. Actually she didn't look pregnant or heavier at all. Most people would have asked her quietly in private when we were alone. No, I just blurted it out like a crazy person. I just had this feeling and the next thing you know my mouth was moving and sound was coming out. I had no control over it.
I should learn to trust these moments. Turns out I was right. They just made the announcement this evening.
It doesn't happen all the time. For instance, when Clinton was president he was having lunch with Mayor Daley in a restaurant at a table ten feet away from me. At no time did I feel the need to blurt out, "Mr. President, can you use Monica Lewinsky and a cigar correctly in a sentence?"
For no reason I'll just blurt out something about somebody that normally you just keep to yourself. Nothing like "GEEZ YOU'RE FAT!" or "THAT'S THE WORST TOUPEE I'VE EVER SEEN!"
More like a secret they're trying to keep.
I once met a guy at an ad agency where I worked. I was introduced to him the usual way, "So-and-so [with a very Anglo Saxon name, whose blond hair blue eyes and perfectly pressed white shirts make him look like a Nazi] I'd like you to meet Mrs. Linklater." We shook hands and out of my mouth came the words, "That's not your real name, your real name is Roger Spenser." I remember apologizing for being weird.
To this day I remember the name Roger Spenser, but not the name he gave me. Turned out his dad was head of covert operations for the CIA out of Rome. And the rumor was he was CIA too. The fact that he was transferred to the Frankfurt office confirmed it for me, since NO ONE ever got a transfer to another office when they hadn't been working at the agency for a LONG time. Plus, for a marketing guy, he knew NOTHING about marketing that I could tell.
Well, I did the blurt thing again about two months ago to equal humiliation. But I just got confirmation that my outblurst [Get it? OUTBURST + BLURT = OUTBLURST] was right.
I was with a bunch of friends at the end of April. We were all about to sit down to dinner when I asked the hostess "Are you pregnant?" It was one of those questions that makes everyone stop talking and stare, because, let's face it, it was kind of rude. Like I thought she was overweight or something. Actually she didn't look pregnant or heavier at all. Most people would have asked her quietly in private when we were alone. No, I just blurted it out like a crazy person. I just had this feeling and the next thing you know my mouth was moving and sound was coming out. I had no control over it.
I should learn to trust these moments. Turns out I was right. They just made the announcement this evening.
It doesn't happen all the time. For instance, when Clinton was president he was having lunch with Mayor Daley in a restaurant at a table ten feet away from me. At no time did I feel the need to blurt out, "Mr. President, can you use Monica Lewinsky and a cigar correctly in a sentence?"
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Two Down. One To Go.
I wrote an entire entry this morning about the three recent homicides involving mothers of children. In two cases, the deaths of the children too. I really put it to the dads.
Like we all don't know who committed every one of these crimes. However, if there's one lesson OJ taught us, it's to make sure nobody f**ks up the crime scene evidence like the detective who carried around OJ's blood in the heat. Or the recent Duke disaster that taught the DA to err on the side of caution.
But waiting for the obvious person to be handcuffed and booked still seemed like it was taking forever.
I discussed the likelihood that the person who committed each of these murders was anyone but the father. In fact I think I went out on a limb and said that the chance that all these people were killed by someone other than Dear Old Dad was ZERO. Those of you who think otherwise can go play in traffic.
Then AOL ate my entry.
And the cops blew my cover. They went and arrested two of the three certified jerks today. One in Missouri; one in Ohio.
JERK ONE: "Hey, it was just a coincidence that I drove to an isolated area off the highway, and hid the car between two huge bushes so I could I tell my wife and family about an affair I was having. Who knew she would take the gun I brought with me and kill the children and herself after she tried to kill me."
JERK TWO: "Sure I've got kids with three women, one of whom is actually my wife, but so does half the NBA -- that doesn't make me a killer. Okay, maybe one of the mothers of my children moved way far away because I'm an abuser, but someone's got to keep these bitches in line. Luckily I'm a cop. You got a problem with that?"
Now there's just one dad to go. The one who said his wife was going to her health club or running or something and just vanished.
JERK THREE: "I always send the kids into town for ice cream so I can have my wife alone for some quiet time while I clean my deer rifles. Usually she tries to avoid me, so I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. *WINK* *WINK*. Just because we're getting divorced and I refuse to leave the premises because I'm a control freak and a meanbastard is no reason to think I would do anything to harm her in any way. Watch out for the blood on the floor."
I'm sure the police are just waiting to find her body so they only have to arrest him once. I can't wait.
I have also noticed that the big media arrest provides a more satisfying result than the ultimate jury verdict. Yay, they caught the sicko. The next phase is so time consuming and fraught with missteps. Now the lawyers have to PROVE the bad guy did it. Sheesh. What a shame we have to have trials. Oh, wait, this is America. Where we're innocent until proven guilty. Unless the media thinks you're guilty. Or you're in LA where the prosecutors couldn't prove guilt when it was handed to them on a platter. Or you're a guy named Nifong who would be king.
Meanwhile, I wonder which one of these domestic tales will be made into a LIFETIME movie.
Like we all don't know who committed every one of these crimes. However, if there's one lesson OJ taught us, it's to make sure nobody f**ks up the crime scene evidence like the detective who carried around OJ's blood in the heat. Or the recent Duke disaster that taught the DA to err on the side of caution.
But waiting for the obvious person to be handcuffed and booked still seemed like it was taking forever.
I discussed the likelihood that the person who committed each of these murders was anyone but the father. In fact I think I went out on a limb and said that the chance that all these people were killed by someone other than Dear Old Dad was ZERO. Those of you who think otherwise can go play in traffic.
Then AOL ate my entry.
And the cops blew my cover. They went and arrested two of the three certified jerks today. One in Missouri; one in Ohio.
JERK ONE: "Hey, it was just a coincidence that I drove to an isolated area off the highway, and hid the car between two huge bushes so I could I tell my wife and family about an affair I was having. Who knew she would take the gun I brought with me and kill the children and herself after she tried to kill me."
JERK TWO: "Sure I've got kids with three women, one of whom is actually my wife, but so does half the NBA -- that doesn't make me a killer. Okay, maybe one of the mothers of my children moved way far away because I'm an abuser, but someone's got to keep these bitches in line. Luckily I'm a cop. You got a problem with that?"
Now there's just one dad to go. The one who said his wife was going to her health club or running or something and just vanished.
JERK THREE: "I always send the kids into town for ice cream so I can have my wife alone for some quiet time while I clean my deer rifles. Usually she tries to avoid me, so I made her an offer she couldn't refuse. *WINK* *WINK*. Just because we're getting divorced and I refuse to leave the premises because I'm a control freak and a meanbastard is no reason to think I would do anything to harm her in any way. Watch out for the blood on the floor."
I'm sure the police are just waiting to find her body so they only have to arrest him once. I can't wait.
I have also noticed that the big media arrest provides a more satisfying result than the ultimate jury verdict. Yay, they caught the sicko. The next phase is so time consuming and fraught with missteps. Now the lawyers have to PROVE the bad guy did it. Sheesh. What a shame we have to have trials. Oh, wait, this is America. Where we're innocent until proven guilty. Unless the media thinks you're guilty. Or you're in LA where the prosecutors couldn't prove guilt when it was handed to them on a platter. Or you're a guy named Nifong who would be king.
Meanwhile, I wonder which one of these domestic tales will be made into a LIFETIME movie.
Judhth Heartsong Artsy Essay Contest -- A Return to the Glory Days of Yesteryear Perhaps?
This email arrived today from Judith Heartsong who used to sponsor the Artsy Essay contest [see fabulous award under my photo] before leaving AOL for Blogspot.
Hello.
I have been thinking about the old Artsy Essay Contest a lot lately. It brought together some wonderful writers, brought to light some new wonderful writers, and served as a sort of online coffee house with an artistic flair that I especially appreciated. For those who never experienced this monthly contest in aol journals, I would pick an artsy or oblique topic or photograph and all sorts of people would right an entry or a story or an essay... and when the judging was all done, that month's winner would get a free piece of art created by me in the mail.
Since then, a lot of things have changed. Some of us moved our blogs to a new home, some people have stopped writing, life has moved along, children have grown, and I have taken on a day job while still trying to keep painting and creating in the studio (which has seriously cut down on the amount of time I have to be online and time that I would have for the contest, for that matter.) I do not know if we can re-generate enough interest to make this worthwhile again, and I am looking for your input and opinions.
I do know that if we re-start the contest:
* it has to be open to ALL blog formats so that everybody and anybody can be involved, whether they write at aol, typepad, blogspot, or any of the other platforms. We are community and family no matter where we write.
*it has to be simplified in some way so that I am not spending hours writing up the winner's entry with all the links to each and every essay.
*there needs to be enough participation to make it a community event again... which would mean that everybody needs to spread the word and see if people would like to get the contest going again.
*we would need a new updated logo for the winners' icon.
I can commit the time to read all the entries and create the prizes, if there is interest in getting the artsy essay back up and running. I think that we could rely on the links that people leave in the artsy essay topic entry (if we can just get everybody to get their links right...... that was a challenge previously and I would spend a lot of time finding the correct links to the artsy essay writings that people submitted) so that I do not have to spend so much time putting everybody's links again into the winning announcement at the end of each month's contest.
It might even be a thought to have readers submit ideas for topics now and then, and maybe sometimes everyone could read all the entries and make a group decision about the winning favorite.
These are the ideas I am throwing out there. If we can re-generate interest in the Artsy Essay, I would love to see it become something even better that will bring in more new writers since we have spread so far afield now.
If you, or someone you know, would be interested... leave comments, thoughts or suggestions here.
If you would like to be a part of re-starting the essay contest, please let me know.
Contact Judith Heartsong at Judith Heartsong@aol.com
Mrs. Linklater comments:
My first suggestion was to have a group of past winners pick their favorites so Judith could choose the winner from those finalists. That would save her some reading time. The group could change each month. It should be an honor to be a judge.
I also thought there should be a separate contest blog which would use an entry to announce the contest and people could leave links to their entries in the comments. The winning essay would be posted in the next entry in its entirety. That way all the winners could be found in one place.
Feel free to add your thoughts in the comments here.
Hello.
I have been thinking about the old Artsy Essay Contest a lot lately. It brought together some wonderful writers, brought to light some new wonderful writers, and served as a sort of online coffee house with an artistic flair that I especially appreciated. For those who never experienced this monthly contest in aol journals, I would pick an artsy or oblique topic or photograph and all sorts of people would right an entry or a story or an essay... and when the judging was all done, that month's winner would get a free piece of art created by me in the mail.
Since then, a lot of things have changed. Some of us moved our blogs to a new home, some people have stopped writing, life has moved along, children have grown, and I have taken on a day job while still trying to keep painting and creating in the studio (which has seriously cut down on the amount of time I have to be online and time that I would have for the contest, for that matter.) I do not know if we can re-generate enough interest to make this worthwhile again, and I am looking for your input and opinions.
I do know that if we re-start the contest:
* it has to be open to ALL blog formats so that everybody and anybody can be involved, whether they write at aol, typepad, blogspot, or any of the other platforms. We are community and family no matter where we write.
*it has to be simplified in some way so that I am not spending hours writing up the winner's entry with all the links to each and every essay.
*there needs to be enough participation to make it a community event again... which would mean that everybody needs to spread the word and see if people would like to get the contest going again.
*we would need a new updated logo for the winners' icon.
I can commit the time to read all the entries and create the prizes, if there is interest in getting the artsy essay back up and running. I think that we could rely on the links that people leave in the artsy essay topic entry (if we can just get everybody to get their links right...... that was a challenge previously and I would spend a lot of time finding the correct links to the artsy essay writings that people submitted) so that I do not have to spend so much time putting everybody's links again into the winning announcement at the end of each month's contest.
It might even be a thought to have readers submit ideas for topics now and then, and maybe sometimes everyone could read all the entries and make a group decision about the winning favorite.
These are the ideas I am throwing out there. If we can re-generate interest in the Artsy Essay, I would love to see it become something even better that will bring in more new writers since we have spread so far afield now.
If you, or someone you know, would be interested... leave comments, thoughts or suggestions here.
If you would like to be a part of re-starting the essay contest, please let me know.
Contact Judith Heartsong at Judith Heartsong@aol.com
Mrs. Linklater comments:
My first suggestion was to have a group of past winners pick their favorites so Judith could choose the winner from those finalists. That would save her some reading time. The group could change each month. It should be an honor to be a judge.
I also thought there should be a separate contest blog which would use an entry to announce the contest and people could leave links to their entries in the comments. The winning essay would be posted in the next entry in its entirety. That way all the winners could be found in one place.
Feel free to add your thoughts in the comments here.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Relationships After 50
What I am about to tell you will explain why I'm not ever getting married again. Wait a minute, maybe not. This story is more about how glad I am that I am single and not exhausted from working on a real relationship, I'll take the appearance of a relationship over the real thing any day.
I have a friend who's been a friend for forty years. Really, I'm not disguising myself as a friend. I have a real life friend who is going through this thing with her fac simile of a "relationship" person.
I call him a fac simile because there isn't a name for whatever it is that they have together except that they are together. After being good buddies in college, he looked up her up again several years ago. His opening line was, "I've been thinking about you for 35 years."
I'm not sure when or if they ever started dating or doing what people who date do together. I just know they started being together. And for the past several years they have been living together, but, here's the part that throws in the monkey wrench -- they live in the same house, but they live separately.
The house they're in has three levels. Her bedroom, bathroom, and office area are up on the top level. The living room, dining room, kitchen, another bedroom and bathroom, the front and back doors, stuff like that are on the main level. He has two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bath, and a large living area, plus his own entrance, all of which are downstairs on the lower level.
So they're together, but apart. Probably because he said he wanted to be free to keep seeing other women, even though he doesn't do much more than have the occasional meal with someone or have them out for a barbecue.
She thought if he needed his "freedom" so much, it would be wiser to keep her distance in her own part of the house. I've been there and he's called her from his place to meet him in the kitchen for dinner.
Here's the game they play. He says he's going out on a date with someone or he's going to go on a two month bike trip or he's going to be working out of town for awhile. Her reaction is to tell him to have a good time. [Although, if he's bringing someone back to the house, the bitch can't come through the front door, she has to go through his downstairs entrance -- haaaaaaaaaaaaa. And one time she got out her chain saw and started working out in the yard when he had company. You can't make this stuff up.]
He'll ask her if she wants him to go do what he's going to do and she says that's not her decision, he can do what he wants. This just pisses him off. He doesn't like her being so mature about his plans. He wants her to beg him not to go. And she won't. Because she isn't married to him, she isn't sleeping with him, she isn't doing anything except living with him. Although from where I sit, they often seem more married than most married people I know.
Lately, he's been acting kind of crabby. As an old Navy pilot with two tours of Vietnam he can get moody for no reason at all. Recently he announced he was taking a long trip on his motorcycle. The closer he got to making the trip the more sullen and withdrawn he got. She would ask him about his itinerary or other questions that NORMAL people ask someone who's going on a long haul and he'd just grunt. The week before he left, he started to spend eight hours a day sitting at a table doing crossword puzzles.
The night before he left he went to bed without saying goodbye. He was leaving at 4:30 in the morning for weeks and weeks and couldn't be bothered with that little nicety for some reason.
She and I were talking on the phone later that evening and I started to get concerned that this motorcycle trip was going to be a suicide trip. He's in his sixties; his body is sore; he's looking at the end of his life; and he's acting like an asshole. She's worried he's going to get hurt. I'm convinced he's going to die.
I got a call from her last night, the day after he left. A mere three hours out, he managed to drop his bike somehow. A couple of bike parts got wrecked and he hurt his ankle. He called to tell her about it. He was waiting in a little town for parts to arrive, but it became very clear that he just wanted to come back home. Mostly he wanted her to tell him to come home and not go on the trip. She refused to play the game, mainly because she's playing a different game with another set of rules.
She told him he could be on his way when the new part came and still have a good time. He said, we'll discuss it in the morning. She said, it's not OUR decision, it's yours.
I told her that when he called, she should have said, "Wow I thought you wouldn't have an accident for another twoor three days." And follow that up with, "Mrs. Linklater was sure you'd be dead by now, so this is good news."
Maybe she should try begging him to stay home. She's worried enough about him. Oh wait, she can't do that. Because then the game's over and he wins.
And you thought high school ended at 17.
I have a friend who's been a friend for forty years. Really, I'm not disguising myself as a friend. I have a real life friend who is going through this thing with her fac simile of a "relationship" person.
I call him a fac simile because there isn't a name for whatever it is that they have together except that they are together. After being good buddies in college, he looked up her up again several years ago. His opening line was, "I've been thinking about you for 35 years."
I'm not sure when or if they ever started dating or doing what people who date do together. I just know they started being together. And for the past several years they have been living together, but, here's the part that throws in the monkey wrench -- they live in the same house, but they live separately.
The house they're in has three levels. Her bedroom, bathroom, and office area are up on the top level. The living room, dining room, kitchen, another bedroom and bathroom, the front and back doors, stuff like that are on the main level. He has two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bath, and a large living area, plus his own entrance, all of which are downstairs on the lower level.
So they're together, but apart. Probably because he said he wanted to be free to keep seeing other women, even though he doesn't do much more than have the occasional meal with someone or have them out for a barbecue.
She thought if he needed his "freedom" so much, it would be wiser to keep her distance in her own part of the house. I've been there and he's called her from his place to meet him in the kitchen for dinner.
Here's the game they play. He says he's going out on a date with someone or he's going to go on a two month bike trip or he's going to be working out of town for awhile. Her reaction is to tell him to have a good time. [Although, if he's bringing someone back to the house, the bitch can't come through the front door, she has to go through his downstairs entrance -- haaaaaaaaaaaaa. And one time she got out her chain saw and started working out in the yard when he had company. You can't make this stuff up.]
He'll ask her if she wants him to go do what he's going to do and she says that's not her decision, he can do what he wants. This just pisses him off. He doesn't like her being so mature about his plans. He wants her to beg him not to go. And she won't. Because she isn't married to him, she isn't sleeping with him, she isn't doing anything except living with him. Although from where I sit, they often seem more married than most married people I know.
Lately, he's been acting kind of crabby. As an old Navy pilot with two tours of Vietnam he can get moody for no reason at all. Recently he announced he was taking a long trip on his motorcycle. The closer he got to making the trip the more sullen and withdrawn he got. She would ask him about his itinerary or other questions that NORMAL people ask someone who's going on a long haul and he'd just grunt. The week before he left, he started to spend eight hours a day sitting at a table doing crossword puzzles.
The night before he left he went to bed without saying goodbye. He was leaving at 4:30 in the morning for weeks and weeks and couldn't be bothered with that little nicety for some reason.
She and I were talking on the phone later that evening and I started to get concerned that this motorcycle trip was going to be a suicide trip. He's in his sixties; his body is sore; he's looking at the end of his life; and he's acting like an asshole. She's worried he's going to get hurt. I'm convinced he's going to die.
I got a call from her last night, the day after he left. A mere three hours out, he managed to drop his bike somehow. A couple of bike parts got wrecked and he hurt his ankle. He called to tell her about it. He was waiting in a little town for parts to arrive, but it became very clear that he just wanted to come back home. Mostly he wanted her to tell him to come home and not go on the trip. She refused to play the game, mainly because she's playing a different game with another set of rules.
She told him he could be on his way when the new part came and still have a good time. He said, we'll discuss it in the morning. She said, it's not OUR decision, it's yours.
I told her that when he called, she should have said, "Wow I thought you wouldn't have an accident for another twoor three days." And follow that up with, "Mrs. Linklater was sure you'd be dead by now, so this is good news."
Maybe she should try begging him to stay home. She's worried enough about him. Oh wait, she can't do that. Because then the game's over and he wins.
And you thought high school ended at 17.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Maestro Harrell
Maestro Harrell -- photo borrowed from his Facebook page -- https://www.facebook.com/officialmaestro
You probably think that commercials are all about selling products and services, but no, pretzel breath, the people who're writing them have their own agendas. [Quelle surprise!]. Usually the idea is to win awards for their empty bookshelves and credenzas. I'm as cheesy as the next person, but I usually enter competitions only when someone else pays the entry fee. And I pick contests not by their prestige, but by whether or not they award nice statues.
So I asked the guy who arranges my lyrics into meaningful notes if he knew a kid rapper. He said he did as a matter of fact. He wasn't more than ten or eleven and he had already performed on The Tonight Show. I was a little afraid that we were going to get a show biz wind up doll with a pain in the neck parent.
But the day we recorded, in walks this incredibly cute little ten year old boy with his wonderful dad, who installs air conditioning units, His name was Maestro Harrell, which I thought was a great name for a performer. He was EXTREMELY polite and always respectful, shaking my hand during introductions and saying, "How are you today? It's very nice to meet you."
He then went into the booth and proceeded to nail my white lady rap in two takes. We'd sent the lyrics over the day before but instead of just practicing them, he'd memorized them. He also added a few of his own personal riffs to make it even better. After the session he sat down at the synthesizer to play and sing some of his own tunes, ones he'd written when he wasn't doing homework or playing sports.
The next year we had a chance to do a music video to showcase a kids' show idea. And he was the first person we thought of to be the host of the program. We recorded the lyrics in the studio the day before we shot the video. He showed up at the shoot with all the words memorized so he could lip-sync without an ear prompter. Plus he had all kinds of ideas for choreography, which included cartwheels as well as some amazing dance moves.
Since then, he's gone on to other things and his dad calls me from time to time to keep me posted on what he's doing. After he was in the Lion King for several weeks here in Chicago, I heard he'd landed a part in an HBO series, The Wire. I used to watch the show when it was first on, but not since Maestro got a part. Mainly because I decided that HBO and SHOWTIME were getting way too expensive for what they were worth.
Yesterday a producer who has also worked with Maestro emailed me some good news --
This just in from the Emmy's:
Best Supporting Actor/Drama
After five seasons of playing The Shield's macho hothead so enthusiastically, Walton Goggins finally got the chance this spring to show his range in revealing Shane Vendrell to be a guilt-ridden, soul-torn, corrupt cop whose anguished eyes haunt us. And in the newcomer category, we like Maestro Harrell. Seeing as The Wire boasts an ensemble of 30-plus pitch-perfect actors, it's hard to stand out. But Harrell dominated the 2006 season with his performance as 14-year- old Randy — a wiseass, hustling, joyful kid whose life goes off the rails. Give this young actor some more work. Now.Way to go Maestro. It couldn't happen to a more deserving kid. Maybe I'll shell out for HBO again.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
This Picture is Worth A Few Words
My girlfriend left her suburban existence to live in Montana. Here's a picture from the balcony of her log house looking down at the fireplace area of her living room. The rocking chair was made by the Amish in Indiana near where she grew up. There's a great view of the mountains out the windows to your left. And there's a footbridge over a stream that cuts through a patch of trees behind her house, if you walk over and look out the windows to your right.
She calls to tell me that there's a small herd of elk sleeping out on her front lawn. And a bald eagle sitting on her fence. I call her to complain that the construction guys are leaving soda pop cans on my lawn and a flock of birds pooped on my car.
Mrs. Linklater Regrets
There was a wedding I didn't go to last weekend. Two attractive young people who came from perfectly acceptable suburban towns decided it would be idyllic to get married up in the Lake George area of New York on the edge of the Adirondacks. I took one look at the map and realized that the region was accessible only by a five hour drive from Newark airport and took a pass.
Oh sure I could have flown into Albany, that bastion of international travel -- if I'd wanted to cram into one of those "regional" jets and land in a Wal Mart parking lot between two RV's. Or I could have driven up with friends and hoped they stopped a few times so I could pee. But I'd rather be here counting cicada carcasses.
I must admit I'm a little sorry I missed a rehearsal dinner that promised a twilight boat ride around the lake. And a steak and champagne reception following the wedding that, according to eyewitnesses, lasted until dawn.
However, as lovely as it all sounds on paper, I learned the hard way that food and boating sometimes don't mix well. As for staying up all night at a wedding reception, I haven't done that on purpose since my college roomie got married the first time. The second time she went down the aisle, the reception lasted longer than the marriage,
The best man for the Adirondack nuptials called to run his speech by me. He and the groom are cousins and close as brothers. So he had plenty of material. But I thought he should keep it short, say, under an hour.
After listening to some of his amusing personal anecdotes, the only regret I have about not making an effort to get to the celebration is not being able to give my own special toast to the newlyweds.
To the groom, who just found out during these final hours before the wedding that his new bride won't be taking his last name -- don't forget what I said to you that summer six years ago, when you two lovebirds were first dating and your future bride announced that she had an eating disorder: "You may not want to spend too much money on expensive dinners." Aren't you glad I gave you such good advice? Now you've saved enough money to have this lovely wedding and delightful reception. Skip enough of those fancy meals she just throws up and you two will be on easy street in no time.
To the bride -- what a lovely young woman you are -- okay, a little personality challenged, but apparently you got good enough scores on your LSAT's to attend a top law school this fall. To you I say, be prepared to make a boatload of money because if you have to live on what the groom is going to make in his chosen career as a bureaucrat in a government job, you can kiss your Manolos good bye. Not that a good pair of sensible shoes is anything to sneeze at, but I think you catch my drift. Oh, and you might want to double the number of times you've been having sex since you started living together. Two times a month is not too much to ask I think.
I'm getting all misty-eyed just imagining the number of late night hook ups that went down at the wedding. Maybe even the bride and groom. I also wonder if anyone's taking bets on how long the marriage is going to last.
I don't think they'll make it till death do us part. Unless one of them parts ways by killing the other.
Sometimes my cynicism even scares me.
Oh sure I could have flown into Albany, that bastion of international travel -- if I'd wanted to cram into one of those "regional" jets and land in a Wal Mart parking lot between two RV's. Or I could have driven up with friends and hoped they stopped a few times so I could pee. But I'd rather be here counting cicada carcasses.
I must admit I'm a little sorry I missed a rehearsal dinner that promised a twilight boat ride around the lake. And a steak and champagne reception following the wedding that, according to eyewitnesses, lasted until dawn.
However, as lovely as it all sounds on paper, I learned the hard way that food and boating sometimes don't mix well. As for staying up all night at a wedding reception, I haven't done that on purpose since my college roomie got married the first time. The second time she went down the aisle, the reception lasted longer than the marriage,
The best man for the Adirondack nuptials called to run his speech by me. He and the groom are cousins and close as brothers. So he had plenty of material. But I thought he should keep it short, say, under an hour.
After listening to some of his amusing personal anecdotes, the only regret I have about not making an effort to get to the celebration is not being able to give my own special toast to the newlyweds.
To the groom, who just found out during these final hours before the wedding that his new bride won't be taking his last name -- don't forget what I said to you that summer six years ago, when you two lovebirds were first dating and your future bride announced that she had an eating disorder: "You may not want to spend too much money on expensive dinners." Aren't you glad I gave you such good advice? Now you've saved enough money to have this lovely wedding and delightful reception. Skip enough of those fancy meals she just throws up and you two will be on easy street in no time.
To the bride -- what a lovely young woman you are -- okay, a little personality challenged, but apparently you got good enough scores on your LSAT's to attend a top law school this fall. To you I say, be prepared to make a boatload of money because if you have to live on what the groom is going to make in his chosen career as a bureaucrat in a government job, you can kiss your Manolos good bye. Not that a good pair of sensible shoes is anything to sneeze at, but I think you catch my drift. Oh, and you might want to double the number of times you've been having sex since you started living together. Two times a month is not too much to ask I think.
I'm getting all misty-eyed just imagining the number of late night hook ups that went down at the wedding. Maybe even the bride and groom. I also wonder if anyone's taking bets on how long the marriage is going to last.
I don't think they'll make it till death do us part. Unless one of them parts ways by killing the other.
Sometimes my cynicism even scares me.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
These Are Trained Police Officers
Once in a blue moon I buy the local weekly newspaper for my town. Mostly it's a waste of a dollar, except if you're looking for something in the classifieds.
But I would have missed the big news. Apparently there was picketing over at one of the schools the other day. Moms and kids carrying homemade signs were protesting the firing of a crossing guard.
Turns out Mrs. Linklater isn't the only person who has suffered at the hands of our overzealous law enforcement officers.
A ten year veteran crossing guard was fired for leaving her spot to go to her car while there was a child waiting to cross. The kid had the audacity to cross by himself while she was gone, so she was reprimanded by a cop who was watching her -- that should tell you how busy they are. Just recently, the police let her go. No doubt she will be pursuing other interests in the crossing guard field.
Here's the good part. The cops waited until some charges from last year against her husband were dropped. In general it sounded like an awful lot of run ins with the law for the citizens of our very bland, cottage cheese-like town, so I wondered how bad it could be.
Seems their son was stopped three blocks from home for a traffic infraction and didn't have his driver's license. So Dad got it from his room and brought it to the police officer who stopped the kid. Only somehow Dad got arrested for not staying away from the scene. And there was the matter of his losing his temper and swearing.
So the village waited until the charges were finally dropped against Dad to take things out on Mom. The very next day. Now Mom's out of a job and all the neighbors are picketing the cops for not being fair. Blah blah blah.
Frankly, my town needs crossing guards like cantaloupes need dresses. There is so little traffic around here grass is growing on the roads. Okay, I exaggerate. But most crossing guards that I have seen would have trouble passing an eye exam first of all. If the Coke bottles they wear are any indication. Not to mention that intellectually impaired is giving them the benefit of the doubt.
The job seems mostly ceremonial. But we're a LAW AND ORDER town. Our police force conducts WELLNESS CHECKS goddamn it and you better be well or ELSE.
So it was with much happiness that I read about this recent ridiculosity that pitted our suburban crime crusaders against some woman who neglected to hold up her plastic STOP sign and keep back the teeming hoards of automobiles [maybe one]. Thank goodness no child was harmed in the commission of this failure to protect the community. Sure he took the law into his own hands. But he had arleady crossed seven other streets unscathed just to get to the one staffed by a crossing guard, so he thought maybe, just maybe, he could handle this one by himself.
Maybe that crossing guard will start to hang her dry cleaning on her front door now.
But I would have missed the big news. Apparently there was picketing over at one of the schools the other day. Moms and kids carrying homemade signs were protesting the firing of a crossing guard.
Turns out Mrs. Linklater isn't the only person who has suffered at the hands of our overzealous law enforcement officers.
A ten year veteran crossing guard was fired for leaving her spot to go to her car while there was a child waiting to cross. The kid had the audacity to cross by himself while she was gone, so she was reprimanded by a cop who was watching her -- that should tell you how busy they are. Just recently, the police let her go. No doubt she will be pursuing other interests in the crossing guard field.
Here's the good part. The cops waited until some charges from last year against her husband were dropped. In general it sounded like an awful lot of run ins with the law for the citizens of our very bland, cottage cheese-like town, so I wondered how bad it could be.
Seems their son was stopped three blocks from home for a traffic infraction and didn't have his driver's license. So Dad got it from his room and brought it to the police officer who stopped the kid. Only somehow Dad got arrested for not staying away from the scene. And there was the matter of his losing his temper and swearing.
So the village waited until the charges were finally dropped against Dad to take things out on Mom. The very next day. Now Mom's out of a job and all the neighbors are picketing the cops for not being fair. Blah blah blah.
Frankly, my town needs crossing guards like cantaloupes need dresses. There is so little traffic around here grass is growing on the roads. Okay, I exaggerate. But most crossing guards that I have seen would have trouble passing an eye exam first of all. If the Coke bottles they wear are any indication. Not to mention that intellectually impaired is giving them the benefit of the doubt.
The job seems mostly ceremonial. But we're a LAW AND ORDER town. Our police force conducts WELLNESS CHECKS goddamn it and you better be well or ELSE.
So it was with much happiness that I read about this recent ridiculosity that pitted our suburban crime crusaders against some woman who neglected to hold up her plastic STOP sign and keep back the teeming hoards of automobiles [maybe one]. Thank goodness no child was harmed in the commission of this failure to protect the community. Sure he took the law into his own hands. But he had arleady crossed seven other streets unscathed just to get to the one staffed by a crossing guard, so he thought maybe, just maybe, he could handle this one by himself.
Maybe that crossing guard will start to hang her dry cleaning on her front door now.
Cosmic
Part of the reason Mrs. Linklater embarked on her must read "GUIDE TO THE UNIVERSE" is that she has had moments in her life that can only be described as COSMIC and therefore unexplainable except in relationship to other unexplainable things -- such as just how far is far anyway?
Two nights ago, Mrs. L dreamt that she was hanging out with an old friend of hers -- a guy she's known for thirty years, but hasn't seen in months and months. By way of explanation, she doesn't mean hanging out in the hook up hanging out way. Even though he is one of those people she wished she could have married, except for the fact that someone else got there first, which is why they've been friends instead of any number of other things for all this time.
No, this dream was strictly all on the up and up. Just happy to be there. I know, hard to believe in this day and age of Paris Hilton NUDE sex videos on the internet, but true. Painfully true.
It was also one of those dreams that leaves you wondering why you've dreamt about someone and what have they been doing with themselves lately anyway?
Well, because of Mrs. Linklater's cosmic capabilities and subliminal communications skills, there was no need for her to wonder more than a few hours, because Mr. Guy in the Dream showed up knocking on Mrs. L's front door last night as if ordered to make an appearance.
But first he had a question. Why the heck is my dry cleaning hanging outside?
Two nights ago, Mrs. L dreamt that she was hanging out with an old friend of hers -- a guy she's known for thirty years, but hasn't seen in months and months. By way of explanation, she doesn't mean hanging out in the hook up hanging out way. Even though he is one of those people she wished she could have married, except for the fact that someone else got there first, which is why they've been friends instead of any number of other things for all this time.
No, this dream was strictly all on the up and up. Just happy to be there. I know, hard to believe in this day and age of Paris Hilton NUDE sex videos on the internet, but true. Painfully true.
It was also one of those dreams that leaves you wondering why you've dreamt about someone and what have they been doing with themselves lately anyway?
Well, because of Mrs. Linklater's cosmic capabilities and subliminal communications skills, there was no need for her to wonder more than a few hours, because Mr. Guy in the Dream showed up knocking on Mrs. L's front door last night as if ordered to make an appearance.
But first he had a question. Why the heck is my dry cleaning hanging outside?
Friday, June 15, 2007
Tough Week
When I was married, the weekdays were easy to manage, it was the weekends that seemed hectic. When I got divorced I noticed that by comparison, the weekends, which hadn't really changed, now seemed easy by comparison with the weekdays, which were suddenly nutso.
The first change was less sleep. Instead of rolling out of bed at 8:00 AM, I was getting up at 6:00 AM. Instead of waking up the kids in a leisurely fashion and enjoying breakfast, I was doing a load of wash first, then getting the kids up, handing them something that passed for food while I made their lunches with anything edible I found in the fridge. Instead of making play doh hair with the garlic press or watching caterpillars inch across the sidewalk until it was time to go to school, I was now loading everybody up to carpool, then get to the train on time. Now that I had a job, instead of doing mom things like pressing flowers in books and crocheting doll blankets, I was nine to fiving it until six, and getting home barely in time to carpool again for dance class or something at school. I no longer read the paper for dinner and dessert recipes, I defrosted dinner and bought Oreos, or we went to Mickey D's. Instead of reading books and asking how their day was, I did more wash, painted the shutters, or mowed the lawn, and said goodnight to my kids on the way to brush my teeth and fall into bed.
These days my idea of a tough week is getting up. Actually, I can manage getting up, as long as I set the alarm a half hour early. Or start making phone calls while I'm still lying in bed. Going to work isn't too bad, since I do a lot of work from home on my computer after the half hour it takes to roll out of bed. It's the getting dressed that's tough these days. After sitting around like I am now in a state of dress that could only be described as well, undressed, clothing seems like such a complete waste of time.
Especially this week, when I had to be at a client five days in a row. Usually two days is all I have to deal with. But having to come up with five different outfits means clean underwear, showers, stuff like that.
And now after five days in a row of wearing clothes, I have to do wash. Or I could just get the big spray bottle of Febreze and fake it.
The first change was less sleep. Instead of rolling out of bed at 8:00 AM, I was getting up at 6:00 AM. Instead of waking up the kids in a leisurely fashion and enjoying breakfast, I was doing a load of wash first, then getting the kids up, handing them something that passed for food while I made their lunches with anything edible I found in the fridge. Instead of making play doh hair with the garlic press or watching caterpillars inch across the sidewalk until it was time to go to school, I was now loading everybody up to carpool, then get to the train on time. Now that I had a job, instead of doing mom things like pressing flowers in books and crocheting doll blankets, I was nine to fiving it until six, and getting home barely in time to carpool again for dance class or something at school. I no longer read the paper for dinner and dessert recipes, I defrosted dinner and bought Oreos, or we went to Mickey D's. Instead of reading books and asking how their day was, I did more wash, painted the shutters, or mowed the lawn, and said goodnight to my kids on the way to brush my teeth and fall into bed.
These days my idea of a tough week is getting up. Actually, I can manage getting up, as long as I set the alarm a half hour early. Or start making phone calls while I'm still lying in bed. Going to work isn't too bad, since I do a lot of work from home on my computer after the half hour it takes to roll out of bed. It's the getting dressed that's tough these days. After sitting around like I am now in a state of dress that could only be described as well, undressed, clothing seems like such a complete waste of time.
Especially this week, when I had to be at a client five days in a row. Usually two days is all I have to deal with. But having to come up with five different outfits means clean underwear, showers, stuff like that.
And now after five days in a row of wearing clothes, I have to do wash. Or I could just get the big spray bottle of Febreze and fake it.
Once A Smartass Always a Smartass
For those of you keeping score in the conflict between Mrs. Linklater and her town's bureaucrats, I just wanted to let you know that my dry cleaning is STILL hanging on my front door. I'm not sure when I'll take it in. Maybe I should put some ribbons on it like a Martha Stewart decoration.
Nah. I want it to look like dry cleaning.
Nah. I want it to look like dry cleaning.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
CHOKE
Last year my old high school had a very strong varsity baseball team. They were loaded with a homegrown bunch of Division I quality pitchers who could take them all the way.
But just before the play offs began two of them got caught trying to buy liquor with fake IDs.
This wasn’t the first time these two pampered pups had messed up. The coach spent a lot of time trying to keep them from undoing their season all year.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough.
The boys were kicked off the team. And the school didn’t get past the regional championships. Not when your relievers are all sophomores.
One of boys kicked off was their top pitcher. A senior, he graduated, never to play for the school again.
The other, a junior, was out of the play offs, but he was allowed to come back on the team in 2007. I was surprised by that. I really thought he should have been gone for good. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been his own worst enemy before.
This year the team had an even better season than last year. With another batch of Division I quality pitchers, all over six five and each one throwing some serious smoke. Or nasty junk.
Today they made it to the championship game at a really nice minor league ballfield about 45 miles away. Tonight I was listening to the play by play on the internet radio and the announcer said the championship was theirs to lose. They were ranked high all season. By the time they made the Elite 8 they were ranked No. 1.
After beating their semi-final opponent 7 to 2 this morning, the team looked invincible, despite leaving the bases loaded three times, but maybe that was a good thing. They won, didn’t they?
Their pitcher for the semi-final was also the starting quarterback on the football team. He pitched all seven innings, as cool on the mound as he was on the football field.
Tonight, in a move that completely took me off guard, the starting pitcher was the kid who came back after being kicked off the team last year.
Usually you save your best for last. So I was puzzled why he was starting such an important game, since clearly he had some maturity and integrity issues. Not to mention a possible alcohol problem. Why didn’t the coach have him start the semi- final instead? Keep in mind this isn't a rube coach. He's already won one baseball state championship since coming to the school. And he's already in the state high school FOOTBALL hall of fame from his time at another high school.
But I knew we were in trouble when the first seven pitches of the game were all balls. Maybe the ump was calling them a little tight, but you have to adjust.
However, even after the walks, he was still pitching a no hitter through the third inning. And his teammates got him a run so they were ahead 1 to 0. They could have had more runs if one of their players hadn't lost his brains and left second base early on a sacrifice fly.
Finally his wildness caught up with him. He threw a pitch that went behind a batter. Then he hit someone. He walked two guys and made TWO fielding errors. First he bobbled a bunt to load the bases. Then he made a stupid pick off throw to third that went into the bullpen and suddenly the score was 3 to 1. Somehow he was still pitching a no hitter.
What was he smoking? Bobbling an easy pick up could be anything from nerves to booze to drugs. Either way his hand-eye coordination was messed up. And trying a pick off with the bases loaded meant he'd completely lost his ability to make decisions. That was an insane move. The announcers were flabbergasted. My first thought was, is he trying to throw the game for some reason? That's how bad it was.
Finally the coach made a pitching change. But they didn’t get out of the inning until the score was 5 to 1. All unearned.
I turned off the game. I heard that they were still behind 5-1 in the fifth. Not insurmountable, but when your best pitcher crumples in the championship game, it’s hard to recover.
What’s interesting is that I began to reflect on how anxious this pitcher was from the start. Totally unglued from the first pitch, after having a great season. Then I wondered if the anxiety he experienced is what led him to do the stupid thing that got him kicked off the team last year -- right before the play offs. Nothing on purpose mind you. Just one of those stressed out teenaged moments where the switch to make good choices gets turned off.
Living with the punishment of getting kicked off the team for trying to buy alcohol was probably easier than dealing with the anxiety that mounts when you're the one everybody's counting on in a big game.
Mostly, I just wish the coach had asked me to do his pitching rotation. I’m here. I’m available.
So much of sports is won or lost between your ears. What is that little voice saying in your head? Winner? Or loser? The little voice in my headhas been saying “Gimp”for several years now.
Meanwhile this kid has gone and screwed up the biggest game of his life. That’s an echo that will haunt him forever. Assuming he ever recovers.
POST MORTEM: I woke up this morning and realized that the relief pitcher who came in to stop the bleeding is the first cousin of the boy who fell apart. And a straight arrow compared to his troubled relative. I think their mothers are sisters. Won't rehashing this game make for nice conversation over the years?
Friday, June 8, 2007
She's Over Sixty So She Must Be Dead
I think I've mentioned a particular problem I've been having with the busybodies in my village. I talked about it months ago in an earlier entry. It starts with the fact that I'm over sixty and live alone. Therefore I am subjected to a suburban version of a strip search -- the wellness check.
Here's how it works. Cops arrive at your home and start pounding on the door. This usually occurs because some asshole neighbor has decided that something's wrong based on the fact that the birdfeeder fell on the ground and I haven't bothered to pick it up. Instead of picking it up and helping me out, they call the cops or the village to send invading hoards.
For example, I left my hose on one night and pumped water into one of my window wells. It was filling up and getting ready to send water into the basement. My neighbors heard it when they came home from a party. Instead of just moving the hose -- or, here's a clever idea -- TURNING OFF THE WATER, they enlisted the aid of some cops who were driving by. The police started pounding on my door to get my attention. "Wellness check!!"
To their credit my neighbors called me first. But I was on the computer. The phone picks up right away, which should have been a clue that I was using Edison's handy device. But no, they just assumed that since I am over sixty, I must be dead.
I was dumb maybe for leaving the water on. But not dead.
There's another assumption people make. Those of us over sixty are in bed at nine o'clock and we are computer illiterate. You can't have one without the other. So it never occurred to them that I might be up and working or surfing the World Wide Web.
Luckily, I got out of the house via the back door just moments before my front door was taken out because I'm over sixty and I must be dead.
To sum up, in that instance, the cops were about to breach my privacy just because the window well had water in it.
It's becoming a regular event for me. If I'm out of town and I forget to stop the mail, they want to break in because "she's over sixty so she must be dead." If I leave my garbage can on the parkway a minute past its six hour time limit, "she's over sixty, so she must be dead."
Fast forward to a few days ago.
I was sitting in my car in my driveway after a haircut, mani and pedi. I was getting ready to go on an errand, but first, I was putting on makeup, since I wanted to look nice when I went to White Hen Pantry to get a bag of baked Cheetos.
A car pulled up in front of my house and some weight challenged woman from the village got out and walked to my front door. I backed the car out and asked her what the deal was. She says a concerned neighbor asked for a wellness check because my dry cleaning had been hanging on the door for a long time.
Really? A wellness check because of my dry cleaning. A concerned neighbor called. Oh bullshit. Keep in mind that the house on my immediate right is empty. The house behind me is brand new and not occupied. The two houses across the street from me are new and unoccupied. The house on my left, however, has people who see me all the time. And they can't even see the dry cleaning hanging on my door. Same with the house next to them.
I was beginning to think that the village just wanted me to take my dry cleaning inside and needed an excuse. I was told that leaving my dry cleaning on the door makes my house look uninhabited. I've said that for years -- don't leave your clothes around, people will think the place is uninhabited.
After my chat with the woman from the village, proving I wasn't dead, I left to do my errand. I came back twenty minutes later and I could see there was a cop backing out of my driveway. He was gone by the time I drove in. So he never knew that I had seen him.
After watching several seasons of CSI Miami, I can spot criminal behavior. I got out of my car and immediately noticed that my garbage can lid was open. And there was a pair of fresh blue plastic gloves at the bottom of the can.
Then I went inside and discovered that my bed covers had been thrown on the floor. I may not make my bed very often, but I don't throw my covers on the floor -- it's too far down to pick them up.
Holy cow -- the cop had been inside my house. The dry cleaning had been hanging up for so long that this brave law enforcement officer had taken it upon himself to put on a brand new pair of blue latex gloves, enter my home through the unlocked back door and prove to the world that when a woman over sixty leaves her dry cleaning out for a long time, SHE MUST BE DEAD. What a hero.
I called the village lady to complain. I asked her why she didn't tell the police that I was alive and well. She claimed she didn't have her cell phone with her. Bullshit. I called the police dispatcher and bitched at him about a cop entering my house without doing any of the following:
Calling to say I should check in with them or they were coming to check on me.
Checking with neighbors to find out if they'd seen me.
Checking with the lady from the village to see if she'd made contact.
While I'm at it, twenty lashes with a wet noodle for her, since she should have called them immediately.
The cop did leave a message on my voicemail. He asked me to contact him about my dry cleaning.
He probably thought I wouldn't notice that he'd been in my house.
Today I left messages with the village lady and her boss, the cop who entered my house, the community service officer, and a sergeant.
No one has called me back.
That's probably because I'm over sixty and I must be dead.
Here's how it works. Cops arrive at your home and start pounding on the door. This usually occurs because some asshole neighbor has decided that something's wrong based on the fact that the birdfeeder fell on the ground and I haven't bothered to pick it up. Instead of picking it up and helping me out, they call the cops or the village to send invading hoards.
For example, I left my hose on one night and pumped water into one of my window wells. It was filling up and getting ready to send water into the basement. My neighbors heard it when they came home from a party. Instead of just moving the hose -- or, here's a clever idea -- TURNING OFF THE WATER, they enlisted the aid of some cops who were driving by. The police started pounding on my door to get my attention. "Wellness check!!"
To their credit my neighbors called me first. But I was on the computer. The phone picks up right away, which should have been a clue that I was using Edison's handy device. But no, they just assumed that since I am over sixty, I must be dead.
I was dumb maybe for leaving the water on. But not dead.
There's another assumption people make. Those of us over sixty are in bed at nine o'clock and we are computer illiterate. You can't have one without the other. So it never occurred to them that I might be up and working or surfing the World Wide Web.
Luckily, I got out of the house via the back door just moments before my front door was taken out because I'm over sixty and I must be dead.
To sum up, in that instance, the cops were about to breach my privacy just because the window well had water in it.
It's becoming a regular event for me. If I'm out of town and I forget to stop the mail, they want to break in because "she's over sixty so she must be dead." If I leave my garbage can on the parkway a minute past its six hour time limit, "she's over sixty, so she must be dead."
Fast forward to a few days ago.
I was sitting in my car in my driveway after a haircut, mani and pedi. I was getting ready to go on an errand, but first, I was putting on makeup, since I wanted to look nice when I went to White Hen Pantry to get a bag of baked Cheetos.
A car pulled up in front of my house and some weight challenged woman from the village got out and walked to my front door. I backed the car out and asked her what the deal was. She says a concerned neighbor asked for a wellness check because my dry cleaning had been hanging on the door for a long time.
Really? A wellness check because of my dry cleaning. A concerned neighbor called. Oh bullshit. Keep in mind that the house on my immediate right is empty. The house behind me is brand new and not occupied. The two houses across the street from me are new and unoccupied. The house on my left, however, has people who see me all the time. And they can't even see the dry cleaning hanging on my door. Same with the house next to them.
I was beginning to think that the village just wanted me to take my dry cleaning inside and needed an excuse. I was told that leaving my dry cleaning on the door makes my house look uninhabited. I've said that for years -- don't leave your clothes around, people will think the place is uninhabited.
After my chat with the woman from the village, proving I wasn't dead, I left to do my errand. I came back twenty minutes later and I could see there was a cop backing out of my driveway. He was gone by the time I drove in. So he never knew that I had seen him.
After watching several seasons of CSI Miami, I can spot criminal behavior. I got out of my car and immediately noticed that my garbage can lid was open. And there was a pair of fresh blue plastic gloves at the bottom of the can.
Then I went inside and discovered that my bed covers had been thrown on the floor. I may not make my bed very often, but I don't throw my covers on the floor -- it's too far down to pick them up.
Holy cow -- the cop had been inside my house. The dry cleaning had been hanging up for so long that this brave law enforcement officer had taken it upon himself to put on a brand new pair of blue latex gloves, enter my home through the unlocked back door and prove to the world that when a woman over sixty leaves her dry cleaning out for a long time, SHE MUST BE DEAD. What a hero.
I called the village lady to complain. I asked her why she didn't tell the police that I was alive and well. She claimed she didn't have her cell phone with her. Bullshit. I called the police dispatcher and bitched at him about a cop entering my house without doing any of the following:
Calling to say I should check in with them or they were coming to check on me.
Checking with neighbors to find out if they'd seen me.
Checking with the lady from the village to see if she'd made contact.
While I'm at it, twenty lashes with a wet noodle for her, since she should have called them immediately.
The cop did leave a message on my voicemail. He asked me to contact him about my dry cleaning.
He probably thought I wouldn't notice that he'd been in my house.
Today I left messages with the village lady and her boss, the cop who entered my house, the community service officer, and a sergeant.
No one has called me back.
That's probably because I'm over sixty and I must be dead.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Musings on the Anniversary of the Summer of Love
Oh geez, it's the fortieth anniversary of the Summer of Love in Haight-Ashbury, at Monterey Pop, or anywhere else two or more tie-dyed, inordinately hairy, endlessly horny stoners might have gathered.
The leftover activists from that era are writing their end of life books. Now short of hair and coiffed of beard, they pontificate about what they think was lurking in the hearts of an entire generation.
They want you and me to believe that 1967 was a mystical time when a huge group of war babies summoned up dreams of transforming society, as if something unique and purposeful in their DNA kicked in an altruistic and uncontrollable desire to start challenging the establishment, opposing a stupid war, and marching for women's rights and racial equality. Ha.
Oh, and while we're saving the world from itself, let's roll in the mud at week long concerts, have sex with anything that moves, and worship at the feet of Timothy Leary, chanting his mantra -- turn on, tune in and drop out,
I'm tired of those wankers taking credit for my generation. I have a different theory about what caused the sixties to roll over and implode on itself. It wasn't because there was a perfect storm of war colliding with civil rights, women's rights and free love.
It was all about one man's death.
Without that particular, singular event, the sixties would have slogged along as another docile decade of somnambulism like its predecessor, the fifties. Yep, women would still be married, wearing bras and staying home. Jesse Jackson would be a religion professor at Tuskegee University. And free love would simply reflect the gratitude of a generous hooker.
Everything came unglued when JFK was assassinated. His unfathomable, still questionable death was the beginning of a rebellion that is still being felt.
JFK's death was easily the most traumatic event of my generation. You can add the subsequent murders of Martin Luther King and Bobby five years later, but we were so numb after JFK that their deaths seemed muted, like the sounds of a distant echo. Not to diminish the agony of those equally horrific assassinations, but the emotional weight of those killings was carried by our younger siblings.
In fact, I believe that Bobby and MLK would still be alive if JFK hadn't been murdered.
The unrest that unleashed so much anger and rebellion in the latter half of the sixties started on November 22, 1963.
Before then we were happy, even ecstatic with our lives. We had hope. We had JFK. There had never been a president embraced so completely by young people.
No one could have cast a better person to run the country. Not because of his agenda, which barely had a chance to get off the ground. But for his personal appeal to a twenty-something demographic that had recently come of age.
More than any other politician before or since, JFK belonged to US. Next to George Washington, he was the most charismatic leader the country has ever known. He was our class president and beloved older brother. We worshipped him. He was a real war hero who looked and acted like a war hero -- plus he was well educated, witty, smart, a published author and married to the prettiest, smartest girl in the country.
During his inaugural address, he immediately reached out and tapped us to assume unheard of responsibility. Ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country. You talking to me?
He lifted the hazy veil of ennui that envelops young high school and college graduates and gave us a sense of power. He made us feel that who we were and what we did was important. He understood leadership. And we were willing to follow him anywhere.
Then, unbelievably, shockingly, he was dead. And we were left rudderless and stumbling.
As a group we behaved like so many young people behave when they've been traumatized by sudden death. First comes the shock. On a personal level, the sadness of a violent murder is unbearable. It hums in the background like white noise you can only silence with sleep. Over time, even sleep won't come. But as many traumatized people discover, alcohol and drugs can dull the pain.
There follows a feeling of emptiness and a sense of helplessness when everything that means anything seems gone for good.
Meanwhile, with no one to offer comfort, the sadness continues like a wound that won't heal. Over time a scab forms and the emotional bleeding begins to slow. But the psychic scars are permanent, revealed in the profound and unexplainable anger that seems to come out of nowhere.
It's not that hard to understand when you think of the computer model. Garbage in. Garbage out. Devastated by JFK's death, the now Bereft Generation turned and aimed its newly minted rage against anyone in its sights -- the war, the establishment, racism, inequality, and injustice -- while simultaneously trying to dull the pain of sadness and loss with sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Everything that happened after JFK died followed a tried and true formula -- one that predicts the inevitable emergence of rage and rebellion in a severely traumatized individual. In three to five years, the shit is going to hit the fan.
Only in the case of my generation, it was a group effort.
The leftover activists from that era are writing their end of life books. Now short of hair and coiffed of beard, they pontificate about what they think was lurking in the hearts of an entire generation.
They want you and me to believe that 1967 was a mystical time when a huge group of war babies summoned up dreams of transforming society, as if something unique and purposeful in their DNA kicked in an altruistic and uncontrollable desire to start challenging the establishment, opposing a stupid war, and marching for women's rights and racial equality. Ha.
Oh, and while we're saving the world from itself, let's roll in the mud at week long concerts, have sex with anything that moves, and worship at the feet of Timothy Leary, chanting his mantra -- turn on, tune in and drop out,
I'm tired of those wankers taking credit for my generation. I have a different theory about what caused the sixties to roll over and implode on itself. It wasn't because there was a perfect storm of war colliding with civil rights, women's rights and free love.
It was all about one man's death.
Without that particular, singular event, the sixties would have slogged along as another docile decade of somnambulism like its predecessor, the fifties. Yep, women would still be married, wearing bras and staying home. Jesse Jackson would be a religion professor at Tuskegee University. And free love would simply reflect the gratitude of a generous hooker.
Everything came unglued when JFK was assassinated. His unfathomable, still questionable death was the beginning of a rebellion that is still being felt.
JFK's death was easily the most traumatic event of my generation. You can add the subsequent murders of Martin Luther King and Bobby five years later, but we were so numb after JFK that their deaths seemed muted, like the sounds of a distant echo. Not to diminish the agony of those equally horrific assassinations, but the emotional weight of those killings was carried by our younger siblings.
In fact, I believe that Bobby and MLK would still be alive if JFK hadn't been murdered.
The unrest that unleashed so much anger and rebellion in the latter half of the sixties started on November 22, 1963.
Before then we were happy, even ecstatic with our lives. We had hope. We had JFK. There had never been a president embraced so completely by young people.
No one could have cast a better person to run the country. Not because of his agenda, which barely had a chance to get off the ground. But for his personal appeal to a twenty-something demographic that had recently come of age.
More than any other politician before or since, JFK belonged to US. Next to George Washington, he was the most charismatic leader the country has ever known. He was our class president and beloved older brother. We worshipped him. He was a real war hero who looked and acted like a war hero -- plus he was well educated, witty, smart, a published author and married to the prettiest, smartest girl in the country.
During his inaugural address, he immediately reached out and tapped us to assume unheard of responsibility. Ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country. You talking to me?
He lifted the hazy veil of ennui that envelops young high school and college graduates and gave us a sense of power. He made us feel that who we were and what we did was important. He understood leadership. And we were willing to follow him anywhere.
Then, unbelievably, shockingly, he was dead. And we were left rudderless and stumbling.
As a group we behaved like so many young people behave when they've been traumatized by sudden death. First comes the shock. On a personal level, the sadness of a violent murder is unbearable. It hums in the background like white noise you can only silence with sleep. Over time, even sleep won't come. But as many traumatized people discover, alcohol and drugs can dull the pain.
There follows a feeling of emptiness and a sense of helplessness when everything that means anything seems gone for good.
Meanwhile, with no one to offer comfort, the sadness continues like a wound that won't heal. Over time a scab forms and the emotional bleeding begins to slow. But the psychic scars are permanent, revealed in the profound and unexplainable anger that seems to come out of nowhere.
It's not that hard to understand when you think of the computer model. Garbage in. Garbage out. Devastated by JFK's death, the now Bereft Generation turned and aimed its newly minted rage against anyone in its sights -- the war, the establishment, racism, inequality, and injustice -- while simultaneously trying to dull the pain of sadness and loss with sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Everything that happened after JFK died followed a tried and true formula -- one that predicts the inevitable emergence of rage and rebellion in a severely traumatized individual. In three to five years, the shit is going to hit the fan.
Only in the case of my generation, it was a group effort.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Damn Cute Baby Alert!!!
My nephew Chris in a photo that his
dad sent to me to save for future
blackmail opportunities.
dad sent to me to save for future
blackmail opportunities.
The National Spelling Bee
They televised
the national spelling bee live the other night in prime time on network television.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't they usually play a delayed broadcast
of this event at two in the morning on cable?
I think it's all part of a scholastic marketing conspiracy to show kids that being smart isn't so dumb after all.
By the way, how come people from Canada can enter our NATIONAL spelling be? It is the NATIONAL spelling be after all, not the INTERNATIONAL spelling bee, right? Of course somebody will just bring up the World Series if I'm not careful.
Fifteen kids, nine boys and six girls made the finals from almost three hundred kids. The represented every ethnicity in the country except one. Like all champions, they got a trip to the White House to see -- oops, the First Lady. Championship sports teams get to meet the President. You kids will have to be happy you met his wife. She's the better speller, so it's not a total loss.
To win the bee, the boys and girls had to spell words that haven't been used correctly in a sentence for so long you could smell the mildew.
Before each kid went up to the microphone we got an up close and personal look at their lives. It was like watching the Olympics. Only these kids' brains were on steroids, not their muscles. It became pretty clear pretty fast that most of them had done more in their brief thirteen years or so than the rest of us will ever do in our whole lives.
In one or two heartbeats it seemed there were just three kids left -- two boys who looked like identical twins and one girl, who, like all females her age, was taller and looked five years older than the boys.
The hosts were Robin Roberts of Good Morning America and a former top finisher whose name escapes me. He reminded me of Whispering Joe Wilson, the oldtime voice of bowling who used to have you on the edge of your seats with his breathless commentary. Like the way a golf announcer describes every blade of grass on the green.
"He didn't get much from the judges on that one. . ."
"If she knows her German spelling she has a chance to move on to the next round, but . ."
"The back end of that word is going to be a lot tougher than she thinks. . ."
Robin Roberts was chosen to anchor the show, I think because she spent fifteenyears at ESPN doing sports.
Which would also explain why there were two other ESPN sports guys doing commentary -- Mike Greenberg and Mike Golic from the Mike and Mike SPORTS show [have I mentioned SPORTS?]. To round out our jock coverage, ESPN anchor, Stuart Scott, was doing the post mortem interviews.
Wait, I get it. They're trying to make the national [plus Canada] spelling bee seem like a cool thing. You know, like it's sports. Because, after all, these kids are COMPETING. And the winner is crowned a CHAMPION. That's cool. But having jock do the coverage was a little too precious for me. It only accentuated the difference between the geeks and the sportos at school. Even though it made you realize that not enough is done to celebrate the brainiacs of the world.
Of course, the kid that won it all was a math and music freaking genius who is homeschooled. As far as he is concerned spelling isn't much fun. It's just memorization and he probably has a photographic memory.
I just hope he won a scholarship that gets him out of the house sometime soon. His mother scared me a little. Over the top would not be too much of an exaggeration.
The champ's interview with Stuart Scott afterward reminded me of Al Michaels' interview with notoriously edgy running back Duane Thomas after Dallas won the Super Bowl back in 1971 or so. Michaels asked the Dallas Cowboys' running back a long rambling, two minute question that was more of a statement than a request for information. Thomas just stared at Michaels with a face that could cut stone and finally said, "Evidently."
The new spelling phenom gave Stuart Scott similar treatment. Instead of the usual excitement you expect from athletes when they've just reached the pinnacle of their sport and they're hoping for endorsement deals and lots of chances to get laid, the new champ just stared at him.
The kid didn't say anything that could pass for charming, except to explain why he liked math and music better than spelling, which had to give TV execs and sponsors the heebie jeebies.
Undaunted by the presence of a really smart kid who wouldn't know a football from a snowball, Scott asked him if maybe he changed his mind about spelling now that he was champion.
"You mean do I like it more? No."
I don't think we'll be seeing a live telecast of the national spelling bee again any time soon. Unless there's a way to make it bloody.
I think it's all part of a scholastic marketing conspiracy to show kids that being smart isn't so dumb after all.
By the way, how come people from Canada can enter our NATIONAL spelling be? It is the NATIONAL spelling be after all, not the INTERNATIONAL spelling bee, right? Of course somebody will just bring up the World Series if I'm not careful.
Fifteen kids, nine boys and six girls made the finals from almost three hundred kids. The represented every ethnicity in the country except one. Like all champions, they got a trip to the White House to see -- oops, the First Lady. Championship sports teams get to meet the President. You kids will have to be happy you met his wife. She's the better speller, so it's not a total loss.
To win the bee, the boys and girls had to spell words that haven't been used correctly in a sentence for so long you could smell the mildew.
Before each kid went up to the microphone we got an up close and personal look at their lives. It was like watching the Olympics. Only these kids' brains were on steroids, not their muscles. It became pretty clear pretty fast that most of them had done more in their brief thirteen years or so than the rest of us will ever do in our whole lives.
In one or two heartbeats it seemed there were just three kids left -- two boys who looked like identical twins and one girl, who, like all females her age, was taller and looked five years older than the boys.
The hosts were Robin Roberts of Good Morning America and a former top finisher whose name escapes me. He reminded me of Whispering Joe Wilson, the oldtime voice of bowling who used to have you on the edge of your seats with his breathless commentary. Like the way a golf announcer describes every blade of grass on the green.
"He didn't get much from the judges on that one. . ."
"If she knows her German spelling she has a chance to move on to the next round, but . ."
"The back end of that word is going to be a lot tougher than she thinks. . ."
Robin Roberts was chosen to anchor the show, I think because she spent fifteenyears at ESPN doing sports.
Which would also explain why there were two other ESPN sports guys doing commentary -- Mike Greenberg and Mike Golic from the Mike and Mike SPORTS show [have I mentioned SPORTS?]. To round out our jock coverage, ESPN anchor, Stuart Scott, was doing the post mortem interviews.
Wait, I get it. They're trying to make the national [plus Canada] spelling bee seem like a cool thing. You know, like it's sports. Because, after all, these kids are COMPETING. And the winner is crowned a CHAMPION. That's cool. But having jock do the coverage was a little too precious for me. It only accentuated the difference between the geeks and the sportos at school. Even though it made you realize that not enough is done to celebrate the brainiacs of the world.
Of course, the kid that won it all was a math and music freaking genius who is homeschooled. As far as he is concerned spelling isn't much fun. It's just memorization and he probably has a photographic memory.
I just hope he won a scholarship that gets him out of the house sometime soon. His mother scared me a little. Over the top would not be too much of an exaggeration.
The champ's interview with Stuart Scott afterward reminded me of Al Michaels' interview with notoriously edgy running back Duane Thomas after Dallas won the Super Bowl back in 1971 or so. Michaels asked the Dallas Cowboys' running back a long rambling, two minute question that was more of a statement than a request for information. Thomas just stared at Michaels with a face that could cut stone and finally said, "Evidently."
The new spelling phenom gave Stuart Scott similar treatment. Instead of the usual excitement you expect from athletes when they've just reached the pinnacle of their sport and they're hoping for endorsement deals and lots of chances to get laid, the new champ just stared at him.
The kid didn't say anything that could pass for charming, except to explain why he liked math and music better than spelling, which had to give TV execs and sponsors the heebie jeebies.
Undaunted by the presence of a really smart kid who wouldn't know a football from a snowball, Scott asked him if maybe he changed his mind about spelling now that he was champion.
"You mean do I like it more? No."
I don't think we'll be seeing a live telecast of the national spelling bee again any time soon. Unless there's a way to make it bloody.
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