It's gotta be hard to not sound repetitive when writing about Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Sometimes, you have to "settle" for the beauty of cadence and say the heck with having heard it all somewhere before.
That's what Politics Daily did, quite effectively, with its list of winners and losers for 2009. (By the way, if you don't know which column he was in, repetition is the least of your real-world problems.)
The Web site explained its choice of category this way: "Iran's president was exposed by his own rantings ... to be "a Bush-bashing, Israel-hating, Jew-baiting, Obama-knocking dictator with a messianic complex and an obsession with obtaining nuclear weapons."
It's not as succinct as Maureen Dowd's deft dismissal of him months ago when she played on the mouthful of syllables in his name -- "I'm a dinner jacket" -- but it's a well-crafted sentence, concise in its own way.
A DAY AT THE BUFFALO ZOO, by TJ SCHUHLE
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
How does your name rank?
It's "defined" as a computational knowledge engine, but for me WolframAlpha.com is just the latest web site that can give you far more information than anyone will ever need.
I learned about it the other night when I asked my kids (ages 19 and 22) if they'd heard they, unintentionally, have the most popular names of the decade: Emily Kathryn and Timothy Jacob. That prompted Em's husband, Tom (who has the 56th most popular name), to tell me about the web site.
We plugged in "Anne" and learned it's the 499th most popular name in the U.S. Each year, 618 babies are given that name (compared to 8,234 Toms).
Of all the numbers the site provides, the one I found most interesting was that the "most common age" of people with the name Anne is 51 -- my age. A similar match was seen when we plugged in my husband's name, Fred(erick) -- 58. But, Tom found 58 was also the most common age for his name.
For my blog followers who are wondering about their own names, here you go, followed by rank and most common age:
Emily: 3rd, 11.
TJ (Jacob): 1st, 12
Karen: 183rd, 53.
Jeff(rey): 198th, 48. What was interesting about this name is that the first time I plugged it in, the site assumed "female name," and ranked it "beyond 1,000th" and the most common age of women named Jeffrey is 40. In fact, the graph showed it only being used that way from 1966 to 1972.
Kathleen: 452nd, 59.
Lynn: Beyond 1,000th, age 54. (For male Lynns, the rank fell into the same abyss, but the age was up, 63.)
Elaine: 742nd, 63.
Jay: 395th, 50.
Catherine: 149th, 54.
Sharyn: Beyond 1,000th, age 63. (Only used between 1940 and about 1968.) The more common Sharon was 641, age 54.
Paul: Another "follower" -- but he's not on the list -- 155th, 46.
Suzanne: Beyond 1,000th, age 48. Suzanne's middle name, Arielle (I'm guessing on the spelling) fooled me. I suspected it to be lower, but it ranks 619th, age 19. She's my niece and I know it wasn't "Little Mermaid" that inspired her parents, but judging from it's peak year, I'd say it influenced many.
Larry (Ann): Beyond 1,000th, 55.
Sarah: 20th, 22.
I learned about it the other night when I asked my kids (ages 19 and 22) if they'd heard they, unintentionally, have the most popular names of the decade: Emily Kathryn and Timothy Jacob. That prompted Em's husband, Tom (who has the 56th most popular name), to tell me about the web site.
We plugged in "Anne" and learned it's the 499th most popular name in the U.S. Each year, 618 babies are given that name (compared to 8,234 Toms).
Of all the numbers the site provides, the one I found most interesting was that the "most common age" of people with the name Anne is 51 -- my age. A similar match was seen when we plugged in my husband's name, Fred(erick) -- 58. But, Tom found 58 was also the most common age for his name.
For my blog followers who are wondering about their own names, here you go, followed by rank and most common age:
Emily: 3rd, 11.
TJ (Jacob): 1st, 12
Karen: 183rd, 53.
Jeff(rey): 198th, 48. What was interesting about this name is that the first time I plugged it in, the site assumed "female name," and ranked it "beyond 1,000th" and the most common age of women named Jeffrey is 40. In fact, the graph showed it only being used that way from 1966 to 1972.
Kathleen: 452nd, 59.
Lynn: Beyond 1,000th, age 54. (For male Lynns, the rank fell into the same abyss, but the age was up, 63.)
Elaine: 742nd, 63.
Jay: 395th, 50.
Catherine: 149th, 54.
Sharyn: Beyond 1,000th, age 63. (Only used between 1940 and about 1968.) The more common Sharon was 641, age 54.
Paul: Another "follower" -- but he's not on the list -- 155th, 46.
Suzanne: Beyond 1,000th, age 48. Suzanne's middle name, Arielle (I'm guessing on the spelling) fooled me. I suspected it to be lower, but it ranks 619th, age 19. She's my niece and I know it wasn't "Little Mermaid" that inspired her parents, but judging from it's peak year, I'd say it influenced many.
Larry (Ann): Beyond 1,000th, 55.
Sarah: 20th, 22.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A tidbit kind of day ...
As I look around the house at 6:53 a.m. on Christmas Eve, it seems there's nothing better to do than write. That may be true, but the questions remain:
What about the bare Christmas tree?
The dining room table laden with stuff (including half-made Christmas presents)?
The desk that I naively suggested could be cleaned up and closed up (into its better armoire self) for tomorrow night's dinner?
The laundry in every state of done and undone -- from the dirty clothes baskets to the washer to the living room couch where it awaits folding, and the baskets that beg to be carried upstairs?
You get the idea.
I'd like to tell myself it will all get done. Or at least hidden.
Some of you will be able to relate to my Big Moment at Wegmans yesterday: I scooped licorice and sunflower seeds from the bulk barrels and managed to remember the six-digit item numbers for each -- as I walked the entire 20 feet to the do-it-yourself scale. I'll admit I took an educated guess at the final two numbers, but that didn't stop me from exclaiming joyfully ('tis the season for exclaiming, after all): "I actually did it!"
Then I noticed the woman a few feet away. Staring. I tried to explain ...
um ... Merry Christmas to you, too, ma'am.
If you like lists, too, you might want to check out asylum.com's Top 100 weird stories of the 2009. Take it in bites or you'll never get those Christmas presents made.
7:30ish
Instead of rolling over in his grave, I'm betting my dad's having a good laugh about now: A childhood aberration has just earned credibility from the Vatican. Way back when we were in grade school, one of my sister Liz's friends, Debbie Hall, called on a Saturday afternoon asking what time 9 a.m. Mass was the following day. Dad felt Debbie had been vindicated when several local churches began having midnight Mass at 11 p.m. a few years after that. This morning's news included a piece on the uproar in Italy over Pope Benedict announcing he would be saying that Mass at 10 p.m. this year. It was only a matter of time. (By the way, I'm with the pope's p.r. folks who are saying he just needs some more sleep.)
8:05 a.m.
If you want to trade sanity for frugality, try measuring each piece of wrapping paper and the package it's going on -- before cutting. Think of all the paper you'll save. Nah, I'll go with sanity.
What about the bare Christmas tree?
The dining room table laden with stuff (including half-made Christmas presents)?
The desk that I naively suggested could be cleaned up and closed up (into its better armoire self) for tomorrow night's dinner?
The laundry in every state of done and undone -- from the dirty clothes baskets to the washer to the living room couch where it awaits folding, and the baskets that beg to be carried upstairs?
You get the idea.
I'd like to tell myself it will all get done. Or at least hidden.
Some of you will be able to relate to my Big Moment at Wegmans yesterday: I scooped licorice and sunflower seeds from the bulk barrels and managed to remember the six-digit item numbers for each -- as I walked the entire 20 feet to the do-it-yourself scale. I'll admit I took an educated guess at the final two numbers, but that didn't stop me from exclaiming joyfully ('tis the season for exclaiming, after all): "I actually did it!"
Then I noticed the woman a few feet away. Staring. I tried to explain ...
um ... Merry Christmas to you, too, ma'am.
If you like lists, too, you might want to check out asylum.com's Top 100 weird stories of the 2009. Take it in bites or you'll never get those Christmas presents made.
7:30ish
Instead of rolling over in his grave, I'm betting my dad's having a good laugh about now: A childhood aberration has just earned credibility from the Vatican. Way back when we were in grade school, one of my sister Liz's friends, Debbie Hall, called on a Saturday afternoon asking what time 9 a.m. Mass was the following day. Dad felt Debbie had been vindicated when several local churches began having midnight Mass at 11 p.m. a few years after that. This morning's news included a piece on the uproar in Italy over Pope Benedict announcing he would be saying that Mass at 10 p.m. this year. It was only a matter of time. (By the way, I'm with the pope's p.r. folks who are saying he just needs some more sleep.)
8:05 a.m.
If you want to trade sanity for frugality, try measuring each piece of wrapping paper and the package it's going on -- before cutting. Think of all the paper you'll save. Nah, I'll go with sanity.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
How much did you miss?
Media-wise, my favorite part of a waning year has always been the Letterman-on-steroids Top 10 lists.
In the beginning, I probably wanted to see whether I agreed with the rankings. Now, it's whether I remember whatever's being ranked.
Overall, my score yesterday was a big fat so-so. I aced "scandals" and "fueds" among Time's teeny-tiny typed lists.
The rest? Let's just say it was a learning experience.
Instead of a year in review, it felt like a finals review for a class I never attended. (I smugly thought I'd do better given the newspapers, magazines, Web stories and talking heads that cross my path.)
Was I the only one who didn't know that among Scientific discoveries in 2009
were 1) gene therapy to cure color blindness and 2) teleportation -- on a quantum scale. (Just what does that mean?)
And why would President Obama have said "All wee-weed up," to describe the late-summer legislative anxiety. (This, by the way, is the man whose intellect makes people nervous.) Regardless of the reason, it got him on the T-Shirt Slogans list.
Among Gadgets, number 8 has me curious: Dyson's bladeless fan (described as unnecessary but awesome); as does number 3 among New Species: Glow-in-the-dark mushrooms. (A '60s flashback?)
How many of you would have ranked Harry and Pepper, the San Francisco zoo's gay penguins, number 9 among Breakups?
How many of you have heard of Harry and Pepper?
Well, they bested only Rihanna and Chris Brown, who were also at the bottom of the Scandals list, where my skill was somewhat embarrassing.The only thing I wasn't up on were the specifics of British lawmakers' willingness to put everything from dog food to toilets on their expense accounts.
But, that's OK.
I hope it's not on the test.
In the beginning, I probably wanted to see whether I agreed with the rankings. Now, it's whether I remember whatever's being ranked.
Overall, my score yesterday was a big fat so-so. I aced "scandals" and "fueds" among Time's teeny-tiny typed lists.
The rest? Let's just say it was a learning experience.
Instead of a year in review, it felt like a finals review for a class I never attended. (I smugly thought I'd do better given the newspapers, magazines, Web stories and talking heads that cross my path.)
Was I the only one who didn't know that among Scientific discoveries in 2009
were 1) gene therapy to cure color blindness and 2) teleportation -- on a quantum scale. (Just what does that mean?)
And why would President Obama have said "All wee-weed up," to describe the late-summer legislative anxiety. (This, by the way, is the man whose intellect makes people nervous.) Regardless of the reason, it got him on the T-Shirt Slogans list.
Among Gadgets, number 8 has me curious: Dyson's bladeless fan (described as unnecessary but awesome); as does number 3 among New Species: Glow-in-the-dark mushrooms. (A '60s flashback?)
How many of you would have ranked Harry and Pepper, the San Francisco zoo's gay penguins, number 9 among Breakups?
How many of you have heard of Harry and Pepper?
Well, they bested only Rihanna and Chris Brown, who were also at the bottom of the Scandals list, where my skill was somewhat embarrassing.The only thing I wasn't up on were the specifics of British lawmakers' willingness to put everything from dog food to toilets on their expense accounts.
But, that's OK.
I hope it's not on the test.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The first one out of the gate -- pizzelles
Somehow, it's three days before Christmas and I've just now ruined my first batch of holiday cookies. Pizzelles.
Never heard of them?
I'm less surprised by that all the time. They're the typically (but not exclusively) anise-flavored, thin and round, waffle-type cookie.
Apparently, they're kind of a regional thing; in the past year I've introduced a southerner and an Albany-area resident to them. I can't say I remember when I first ate one, but I first made them 10 Christmases ago when I decided to give half a dozen or so to each member of my staff of roughly 24.
It didn't look like much, but the effort that went into making three different flavors had to count for something.
There were a lot of lessons in that adventure:
1) Things go twice as fast if you have 2 pizzelle irons (and manage to recall which one is apt to be done when).
2) By the way, those ready/done lights? Not so reliable.
3) When the folks at Cuisinart say "may need greasing," they mean "grease well or spend hours scraping pizzelle particles off the iron."
4) Recipe says it makes 35-40? Don't count on it. Those eaten or incinerated by bad timing aren't subtracted.
5) It's true. You never know what you'll find online. Searching for pizzelle recipes, I clicked a link that took me to a story about pizzelle makers earning a spot on the list of Top 10 small home appliances for pleasuring one's self. Ouch.
Today's cookie making didn't lead to anything that, um ... visual. But, since I hadn't made pizzelles in a few years, I had to relearn some lessons. The hard way. Again.
When the no-brand pizzelle iron repeatedly burned the cookies, I unplugged it. But then, cookie bits launched an offensive to stay lodged in the Cuisinart's crevices, so I unplugged it, juiced the other back up and crossed my fingers that my timing would improve.
The secret: Lift the top when you don't think they could possibly be golden.
On top of that challenge, it wasn't until the last batch that I remembered the iron's idiosyncrasy: Unless you want cookies that resemble a waxing or waning moon, the batter has to be placed above the design's center to reach all of its edges. Seems silly but it works, as long as you don't mind the batter that drips out the back and cooks onto the iron.
The downside of so much trial and error (or at least the error part) is that I now have three kinds of pizzelles that you can't tell apart on sight.
I'd put a drop of red food coloring in the raspberry-flavored ones, but they browned badly enough to look like the chocolate ones, some of which are spotted with chocolate in such a way that they look like almond ones imbedded with the Cuisinart's cookie bits.
I suppose there are worse things than having to eat them to figure out which is which.
Never heard of them?
I'm less surprised by that all the time. They're the typically (but not exclusively) anise-flavored, thin and round, waffle-type cookie.
Apparently, they're kind of a regional thing; in the past year I've introduced a southerner and an Albany-area resident to them. I can't say I remember when I first ate one, but I first made them 10 Christmases ago when I decided to give half a dozen or so to each member of my staff of roughly 24.
It didn't look like much, but the effort that went into making three different flavors had to count for something.
There were a lot of lessons in that adventure:
1) Things go twice as fast if you have 2 pizzelle irons (and manage to recall which one is apt to be done when).
2) By the way, those ready/done lights? Not so reliable.
3) When the folks at Cuisinart say "may need greasing," they mean "grease well or spend hours scraping pizzelle particles off the iron."
4) Recipe says it makes 35-40? Don't count on it. Those eaten or incinerated by bad timing aren't subtracted.
5) It's true. You never know what you'll find online. Searching for pizzelle recipes, I clicked a link that took me to a story about pizzelle makers earning a spot on the list of Top 10 small home appliances for pleasuring one's self. Ouch.
Today's cookie making didn't lead to anything that, um ... visual. But, since I hadn't made pizzelles in a few years, I had to relearn some lessons. The hard way. Again.
When the no-brand pizzelle iron repeatedly burned the cookies, I unplugged it. But then, cookie bits launched an offensive to stay lodged in the Cuisinart's crevices, so I unplugged it, juiced the other back up and crossed my fingers that my timing would improve.
The secret: Lift the top when you don't think they could possibly be golden.
On top of that challenge, it wasn't until the last batch that I remembered the iron's idiosyncrasy: Unless you want cookies that resemble a waxing or waning moon, the batter has to be placed above the design's center to reach all of its edges. Seems silly but it works, as long as you don't mind the batter that drips out the back and cooks onto the iron.
The downside of so much trial and error (or at least the error part) is that I now have three kinds of pizzelles that you can't tell apart on sight.
I'd put a drop of red food coloring in the raspberry-flavored ones, but they browned badly enough to look like the chocolate ones, some of which are spotted with chocolate in such a way that they look like almond ones imbedded with the Cuisinart's cookie bits.
I suppose there are worse things than having to eat them to figure out which is which.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
That feeling of satisfaction at 7:02 ...
That's it. I just figured out the key to getting housework done:
Get up when you're ready to -- but before everyone else. And don't sit down until you're done.
Or, like me, when you feel like you've done just enough that it's noticeable.
At this house, that was 6:12 a.m. today, and what I accomplished was: making coffee (of course), cleaning the counters, scrubbing the downstairs toilet and sink, and vigorously scrubbing the countertop, the exterior of the microwave and half of the dishwasher top ... hey, there was stuff on the other half.
Plus ... um ... there had to be more. Let's see.
Oh, I emptied the glass jar of 1998 couscous that I'd pulled out of the cupboard three days ago. And the similar vintage flax seed (helped by the wisps of connective tissue sewn by some bug). And I stared at the questionably fresher barley I'd put it in a cereal bowl to see if anything emerged.
Nothing.
So far.
I found a spot for the four wine glasses I bought at last week's Wassail Bowl and, um ...
I put the shell of the mini crockpot back in its box (only half wondering where the ceramic part was).
Oh, I know, I also cleaned out the spam in my email. Whew.
And, I put away half of the clean dishes.
Even in cleaning, moderation is everything.
Especially once the coffee has dripped its last drop.
Ahh .... it feels good to sit down.
Get up when you're ready to -- but before everyone else. And don't sit down until you're done.
Or, like me, when you feel like you've done just enough that it's noticeable.
At this house, that was 6:12 a.m. today, and what I accomplished was: making coffee (of course), cleaning the counters, scrubbing the downstairs toilet and sink, and vigorously scrubbing the countertop, the exterior of the microwave and half of the dishwasher top ... hey, there was stuff on the other half.
Plus ... um ... there had to be more. Let's see.
Oh, I emptied the glass jar of 1998 couscous that I'd pulled out of the cupboard three days ago. And the similar vintage flax seed (helped by the wisps of connective tissue sewn by some bug). And I stared at the questionably fresher barley I'd put it in a cereal bowl to see if anything emerged.
Nothing.
So far.
I found a spot for the four wine glasses I bought at last week's Wassail Bowl and, um ...
I put the shell of the mini crockpot back in its box (only half wondering where the ceramic part was).
Oh, I know, I also cleaned out the spam in my email. Whew.
And, I put away half of the clean dishes.
Even in cleaning, moderation is everything.
Especially once the coffee has dripped its last drop.
Ahh .... it feels good to sit down.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Bliss from a dress-down Friday
As a supervisor for 10 or more years, I was in on numerous conversations about Dress Down Fridays. While the "too-lazy-to-do-laundry" side of me loved the idea, the professional me figured it wouldn't kill a paid office worker to look the part.
"I wanna wear jeans" didn't qualify as a mitigating circumstance.
"I'm out of clean dress-up clothes," didn't either, although I had to laugh when a job applicant in jeans and a sweatshirt said he didn't have any "big-boy clothes."
But, this morning, I gained a wider perspective when I had an orthopaedic appointment about one of my mildly arthritic knees and discovered there's something to be said for a dress-down medical office.
I didn't notice the transformation immediately, just the jeans -- on a tall guy behind the glass-enclosed registration desk, talking to the receptionist. For a split second, fuddy-duddy me wondered if he'd just come in from shoveling. But as he walked away, the scent of his coffee (hazelnut, if my nose knows) lasted longer than any thought of his attire.
Five to 10 minutes later, I was in the exam room when the doctor walked in (really!), wearing jeans. And it hit me. I felt more relaxed and at ease than doctors who wield knives for a living usually make me.
Getting out of an orthopaedist's office in a half hour or so might have had something to do with my bliss. But, the jeans were the bigger thing.
Maybe casual clothes communicate confidence.
Or maybe they communicate that you won't be rushed.
Whatever it is, I liked it.
And, by the way, the "snow-shoveler"? I met up with him again -- when he X-rayed my knees.
Oops.
I don't know which momism that channels faster: You only get to make a first impression once OR Don't judge a book by its cover?
"I wanna wear jeans" didn't qualify as a mitigating circumstance.
"I'm out of clean dress-up clothes," didn't either, although I had to laugh when a job applicant in jeans and a sweatshirt said he didn't have any "big-boy clothes."
But, this morning, I gained a wider perspective when I had an orthopaedic appointment about one of my mildly arthritic knees and discovered there's something to be said for a dress-down medical office.
I didn't notice the transformation immediately, just the jeans -- on a tall guy behind the glass-enclosed registration desk, talking to the receptionist. For a split second, fuddy-duddy me wondered if he'd just come in from shoveling. But as he walked away, the scent of his coffee (hazelnut, if my nose knows) lasted longer than any thought of his attire.
Five to 10 minutes later, I was in the exam room when the doctor walked in (really!), wearing jeans. And it hit me. I felt more relaxed and at ease than doctors who wield knives for a living usually make me.
Getting out of an orthopaedist's office in a half hour or so might have had something to do with my bliss. But, the jeans were the bigger thing.
Maybe casual clothes communicate confidence.
Or maybe they communicate that you won't be rushed.
Whatever it is, I liked it.
And, by the way, the "snow-shoveler"? I met up with him again -- when he X-rayed my knees.
Oops.
I don't know which momism that channels faster: You only get to make a first impression once OR Don't judge a book by its cover?
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Top Chef Spoiler (if you missed last night's finale)
Call me a sap, but it was really touching to see the brothers be this season's last two standing on Top Chef. I kind of liked Bryan better all along, but having Michael win wasn't a disappointment, especially when he said at the end that having Bryan there beside him was more important than his win. Time for a big aaaaw ... even Tom Colicchio and the rest of the regular judges were moved.
Other random thoughts about this season:
Other random thoughts about this season:
- Did you see the graduation shot of Kevin and his mom? That beard really made the man.
- The only more noticeable transformation was what pregnancy has done for Padma's skimpy tops.
- In addition to being a sap, my tolerance for suspense is at a record low; I missed last night's show and didn't mind reading it on AOL this a.m. BEFORE watching it tonight.
- Kind of nice to have been able to see it at 6 when Bravo's daylong repeats (No, I didn't watch them all) ended with the finale. Sometimes it's taken me weeks to find the rerun.
- What's up with Project Runway? Is it over and I missed it?
- Was it just last season that Tom Colicchio reamed the contestants out for their foul mouths? This group obviously listened.
- I still wonder what the chefs think when they sit down to watch the shows and hear the insults others' spewed.
- I guess that's what next week's wrap-up show is all about.
Monday, December 7, 2009
What do you mean, you meant to say no?
It has long been known that Grocery Shopping While Hungry is the Number 1 economic driver of the cupboard and steel industries, as homeowners and supermarket chains struggle to have enough carts and storage space for everything that "looks good" to a ravenous person.
Despite volumes of empirical data supporting that conclusion, most people ignore it. So it's unknown whether the public will give more, or any, weight to a recent unrelated -- but equally interesting -- discovery:
Human interaction under the influence of caffeine is what propels those who want more hours in a day. Try 32, perhaps.
This new research shows that coffee drinkers volunteer for (or consent to) six times the number of tasks and four times the number of board appointments as a sane person would.
The phenomenon is marked by several distinctive phases:
1) The initial acknowledgment that someone had a good idea.
2) A regrettable reluctance to respond to it with a firm: "Why don't you do it yourself?"
3) The caffeinated brain's pivotal "I can take care of THAT."
4) The unexplained failure of those listening to hear the limitations of THAT (as in: only THAT), resulting in an unintended commitment to THAT and anything connected to THAT into perpetuity.
5) The conviction that saying "yes" is reasonable, will ultimately save time, and may even be enjoyable.
Despite the length to which researchers have studied this, there is still one facet of the discovery they can't explain: Why is the effect of caffeine limited to "The same people who always do everything." Why are those who have no problem saying "no" unscathed?
Stay tuned for developments.
Despite volumes of empirical data supporting that conclusion, most people ignore it. So it's unknown whether the public will give more, or any, weight to a recent unrelated -- but equally interesting -- discovery:
Human interaction under the influence of caffeine is what propels those who want more hours in a day. Try 32, perhaps.
This new research shows that coffee drinkers volunteer for (or consent to) six times the number of tasks and four times the number of board appointments as a sane person would.
The phenomenon is marked by several distinctive phases:
1) The initial acknowledgment that someone had a good idea.
2) A regrettable reluctance to respond to it with a firm: "Why don't you do it yourself?"
3) The caffeinated brain's pivotal "I can take care of THAT."
4) The unexplained failure of those listening to hear the limitations of THAT (as in: only THAT), resulting in an unintended commitment to THAT and anything connected to THAT into perpetuity.
5) The conviction that saying "yes" is reasonable, will ultimately save time, and may even be enjoyable.
Despite the length to which researchers have studied this, there is still one facet of the discovery they can't explain: Why is the effect of caffeine limited to "The same people who always do everything." Why are those who have no problem saying "no" unscathed?
Stay tuned for developments.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Oh, Tiger, say it isn't so
So, there it is.
Superstar golfer Tiger Woods this morning joined the ranks of American icons whose success has dragged them into an admission of what he called "transgressions" against his family and his principles.
Damn.
Well, at least he didn't call his dalliance(s?) a love story, a la South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford. And we'll be spared the foot-tapping jokes that still dog former Idaho Sen. Larry Craig.
Disappointed in Tiger?
Absolutely.
Admissions like this make it hard for those who still want to believe that a certain type of goodness exists within those they admire. The type of goodness that encompasses loyalty and fidelity to the most important of commitments.
After so many similar admissions over the last few years, from the exploits of former Gov. Eliot Spitzer to the public lies of former vice presidential candidate John Edwards, it was interesting to watch the scandal play out with Woods.
Saying nothing, as he did for days, was the smart way to go; but that strategy had to be jettisoned after a woman -- not the one from last week's National Enquirer -- announced she'd known him (in the biblical sense) since shortly before he became a dad and for 29 months afterward. She claims to have text messages to prove it.
Although it does nothing to ease the disappointment, the double-standard involved here shouldn't go unnoticed.
Tiger's apt to be pilloried for this, and he may well lose some of his lucrative endorsement contracts because of his failings (no tears, please, it's not like he needs the money). But, someone whose fault lines were evident as they reached for the top, such as tennis star John McEnroe and yes, Eliot Spitzer, didn't have as far to fall. And those who are lesser-known escape even less scathed.
It's the price of being held in high regard.
It's hard to say just how high it will be for Tiger Woods.
Superstar golfer Tiger Woods this morning joined the ranks of American icons whose success has dragged them into an admission of what he called "transgressions" against his family and his principles.
Damn.
Well, at least he didn't call his dalliance(s?) a love story, a la South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford. And we'll be spared the foot-tapping jokes that still dog former Idaho Sen. Larry Craig.
Disappointed in Tiger?
Absolutely.
Admissions like this make it hard for those who still want to believe that a certain type of goodness exists within those they admire. The type of goodness that encompasses loyalty and fidelity to the most important of commitments.
After so many similar admissions over the last few years, from the exploits of former Gov. Eliot Spitzer to the public lies of former vice presidential candidate John Edwards, it was interesting to watch the scandal play out with Woods.
Saying nothing, as he did for days, was the smart way to go; but that strategy had to be jettisoned after a woman -- not the one from last week's National Enquirer -- announced she'd known him (in the biblical sense) since shortly before he became a dad and for 29 months afterward. She claims to have text messages to prove it.
Although it does nothing to ease the disappointment, the double-standard involved here shouldn't go unnoticed.
Tiger's apt to be pilloried for this, and he may well lose some of his lucrative endorsement contracts because of his failings (no tears, please, it's not like he needs the money). But, someone whose fault lines were evident as they reached for the top, such as tennis star John McEnroe and yes, Eliot Spitzer, didn't have as far to fall. And those who are lesser-known escape even less scathed.
It's the price of being held in high regard.
It's hard to say just how high it will be for Tiger Woods.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thanksgiving reflections
Like all new parents eager to show off their child, we made our daughter’s first holiday trip to our parents’ homes within weeks of her October birth.
On Thanksgiving at my sister Kathy’s, my mother made a point of telling me to sit still, that not being expected to help was a perk of having a new baby. Ah, what a treat.
Then, on Christmas Eve, after my sisters’ families had come (opened presents) and gone, Fred and I decided to take Emily to 10 p.m. midnight Mass two blocks from my parents' house. Whether it was that conundrum or the dregs of colic, the confines of a crowded church wasn’t Emily's cup of tea.
We left rather than endure our fellow worshippers’ reproach. Grandpa had declared Emily the prettiest baby he’d ever seen, but his impeccable judgment was unlikely to win us any patience from our pewmates. So, Fred and I strolled along Union Street wrapped in the surprising warmth of a balmy Dec. 24. It was a luxury we savored.
But after a few years of such visits (which now included little brother, Tim), we decided we didn’t want our children’s holiday memories to be framed by the vinyl edges of our bucket seats. At least I didn’t. I don’t remember Fred saying much. Almost 20 years later, it’s hard to know if it’s my bad memory or just that I didn’t notice the beginning of Fred’s penchant for going along to get along.
Either way, Thanksgiving became our stay-at-home holiday. Christmas Eve, we could still share with my family in a down-and-back trip; and Fred’s parents agreed to come to us on the Big Day.
Problem solved.
With those decisions have come numerous joys. Emily’s early eagerness to help. Pre-schooler Tim’s insistence that we all dress up for Thanksgiving dinner. I can still see her in a dress and him in his blond bowl-haircut, white shirt, blue slacks and multi-colored clip-on tie.
As they got older, we added a movie to our tradition, picking some family fare suitable and enjoyable for all. If you don’t count the Thomas Crown Affair or Phenom's mooning shot.
I’ve often told friends how much I love our low-key approach to the day, doubly so when Emily and TJ and Emily’s boyfriend-turned-husband, Tom, joined Fred and me in the task of making apple pies.
My, how they’d grown into new roles over the years. I’d grown, too, I noticed this past year when TJ took over making the crumb crust topping. As I hurriedly cut flour, salt and Crisco into pea-sized bits for the bottom crust -- so that TJ could use the pastry blender -- I glanced over and realized there was no need for speed. He had let the mixer do the work.I started to tell him “I always …,” but a nano-second of thought stopped me mid-sentence. Instead, I shared my revelation: “I’ve never used the mixer for that, but I guess it doesn’t really matter.” And it didn’t.
Kissing that particular control issue goodbye felt good.We labored on. Tom using the apple-peeling machine, Emily measuring and mixing the flour, brown sugar, etc., for the filling, and me savoring the sound of her and TJ repeatedly asking “What else do you need done?” The carrots. The dressing.
This was more than a treat. It was an indescribable gift.
Another gift was that we were even together to do it. For years, Emily and Tom had juggled two sets of relatives for this holiday, and we knew that Tom’s grandmother had first dibs on them this year, even though both sets of parents had agreed there would never be any pressure to choose one over the others. So, I thought it would just be Fred, TJ and me this year -- until Emily asked if we could “do Thanksgiving” on Wednesday. That way she could still have both – without rushing from one to another and forcing down back-to-back feasts. I loved that it mattered to her, that she still wanted the meal she’d grown up with.
As the dinner hour approached, Fred was home from work, but Tom had gone off to his own job, so there was a new set of hands helping. Green bean casserole ready. Turkey out. Pillsbury Crescent Rolls in. Creamed onions mixed. Grandmom’s dilled carrots nuked. Potatoes mashed. Homemade cranberry salad thawed. Canned cranberry sauce standing tall.
With just four of us eating, the table needed only one leaf, and the food filled every available inch. Standing there, checking to see if any side dishes or serving spoons had been forgotten, I admired the array.
Our tradition works for us. Having both kids home, and healthy and happy, is what we’re most thankful for. But I suspect we each had other things that came to mind, as well. For Emily, it may have been eating a day early, but with TJ, there was no need to guess. It was the apple pies.
As I enjoyed that the table was attractive without being over-the-top, I can only surmise that Fred was happy that relaxed was "in" this year. There was no better proof than my silent reaction to his choice of serving dish for the sliced turkey and drumsticks: Our large yellow mixing bowl.
Ah, another control issue kissed goodbye.
For this, and so much more, we gave thanks.
On Thanksgiving at my sister Kathy’s, my mother made a point of telling me to sit still, that not being expected to help was a perk of having a new baby. Ah, what a treat.
Then, on Christmas Eve, after my sisters’ families had come (opened presents) and gone, Fred and I decided to take Emily to 10 p.m. midnight Mass two blocks from my parents' house. Whether it was that conundrum or the dregs of colic, the confines of a crowded church wasn’t Emily's cup of tea.
We left rather than endure our fellow worshippers’ reproach. Grandpa had declared Emily the prettiest baby he’d ever seen, but his impeccable judgment was unlikely to win us any patience from our pewmates. So, Fred and I strolled along Union Street wrapped in the surprising warmth of a balmy Dec. 24. It was a luxury we savored.
But after a few years of such visits (which now included little brother, Tim), we decided we didn’t want our children’s holiday memories to be framed by the vinyl edges of our bucket seats. At least I didn’t. I don’t remember Fred saying much. Almost 20 years later, it’s hard to know if it’s my bad memory or just that I didn’t notice the beginning of Fred’s penchant for going along to get along.
Either way, Thanksgiving became our stay-at-home holiday. Christmas Eve, we could still share with my family in a down-and-back trip; and Fred’s parents agreed to come to us on the Big Day.
Problem solved.
With those decisions have come numerous joys. Emily’s early eagerness to help. Pre-schooler Tim’s insistence that we all dress up for Thanksgiving dinner. I can still see her in a dress and him in his blond bowl-haircut, white shirt, blue slacks and multi-colored clip-on tie.
As they got older, we added a movie to our tradition, picking some family fare suitable and enjoyable for all. If you don’t count the Thomas Crown Affair or Phenom's mooning shot.
I’ve often told friends how much I love our low-key approach to the day, doubly so when Emily and TJ and Emily’s boyfriend-turned-husband, Tom, joined Fred and me in the task of making apple pies.
My, how they’d grown into new roles over the years. I’d grown, too, I noticed this past year when TJ took over making the crumb crust topping. As I hurriedly cut flour, salt and Crisco into pea-sized bits for the bottom crust -- so that TJ could use the pastry blender -- I glanced over and realized there was no need for speed. He had let the mixer do the work.I started to tell him “I always …,” but a nano-second of thought stopped me mid-sentence. Instead, I shared my revelation: “I’ve never used the mixer for that, but I guess it doesn’t really matter.” And it didn’t.
Kissing that particular control issue goodbye felt good.We labored on. Tom using the apple-peeling machine, Emily measuring and mixing the flour, brown sugar, etc., for the filling, and me savoring the sound of her and TJ repeatedly asking “What else do you need done?” The carrots. The dressing.
This was more than a treat. It was an indescribable gift.
Another gift was that we were even together to do it. For years, Emily and Tom had juggled two sets of relatives for this holiday, and we knew that Tom’s grandmother had first dibs on them this year, even though both sets of parents had agreed there would never be any pressure to choose one over the others. So, I thought it would just be Fred, TJ and me this year -- until Emily asked if we could “do Thanksgiving” on Wednesday. That way she could still have both – without rushing from one to another and forcing down back-to-back feasts. I loved that it mattered to her, that she still wanted the meal she’d grown up with.
As the dinner hour approached, Fred was home from work, but Tom had gone off to his own job, so there was a new set of hands helping. Green bean casserole ready. Turkey out. Pillsbury Crescent Rolls in. Creamed onions mixed. Grandmom’s dilled carrots nuked. Potatoes mashed. Homemade cranberry salad thawed. Canned cranberry sauce standing tall.
With just four of us eating, the table needed only one leaf, and the food filled every available inch. Standing there, checking to see if any side dishes or serving spoons had been forgotten, I admired the array.
Our tradition works for us. Having both kids home, and healthy and happy, is what we’re most thankful for. But I suspect we each had other things that came to mind, as well. For Emily, it may have been eating a day early, but with TJ, there was no need to guess. It was the apple pies.
As I enjoyed that the table was attractive without being over-the-top, I can only surmise that Fred was happy that relaxed was "in" this year. There was no better proof than my silent reaction to his choice of serving dish for the sliced turkey and drumsticks: Our large yellow mixing bowl.
Ah, another control issue kissed goodbye.
For this, and so much more, we gave thanks.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The "going rate" needs to get going
I understand the concept of "the going rate," but when it comes to paying online writers, whoever the writers were that helped establish them should have stayed after in math class.
Today I came across a job ad that caught my eye because it said $250-$750 budget.
The details were worse than disappointing, though.
The advertiser wanted someone to turn every assignment around the day it was given -- and he needed 5 articles either written or re-written each day. Not bad; they were 500-word articles.
But the payment? $1 per article.
Why would anyone accept that kind of work?
Last April I found out that people apparently do. I responded to a Rochester guy's ad that didn't list a fee. He responded with the details, which included that each piece was to be 800 words long and he'd pay .01 cent a word.
This is why I mentioned math class: I quickly computed that to $80, which was reasonable per article, so I told him I'd give it a try. Before he'd responded, some latent decimal sense kicked in and I recomputed it to only $8. I quickly sent another note explaining where my skills do and, obviously, don't lie.
He understood, said it was, indeed, the going rate but that he figured I was tired of hearing I was over-qualified. Sending the info to me would mean I got to decide.
The reasoning he used was a point in his favor.
But, then he said: "Besides, over time you could work yourself up to .03 cent a word."
Today I came across a job ad that caught my eye because it said $250-$750 budget.
The details were worse than disappointing, though.
The advertiser wanted someone to turn every assignment around the day it was given -- and he needed 5 articles either written or re-written each day. Not bad; they were 500-word articles.
But the payment? $1 per article.
Why would anyone accept that kind of work?
Last April I found out that people apparently do. I responded to a Rochester guy's ad that didn't list a fee. He responded with the details, which included that each piece was to be 800 words long and he'd pay .01 cent a word.
This is why I mentioned math class: I quickly computed that to $80, which was reasonable per article, so I told him I'd give it a try. Before he'd responded, some latent decimal sense kicked in and I recomputed it to only $8. I quickly sent another note explaining where my skills do and, obviously, don't lie.
He understood, said it was, indeed, the going rate but that he figured I was tired of hearing I was over-qualified. Sending the info to me would mean I got to decide.
The reasoning he used was a point in his favor.
But, then he said: "Besides, over time you could work yourself up to .03 cent a word."
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Forget that, what designer was she wearing?
A couple who wants to be on Real Housewives (QUICK, my air-sickness bag) decided to bolster their CVs the other night by trying to sneak into the Obamas' first state dinner.
And, and ... they did it.
It's being reported that the Secret Service's first clue was a phone call from a reporter the next day looking for a comment after hearing the couple brag about their escapades on a national TV show.
This is scary. The couple, obviously.
But, HOW does this happen?
But, HOW does this happen?
The soon-to-be-renamed Office of Professional Responsibility thinks a checkpoint worker did not follow proper procedures to ensure the two were on the guest list. (They didn't even have an invitation with them; hell, they check for those at Lia Sophia parties.)
(No problem, Bin and Babs Laden, you can go right through.)
(No problem, Bin and Babs Laden, you can go right through.)
Officials have said that the couple passed the same weapons check the rest of the guests had, but that doesn't mean they were no threat.
These security people need to watch NCIS around-the-clock for six weeks; then they'll never take safety for granted. Any crime show fan knows that anthrax could have been hidden in the layers of the woman's pseudo-sari.
The couple could be charged with trespassing.
These security people need to watch NCIS around-the-clock for six weeks; then they'll never take safety for granted. Any crime show fan knows that anthrax could have been hidden in the layers of the woman's pseudo-sari.
The couple could be charged with trespassing.
Somebody else could lose their job, I suspect.
What do you think their chances of getting on reality TV (not counting the evening news)?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
If only I'd known
Just as doctors make bad patients, I'm pretty sure journalists can't be the easiest people to interview. And we're certainly the worst afterward when it comes to second-guessing how goofy we came across.
That's what I've been doing ever since a first-year J major from Bona's called this afternoon after e-mailing last week to set a date and time.
Usually, something like an interview would make me nervous. But since I'd forgotten all about it until she emailed yesterday to confirm -- and it slipped my mine again today until 30 seconds or so into the conversation.
"Hi, it's Mary," I heard.
"Hi," I said enthusiastically.
"I just want to thank you for agreeing to help me with this," Mary said.
Um ... help with what? I wondered.
But instead, I said "I'm sorry, which Mary is this?"
"It's Maddie," the girl formerly known as Mary said.
Oh, whew. My brain suddenly re-engaged.
She began asking questions; I began wishing I'd studied up on interesting things about college. But, I hadn't wanted to over-think things. I figured that anything important would come to me when I heard the questions.
Not so much.
So, just to make sure she wasn't bored, I mentioned having been in the same class as Fox newsman Neil Cavuto and NYTimes reporter Dan Barry. Later, when I found out what this interview was all about, I threw ABC's Victoria Corderi in. She was in my public speaking class, which I assured Maddie was one rolicking-good class.
Pretty lame, huh?
When she was finished -- and no doubt eager to get back to her less-lame life -- I asked "What will you be doing with the information?"
The tapes from the various students' interviews were being put together for her "College 101" class, which was doing its own StoryCorps project, inspired by "Listening is an Act of Love."
While we talked a few seconds about how much we love that book, a portion of my brain wandered off on its own, comparing "my" story with the ones I've been reading.
BO-ring. Hence, the Vicky Corderi name dropping.
"Have you heard of her?" I asked.
"No."
That does it. Next shot I get at immortality, I'm studying ahead.
That's what I've been doing ever since a first-year J major from Bona's called this afternoon after e-mailing last week to set a date and time.
Usually, something like an interview would make me nervous. But since I'd forgotten all about it until she emailed yesterday to confirm -- and it slipped my mine again today until 30 seconds or so into the conversation.
"Hi, it's Mary," I heard.
"Hi," I said enthusiastically.
"I just want to thank you for agreeing to help me with this," Mary said.
Um ... help with what? I wondered.
But instead, I said "I'm sorry, which Mary is this?"
"It's Maddie," the girl formerly known as Mary said.
Oh, whew. My brain suddenly re-engaged.
She began asking questions; I began wishing I'd studied up on interesting things about college. But, I hadn't wanted to over-think things. I figured that anything important would come to me when I heard the questions.
Not so much.
So, just to make sure she wasn't bored, I mentioned having been in the same class as Fox newsman Neil Cavuto and NYTimes reporter Dan Barry. Later, when I found out what this interview was all about, I threw ABC's Victoria Corderi in. She was in my public speaking class, which I assured Maddie was one rolicking-good class.
Pretty lame, huh?
When she was finished -- and no doubt eager to get back to her less-lame life -- I asked "What will you be doing with the information?"
The tapes from the various students' interviews were being put together for her "College 101" class, which was doing its own StoryCorps project, inspired by "Listening is an Act of Love."
While we talked a few seconds about how much we love that book, a portion of my brain wandered off on its own, comparing "my" story with the ones I've been reading.
BO-ring. Hence, the Vicky Corderi name dropping.
"Have you heard of her?" I asked.
"No."
That does it. Next shot I get at immortality, I'm studying ahead.
Monday, November 23, 2009
She's a hunter. A WHAT?
You've probably heard that socially -- and legally -- most mainstream thinkers frown on marrying inside one's own family. There are all sorts of health and development reasons it's a no-no. (If I need to explain, stop reading now.)
But, there are also practical ones.
Variety is a biggie. For one thing, it's a good remedy to boredom, especially genetic boredom, which I hear can haunt you for a lifetime or two.
That's what crossed my mind today after seeing my niece Angela's Facebook posting and picture. That and "Where the heck did she come from?"
There she sat, posing with her hunting catch, a doe and two youngins' -- legal because she has a nuisance permit to protect their property. As her husband noted among everyone else's comments, it's probably best not to "make her mad."
Who'd have thought that a toddler who looked like Cindy Lou Who in 1985, when my wedding bouquet landed between her feet, would grow up to be a gun-toting outdoorswoman?
Dangling fishing lines off a dock is as close as any of her aunts and uncle came to being hunters. One generation further back, I'm pretty sure Mom used to gut her brother Jerry's catch for him, but ... that's a far cry from taking down a family single-handledly.
I'm not heading for a Bambi-killer rant; Angela feels bad enough as it is.
I'm just mulling it all over.
Genetics -- like variety -- is a wonderful thing.
But, there are also practical ones.
Variety is a biggie. For one thing, it's a good remedy to boredom, especially genetic boredom, which I hear can haunt you for a lifetime or two.
That's what crossed my mind today after seeing my niece Angela's Facebook posting and picture. That and "Where the heck did she come from?"
There she sat, posing with her hunting catch, a doe and two youngins' -- legal because she has a nuisance permit to protect their property. As her husband noted among everyone else's comments, it's probably best not to "make her mad."
Who'd have thought that a toddler who looked like Cindy Lou Who in 1985, when my wedding bouquet landed between her feet, would grow up to be a gun-toting outdoorswoman?
Dangling fishing lines off a dock is as close as any of her aunts and uncle came to being hunters. One generation further back, I'm pretty sure Mom used to gut her brother Jerry's catch for him, but ... that's a far cry from taking down a family single-handledly.
I'm not heading for a Bambi-killer rant; Angela feels bad enough as it is.
I'm just mulling it all over.
Genetics -- like variety -- is a wonderful thing.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Christmas deals you gotta love
Hallelujah!
So many retailers are jumping on the Black Friday bandwagon that we'll all be able to relax and have a simpler, less-expensive Christmas. I can hardly wait. No fear of maxing out the charge card this year. Whew.
Sunday's ads alone proved that our wallets can stay nice and plump. For instance, Shop.com announced a six-day 60-percent-off sale featuring a $249 handbag. Don't need one? How about a nightie for $88.
If Mom taught you that Christmas was a stock-up-on-undies kind of holiday, you're in luck. Neiman-Marcus has knocked 40 percent of its Dolce & Gabbana men's briefs, so you can pick up a pair for just $44. Boxers more your style? Only $59 a pair.
Bouillabaisse Pots -- the gotta-have items this year? -- are discounted, too. (All we'll need is a chicken to put in each one.) FactoryDirect2you.com is willing to sell you the pot, with a 7.25-qt. capacity, for $265. Chump change.
See what I mean, shopping's going to be a breeze ...
So many retailers are jumping on the Black Friday bandwagon that we'll all be able to relax and have a simpler, less-expensive Christmas. I can hardly wait. No fear of maxing out the charge card this year. Whew.
Sunday's ads alone proved that our wallets can stay nice and plump. For instance, Shop.com announced a six-day 60-percent-off sale featuring a $249 handbag. Don't need one? How about a nightie for $88.
If Mom taught you that Christmas was a stock-up-on-undies kind of holiday, you're in luck. Neiman-Marcus has knocked 40 percent of its Dolce & Gabbana men's briefs, so you can pick up a pair for just $44. Boxers more your style? Only $59 a pair.
Bouillabaisse Pots -- the gotta-have items this year? -- are discounted, too. (All we'll need is a chicken to put in each one.) FactoryDirect2you.com is willing to sell you the pot, with a 7.25-qt. capacity, for $265. Chump change.
See what I mean, shopping's going to be a breeze ...
Saturday, November 21, 2009
It's worse than stupid
Ok, I admit it.
I laughed (and groaned) when George Bush butchered the language.
(I also laughed when Mr. Rogers buttoned his cardigan wrong.)
There's humor in incongruity.
And I admit that Bush's two wars destroyed the already-microscopic possibility that I'd ever trust his administration.
At least a few people have taken issue with me over this.
That's their right. So, I haven't abused my right when I've responded.
But, I can't say the same for the latest stupidity: Bumper stickers that say "Pray for Obama" and, by citing Psalms 109:8, wish him dead.
On how many levels is this offensive?
Every one that I can think of.
One Christian blogger -- who found no humor in it -- equated the message to that of the 1/20/09 bumper stickers driven around by those who pined for Bush's exit.
But they're far from being the same.
One is the product of thinking people; the other, a product of hatred. We should all be concerned about the latter.
For purposes of this post, I'll narrow my concerns to two.
The first is obvious, but still personal. Since long before Barack Obama seemed like a real contender, I've feared for his life. I've feared for his daughters being fatherless. I've feared for our nation, for what it would say about the hatred, the bigotry, the short-sightedness that his assassination would prove stronger than I'd ever imagined.
At a dinner in January 2008, I asked people at my table if they had a preference in the Democratic primary. One of the women said "I'm kind of for Obama."
I asked about her reluctance, and she said "I'm afraid he'll be killed if he wins."
That thought had never crossed the mind of the woman next to her. Then there was the editor of an upstate New York newspaper who, hearing that story, offered one of his own. He said that the night Obama accepted the nomination he'd left the newsroom late afternoon, telling his staff "You can all go home, but if something happens tonight, you've all got to come back."
They looked at him clueless. These 20somethings who hadn't lived through the King assassination, the Kennedy assassination, or even the attempt on Ronald Reagan's life.
As the campaign progressed, I tensed up and waited for the sound of bullets whenever a TV clip showed Obama being enveloped by supporters. The heady night that convinced everyone the nomination was within his reach comes to mind. After he spoke, he and Michelle walked down the stage steps and into the crowd.
His vulnerability made me shiver.
The second issue is the source of the hatred toward Obama. In far too many instances, it comes from people who call themselves "Christians" -- a word they use to profess they are one in their devotion to Jesus Christ. But, if you listen, they're also using it to say "We're the GOOD ones."
The irony is lost on them. The real meanings of "good" and "Christian" are even lost on some of their ministers who've talked and prayed openly for Obama's death.
People who have it in themselves to kill can find reasons to pick the president, this president, as a target. So those who fear the bumper sticker will encourage an attempt on Obama's life have reason to think that way.
The fact that so many people -- how many? too many -- can stand tall while publicly espousing the desire for someone to die astonishes me.
Maybe it shouldn't.
But it does.
I laughed (and groaned) when George Bush butchered the language.
(I also laughed when Mr. Rogers buttoned his cardigan wrong.)
There's humor in incongruity.
And I admit that Bush's two wars destroyed the already-microscopic possibility that I'd ever trust his administration.
At least a few people have taken issue with me over this.
That's their right. So, I haven't abused my right when I've responded.
But, I can't say the same for the latest stupidity: Bumper stickers that say "Pray for Obama" and, by citing Psalms 109:8, wish him dead.
On how many levels is this offensive?
Every one that I can think of.
One Christian blogger -- who found no humor in it -- equated the message to that of the 1/20/09 bumper stickers driven around by those who pined for Bush's exit.
But they're far from being the same.
One is the product of thinking people; the other, a product of hatred. We should all be concerned about the latter.
For purposes of this post, I'll narrow my concerns to two.
The first is obvious, but still personal. Since long before Barack Obama seemed like a real contender, I've feared for his life. I've feared for his daughters being fatherless. I've feared for our nation, for what it would say about the hatred, the bigotry, the short-sightedness that his assassination would prove stronger than I'd ever imagined.
At a dinner in January 2008, I asked people at my table if they had a preference in the Democratic primary. One of the women said "I'm kind of for Obama."
I asked about her reluctance, and she said "I'm afraid he'll be killed if he wins."
That thought had never crossed the mind of the woman next to her. Then there was the editor of an upstate New York newspaper who, hearing that story, offered one of his own. He said that the night Obama accepted the nomination he'd left the newsroom late afternoon, telling his staff "You can all go home, but if something happens tonight, you've all got to come back."
They looked at him clueless. These 20somethings who hadn't lived through the King assassination, the Kennedy assassination, or even the attempt on Ronald Reagan's life.
As the campaign progressed, I tensed up and waited for the sound of bullets whenever a TV clip showed Obama being enveloped by supporters. The heady night that convinced everyone the nomination was within his reach comes to mind. After he spoke, he and Michelle walked down the stage steps and into the crowd.
His vulnerability made me shiver.
The second issue is the source of the hatred toward Obama. In far too many instances, it comes from people who call themselves "Christians" -- a word they use to profess they are one in their devotion to Jesus Christ. But, if you listen, they're also using it to say "We're the GOOD ones."
The irony is lost on them. The real meanings of "good" and "Christian" are even lost on some of their ministers who've talked and prayed openly for Obama's death.
People who have it in themselves to kill can find reasons to pick the president, this president, as a target. So those who fear the bumper sticker will encourage an attempt on Obama's life have reason to think that way.
The fact that so many people -- how many? too many -- can stand tall while publicly espousing the desire for someone to die astonishes me.
Maybe it shouldn't.
But it does.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Sports fans may get more than you think
I'm reading "Listening is an Act of Love." It's a collection of interviews of and by ordinary people; it grew out of the StoryCorps project that a radio producer started.
The interview I just finished was about a 63-year-old man, born and bred in the Bronx. So, it doesn't take a genius to guess his favorite sports team. Coincidentally, the interview right before his was a wife telling her husband about her favorite aunt. She says her most common recollection of Aunt Mary is an image of her cooking in her small kitchen on a small stove, with the soundtrack of her life -- a Pittsburgh Pirates game-- playing on the radio in the background.
Call it what you want ... a devotion or a waste of time ... a harmless diversion or a vicarious journey ... sports -- especially following a favorite team -- is a big deal.
Many weeks when I take notes at our local Rotary Club meetings, member after member -- mostly guys -- will stand up and pay a buck or two, happily celebrating their team's recent win or regretfully acknowledging yet another loss.
You can tell by the joking around that, at least in the retelling, the guys are enjoying a healthy diversion. When I first became the bulletin editor, the hardest part was keeping straight who rooted for what team. It helped to know where they'd gone to college, because that school or its community was often the deciding factor.
I grew up in a Yankee household because my dad grew up in the Bronx, too. We watched St. Bonaventure basketball (rosaries in hand) because the university was just down the road a few miles. Although we pretty much ignored football, I've always felt like a Bills fan since Buffalo is just an hour and a bit away.
The Yankees' devotion carried through to my son and onto a license plate frame that's been on the last three cars I've driven. He and I bought it together and I drive it around with pride, more pride than you'd expect from someone who only tolerated the 2009 series, wishing it over (one way or the other) because it messed up the evening TV schedule.
While reading those interviews, I got to thinking that it's more than a competitive streak, more than an allegiance to a locality, that infuses sports through much of our everyday lives. The ultimate allure may be the sense of belonging that comes with having a team to call your own.
For many, it starts with playing the sport (whatever it is) as a kid or later in high school or college.
Even if you don't make it to the pros, or never even dreamed of going that far, there's something about being able to relate to what the athletes are doing and feeling, because you've been there yourself. Different stadium, different stakes, but the basics are the same. So there's a connection to be savored.
Then there's the feeling you get when you belong to something big, no matter how the season's going.
People toss around that question about whether a tree falling in a forest makes a noise if no one hears it, and you get into all sorts of questions about relativity. But apply it to sporting events and the answer comes more easily: Would you feel the same about your team if you were the only one whoever watched them?
Sure, you'd still appreciate the skill. You'd still get charged up by the best plays. But, I'm willing to bet that it would get boring after a while.
Having a team means belonging to the noise, the crowds (even if you just watching from home), a common spirit. There's joy in belonging to something much bigger.
That's what makes sports a big deal.
The interview I just finished was about a 63-year-old man, born and bred in the Bronx. So, it doesn't take a genius to guess his favorite sports team. Coincidentally, the interview right before his was a wife telling her husband about her favorite aunt. She says her most common recollection of Aunt Mary is an image of her cooking in her small kitchen on a small stove, with the soundtrack of her life -- a Pittsburgh Pirates game-- playing on the radio in the background.
Call it what you want ... a devotion or a waste of time ... a harmless diversion or a vicarious journey ... sports -- especially following a favorite team -- is a big deal.
Many weeks when I take notes at our local Rotary Club meetings, member after member -- mostly guys -- will stand up and pay a buck or two, happily celebrating their team's recent win or regretfully acknowledging yet another loss.
You can tell by the joking around that, at least in the retelling, the guys are enjoying a healthy diversion. When I first became the bulletin editor, the hardest part was keeping straight who rooted for what team. It helped to know where they'd gone to college, because that school or its community was often the deciding factor.
I grew up in a Yankee household because my dad grew up in the Bronx, too. We watched St. Bonaventure basketball (rosaries in hand) because the university was just down the road a few miles. Although we pretty much ignored football, I've always felt like a Bills fan since Buffalo is just an hour and a bit away.
The Yankees' devotion carried through to my son and onto a license plate frame that's been on the last three cars I've driven. He and I bought it together and I drive it around with pride, more pride than you'd expect from someone who only tolerated the 2009 series, wishing it over (one way or the other) because it messed up the evening TV schedule.
While reading those interviews, I got to thinking that it's more than a competitive streak, more than an allegiance to a locality, that infuses sports through much of our everyday lives. The ultimate allure may be the sense of belonging that comes with having a team to call your own.
For many, it starts with playing the sport (whatever it is) as a kid or later in high school or college.
Even if you don't make it to the pros, or never even dreamed of going that far, there's something about being able to relate to what the athletes are doing and feeling, because you've been there yourself. Different stadium, different stakes, but the basics are the same. So there's a connection to be savored.
Then there's the feeling you get when you belong to something big, no matter how the season's going.
People toss around that question about whether a tree falling in a forest makes a noise if no one hears it, and you get into all sorts of questions about relativity. But apply it to sporting events and the answer comes more easily: Would you feel the same about your team if you were the only one whoever watched them?
Sure, you'd still appreciate the skill. You'd still get charged up by the best plays. But, I'm willing to bet that it would get boring after a while.
Having a team means belonging to the noise, the crowds (even if you just watching from home), a common spirit. There's joy in belonging to something much bigger.
That's what makes sports a big deal.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
With apologies to satirist Andy Borowitz
Vatican sources today confirmed that global yammering about the best-selling fiction work by a native Alaskan since "Call of the Wild" has cracked a case that Italian police have been dithering over for nearly five years.
Cardinals were reportedly watching the evening news Tuesday when a clip from Barbara Walters' interview with former U.S. vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin struck a familiar chord.
"It was the word 'dithering' that loosened the old mothballs," the anonymous sources said, referring to Palin's criticism of President Obama's thought process on Afghanistan. "Dithering, dithering, dithering ..."
The cardinals recognized Palin's voice as that of a deranged woman who phoned the Vatican repeatedly during the 2005 papal conclave.
"'What are they dithering about? That dithering is irresponsible. They have to stop dithering.' ... That's what the caller kept saying," a source reported. "One cardinal explained that it was the incomparable lack of knowledge on the topic at hand that convinced them that the women were one and the same."
Elsewhere in the news ... a spokeswoman for the EPA said they've yet to identify the source of black smoke sporadically emitted from the West Wing of the White House in recent weeks.
Cardinals were reportedly watching the evening news Tuesday when a clip from Barbara Walters' interview with former U.S. vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin struck a familiar chord.
"It was the word 'dithering' that loosened the old mothballs," the anonymous sources said, referring to Palin's criticism of President Obama's thought process on Afghanistan. "Dithering, dithering, dithering ..."
The cardinals recognized Palin's voice as that of a deranged woman who phoned the Vatican repeatedly during the 2005 papal conclave.
"'What are they dithering about? That dithering is irresponsible. They have to stop dithering.' ... That's what the caller kept saying," a source reported. "One cardinal explained that it was the incomparable lack of knowledge on the topic at hand that convinced them that the women were one and the same."
Elsewhere in the news ... a spokeswoman for the EPA said they've yet to identify the source of black smoke sporadically emitted from the West Wing of the White House in recent weeks.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
What's with that name?
You must be wondering.
I surely would have been.
I first heard the word a few months ago while brainstorming for a business name that reflected a variety of skills and services.
"Gallimaufry," my son, 19, said. "I love that word."
Um ... okay.
He told me it meant an assortment, so it worked in terms of applicability. But, it failed big-time on the memorability scale. Mine, anyway. Even though I decided it was almost perfect for this blog's name, it still doesn't roll off my tongue. (That's gal-a-maw-free, by the way.)
Eagle-eyed readers undoubtedly noticed the spelling in this post doesn't match the spelling in the title. Would you believe someone beat me to the English spelling? (Both on blogspot and wordpress.) So, I hunted for a synonym, starting with dictionary.com's definition. That's where I found the French spelling, and voila.
(Help! If you can tell me how to add an accent mark, I'll use it on voilà and galimafrée. Now, that would be perfect.)
I surely would have been.
I first heard the word a few months ago while brainstorming for a business name that reflected a variety of skills and services.
"Gallimaufry," my son, 19, said. "I love that word."
Um ... okay.
He told me it meant an assortment, so it worked in terms of applicability. But, it failed big-time on the memorability scale. Mine, anyway. Even though I decided it was almost perfect for this blog's name, it still doesn't roll off my tongue. (That's gal-a-maw-free, by the way.)
Eagle-eyed readers undoubtedly noticed the spelling in this post doesn't match the spelling in the title. Would you believe someone beat me to the English spelling? (Both on blogspot and wordpress.) So, I hunted for a synonym, starting with dictionary.com's definition. That's where I found the French spelling, and voila.
(Help! If you can tell me how to add an accent mark, I'll use it on voilà and galimafrée. Now, that would be perfect.)
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