Weiner?!
My business plan is going to make me rich, rich rich! Forget Ragg Mopp - this is a sure Weiner!
Step One: Family and friends phone the Weiner Mobile (sub contracting details to be worked out) and that embarrassing phallic shaped yet kosher vehicle pulls up outside your home or government office building and picks up the adulterer, porn king, sexter, maid molester - any Weiner who should be branded (literally, hot poker) with a scarlet A but who has somehow avoided prison.
Step Two: The Weiner Mobile transports them to the rehab center where they THINK they can hide until the media finds another, bigger Weiner and they can Gringrich-up their reputation and resume their creepy lives. Ahhh but SURPRISE...
Step Three: this rebab center is staffed entirely with women who have been victimized by Weiners and let's just say the therapy sessions are NEVER touchy-feely.
Any investors?!
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Fade Away
She told me over lunch at Panera that last week when she told her boss she wanted me as a mentor he laughed and said “Why do you want her, she’s only a first level.”
Until four months ago he was a first level manager.
This morning I was dusting the bookshelves in the den when a photo fell gently to the carpet. It is an old photo framed by hand embroidery. I think the woman in the picture is my maternal great, great grandmother, but I am not sure. Her name might have been Maude or Chip, but I am not sure. I think her husband took a bunch of photos in the late 1800’s in Central Park but I am not sure.
I picked up her photo, wiped it with a windex cloth and replaced the photo on the shelf.
Someday my photo will fall, off a shelf or wall or maybe it will appear electronically on a screen. And a yet unborn future being will look, not recognizing, not knowing who I am.
I am sure of this. When you are “only a first level” you are already cloaked.
Until four months ago he was a first level manager.
This morning I was dusting the bookshelves in the den when a photo fell gently to the carpet. It is an old photo framed by hand embroidery. I think the woman in the picture is my maternal great, great grandmother, but I am not sure. Her name might have been Maude or Chip, but I am not sure. I think her husband took a bunch of photos in the late 1800’s in Central Park but I am not sure.
I picked up her photo, wiped it with a windex cloth and replaced the photo on the shelf.
Someday my photo will fall, off a shelf or wall or maybe it will appear electronically on a screen. And a yet unborn future being will look, not recognizing, not knowing who I am.
I am sure of this. When you are “only a first level” you are already cloaked.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Never got the Memo
The fellow traveler in front of me at airport security was so ordinary he was almost invisible: white male in his early 20’s, hair a bit too long, height a bit short, carrying one nearly empty duffel bag. I overheard him tell the TSA agent that he was joining the military and the TSA agent asked which branch. I didn’t hear the reply but my hunch was “Army.”
While I scooped up three bins for the xray machine (one for each of my laptop and one for shoes), the conveyor belt stopped. I looked up to see the TSA xray inspector removing family sized bottles, a can and a tube from Army Dude’s bag - Head & Shoulders shampoo, Crest toothpaste, Scope mouthwash, Gillette shaving cream.
“You can’t bring these in your carry-on.”
“Oh”
“Only 3 ounce bottles.”
“Oh”
“You didn’t know?”
“No”
The Army dude didn’t appear upset, just confused by this alien world and it’s baffling rules. The TSA agent was sympathetic.
“Did you check any luggage?”
“huh?”
“Suitcases, do you have suitcases you checked at baggage?”
“No.”
“Is your car in the lot?”
“No.”
“Because you have time to put these in your car.”
“Oh”
“How about family, is anyone seeing you off? You can give these to them.”
“No.”
“We have to take these, I know they are all brand new, but the rule is 3 ounces and these are all....”
“Oh.”
This interaction stopped the progress at security and the line behind me grew longer with every shrug of Army Dude.
Finally we made it through security where Army Dude met up with a fellow recruit. He told his buddy how all his new stuff was taken away. His friend’s eyes met mine and we shared an incredulous look while his buddy reiterated: “3 ounces man.” Army Dude shrugged again, “But nobody told me.”
I wanted to shake this kid to determine what stone he’s been living under to not know the liquid/gel rule.
Then I replayed the dialogue and realized this clueless kid was joining the army and nobody was at the airport to say goodbye.
While I scooped up three bins for the xray machine (one for each of my laptop and one for shoes), the conveyor belt stopped. I looked up to see the TSA xray inspector removing family sized bottles, a can and a tube from Army Dude’s bag - Head & Shoulders shampoo, Crest toothpaste, Scope mouthwash, Gillette shaving cream.
“You can’t bring these in your carry-on.”
“Oh”
“Only 3 ounce bottles.”
“Oh”
“You didn’t know?”
“No”
The Army dude didn’t appear upset, just confused by this alien world and it’s baffling rules. The TSA agent was sympathetic.
“Did you check any luggage?”
“huh?”
“Suitcases, do you have suitcases you checked at baggage?”
“No.”
“Is your car in the lot?”
“No.”
“Because you have time to put these in your car.”
“Oh”
“How about family, is anyone seeing you off? You can give these to them.”
“No.”
“We have to take these, I know they are all brand new, but the rule is 3 ounces and these are all....”
“Oh.”
This interaction stopped the progress at security and the line behind me grew longer with every shrug of Army Dude.
Finally we made it through security where Army Dude met up with a fellow recruit. He told his buddy how all his new stuff was taken away. His friend’s eyes met mine and we shared an incredulous look while his buddy reiterated: “3 ounces man.” Army Dude shrugged again, “But nobody told me.”
I wanted to shake this kid to determine what stone he’s been living under to not know the liquid/gel rule.
Then I replayed the dialogue and realized this clueless kid was joining the army and nobody was at the airport to say goodbye.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
I Go to Extremes
It is absurd to run outside today. The wind gusts off the ocean are driving the icy, stinging rain sideways in sheets; at times they blow hard enough to make forward progress impossible other times they attack from the side nearly propelling me into parked cars and potholes. But I will run 8 miles in the dark in the storm, because that is my goal.
Visions of Cream puffs dance in my head, and stomach, as I run. Real and metaphorical cream puffs.. The real cream puffs, of which I consumed way too many yesterday, burble acidically queasing out my stomach. Je regret, je regret, je regret les manger. I long ago learned to forgo dinner to avoid RWI - running while ill- but yesterday I was unable to curtail my pastry eating and now I must suffer. The desserts from Fratellis Pastry Shop were too incredibly delicious and erased any semblance of self-control. Oh digest already, would you?!
The other cream puffs are also undigested shards, a long ago memory that should have been forgotten along with the dates of the Athenian - Spartan wars.
My paternal grandmother has her four oldest grandchildren sans parents at 547 Riverside Drive and asks what sort of outing we’d like. As eldest and most passionate about NYC adventures, I suggest we walk across the George Washington Bridge or go to Brooklyn (I’d just read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and declared it the best book I ever read - I felt it was quite sophisticated and adult - it replaced my previous faves: The Secret Garden and A Wrinkle in Time). But Grandma nixes those ideas and instead we began a long, pointless and boring walk around the upper West Side. After a few blocks I suggested we take the subway. Grandma turns to glare at me with loveless eyes and declares I am a cream puff.
I revert to my school face - the mask I wear when I expected to be taunted. From bullies and mean teachers I expected name calling, not from my Grandmother.
Grandma is dead. Now I am a grandma and two things I know to be true: I will NEVER call my granddaughter a mean name and I am so NOT a cream puff.
Visions of Cream puffs dance in my head, and stomach, as I run. Real and metaphorical cream puffs.. The real cream puffs, of which I consumed way too many yesterday, burble acidically queasing out my stomach. Je regret, je regret, je regret les manger. I long ago learned to forgo dinner to avoid RWI - running while ill- but yesterday I was unable to curtail my pastry eating and now I must suffer. The desserts from Fratellis Pastry Shop were too incredibly delicious and erased any semblance of self-control. Oh digest already, would you?!
The other cream puffs are also undigested shards, a long ago memory that should have been forgotten along with the dates of the Athenian - Spartan wars.
My paternal grandmother has her four oldest grandchildren sans parents at 547 Riverside Drive and asks what sort of outing we’d like. As eldest and most passionate about NYC adventures, I suggest we walk across the George Washington Bridge or go to Brooklyn (I’d just read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and declared it the best book I ever read - I felt it was quite sophisticated and adult - it replaced my previous faves: The Secret Garden and A Wrinkle in Time). But Grandma nixes those ideas and instead we began a long, pointless and boring walk around the upper West Side. After a few blocks I suggested we take the subway. Grandma turns to glare at me with loveless eyes and declares I am a cream puff.
I revert to my school face - the mask I wear when I expected to be taunted. From bullies and mean teachers I expected name calling, not from my Grandmother.
Grandma is dead. Now I am a grandma and two things I know to be true: I will NEVER call my granddaughter a mean name and I am so NOT a cream puff.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
I Do Believe
In London, England, not far from renowned department store, Fortnum and Mason, is the Burlington Arcade - an upscale covered, pedestrian walkway lined with posh shops. While Sarah was on a mission to find unique yarn, Jock, Ryan, Beatrix and I wandered the arcade. Actually Beatrix was asleep on Ryan’s chest in the front pack so one can’t honestly say she was wandering.
I frequently halted our progress for photos - click: the pastel pile of macaroons on display in Laduree, click: the sweetness of my sleeping grandchild. When I aimed the camera at the shoe shine stand, Ryan was mystified. A man getting his shoes shined? So Not photoworthy.
Jock looked, knew and nodded. Jock and I are old enough to remember - Little Rock, Boston, Watts, Detroit. We are old enough to remember when separate wasn’t equal and there was no equal. We remember when shoe shining was more common - not just in every airport but on city streets, and always, ALWAYS the guy shining the shoes was black, the guy getting a shine was white and although the guy shining was a man, he was referred to as a “shoe shine boy.”
That Ryan saw nothing odd, was good. May our grandbaby Beatrix never find this scene photoworthy.
I frequently halted our progress for photos - click: the pastel pile of macaroons on display in Laduree, click: the sweetness of my sleeping grandchild. When I aimed the camera at the shoe shine stand, Ryan was mystified. A man getting his shoes shined? So Not photoworthy.
Jock looked, knew and nodded. Jock and I are old enough to remember - Little Rock, Boston, Watts, Detroit. We are old enough to remember when separate wasn’t equal and there was no equal. We remember when shoe shining was more common - not just in every airport but on city streets, and always, ALWAYS the guy shining the shoes was black, the guy getting a shine was white and although the guy shining was a man, he was referred to as a “shoe shine boy.”
That Ryan saw nothing odd, was good. May our grandbaby Beatrix never find this scene photoworthy.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Jimmer to Brandon in the paint no more
BYU student and basketball player, Brandon Davies will no longer be Jimmer Fredette's BYU teammate. Davies broke the BYU Honor Code. The rule he broke? He had sex with his girlfriend.
BYU is an easy target. Sex, whether heterosexual or homosexual is not permitted as per the BYU honor codes and it was only a few years ago that BYU was convinced that their God told them not to admit Black students.
But athletes follow all sorts of illogical and sometimes downright dumb rules - college basketball players must shoot within 35 seconds of gaining possession, the offense only has 3 seconds in the key. Players follow these rules or risk known penalties which could hurt their team. Yet in college and especially in professional sports, ethical rule violations are often ignored. College students attending schools considered to be football or basketball powerhouses, know that the nearly all high profile student-athletes are less of the former and more of the latter.
At the 2011 NFL Combine there were potential draft picks who already have ethically spotty pasts including a drunk driving arrest and a bribery demanding father. Given the NFL's intentional ethical blindness (sexual harassment, domestic violence, multiple children by many women, steroid and recreational drug use and on and on) these infractions are unlikely to deter any team that needs talent.
Charles Barkley is not a role model, but our children are buying up jerseys of people who behave abysmally. The BYU stance of making ethical rules and enforcing them should be a role model for college and professional sports.
I would suggest a rewriting of the honor code to state that no student can engage in sexual relations while at BYU, unless birth control is used - married or unmarried.
BYU is an easy target. Sex, whether heterosexual or homosexual is not permitted as per the BYU honor codes and it was only a few years ago that BYU was convinced that their God told them not to admit Black students.
But athletes follow all sorts of illogical and sometimes downright dumb rules - college basketball players must shoot within 35 seconds of gaining possession, the offense only has 3 seconds in the key. Players follow these rules or risk known penalties which could hurt their team. Yet in college and especially in professional sports, ethical rule violations are often ignored. College students attending schools considered to be football or basketball powerhouses, know that the nearly all high profile student-athletes are less of the former and more of the latter.
At the 2011 NFL Combine there were potential draft picks who already have ethically spotty pasts including a drunk driving arrest and a bribery demanding father. Given the NFL's intentional ethical blindness (sexual harassment, domestic violence, multiple children by many women, steroid and recreational drug use and on and on) these infractions are unlikely to deter any team that needs talent.
Charles Barkley is not a role model, but our children are buying up jerseys of people who behave abysmally. The BYU stance of making ethical rules and enforcing them should be a role model for college and professional sports.
I would suggest a rewriting of the honor code to state that no student can engage in sexual relations while at BYU, unless birth control is used - married or unmarried.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Not the Hammer Throw
Dictators have their own play book. There is a chapter on using the police and/or military to make dissidents or potential opponents disappear, quake in fear and suffer for their thoughts. There is a chapter on fomenting hatred (one of the earliest, easiest lessons) - foreigners are a popular target, but it is more useful to keep the population divided. Having factions despise each other is near the top of any tyrant’s “to do” list.
What about that shining light on the hill, what is our predictable response to these autocratic rulers? To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. We send in troops or, at the very least, not-so-secretly train the insurgents we like on how to be better soldiers. And then we wonder why, a few years later, they are shooting at us.
I am neither male nor particularly enamored of hammers, my background is teaching, training and education. When I see problems, I throw the book at them. The time has come to write the rebuttal to the Dictator’s Guide to Ruling the Universe. We need to take our book and courses and dispatch professors to instruct self-selected students on how to move from Demoralized to Democratized.
Chapters should include:
“What happens after the tear gas”
“You Say you want a revolution - but what do you really want?”
“How to Change ,rather than Torture, Hearts and Minds”
We might even persuade Jimmy Carter to teach the course on “Unmasking Election Fraud - preventing and detecting.”
FDR had his domestic revitalization programs, Kennedy had his Peace Corps, now it is Obama’s turn. Americans must give the oppressed people of the world the tools they need to create Democracies.
And when the courses are developed and being taught overseas, maybe we can save a few instructors to stay here in the US and teach our citizens, especially our children, Democracy 101.
What about that shining light on the hill, what is our predictable response to these autocratic rulers? To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. We send in troops or, at the very least, not-so-secretly train the insurgents we like on how to be better soldiers. And then we wonder why, a few years later, they are shooting at us.
I am neither male nor particularly enamored of hammers, my background is teaching, training and education. When I see problems, I throw the book at them. The time has come to write the rebuttal to the Dictator’s Guide to Ruling the Universe. We need to take our book and courses and dispatch professors to instruct self-selected students on how to move from Demoralized to Democratized.
Chapters should include:
“What happens after the tear gas”
“You Say you want a revolution - but what do you really want?”
“How to Change ,rather than Torture, Hearts and Minds”
We might even persuade Jimmy Carter to teach the course on “Unmasking Election Fraud - preventing and detecting.”
FDR had his domestic revitalization programs, Kennedy had his Peace Corps, now it is Obama’s turn. Americans must give the oppressed people of the world the tools they need to create Democracies.
And when the courses are developed and being taught overseas, maybe we can save a few instructors to stay here in the US and teach our citizens, especially our children, Democracy 101.
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