Friday, August 5, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Unconditional love .....
As a horizontally challenged American, I am constantly reminded by everyone, and everything around me, that I should not be comfortable with who I am or how I look.
To add insult to injury, I am made to feel lazy and slovenly by stupid reality programs.
Sure, I could lose 100 pounds if I was permitted to leave my practice, get away from my family, have a personal trainer that works only with me 24/7, and have all of my meals prepared by a professional chef who can make tofu and kale sound scrumptious and sinful! Oh yeah, and I did not have to foot the bill for any of this!
Stupid shows make it look even easier than it every could be to "just stop being fat."
So, I plod along in constant paranoia that my bulging middle might appear anonymously in some local news piece about obesity. You know, the insulting stock footage they all use just to show how Americans are fat.
Then there are those without real weight issues who constantly bemoan how hard it is to stay thin. The are constantly saying in front of my glorious mass how fat they think they are.
These assholes make me so mad I just want to sit on their damn chest and choke the living shit out of them.
Listen you stupid waif, just because you weigh 115pounds now, and you weighed 101 in high school 20 years ago, YOU ARE NOT MORBIDLY OBESE.
So, I decided to try and do something about it that might casue a radical change in my appearance.
Oh, you're probably wanting to know when I was going to get to that "unconditional love" stuff?
Well, last night, my six year old became visibly upset when she heard about it. She was not dismayed by the fear of surgery, or the pain that I might experience.
No, she gave me the greatest demonstration of love I have ever witnessed.
"Daddy, you are perfect just the way that you are. You won't look like my Daddy anymore. I won't recognize you."
Well, I won't lie, I get all misty just typing this text. Despite everything that society does to make me embarassed about my weight, my littlest girl let me know that I am A-OK, Number One in her book.
Now, I'll still try to do what needs to be done, but I am going to do it so I can be around for all three of my girls.
I am going to do what it takes to be around for a long time so I can prove to my girls that Daddy is the man they believe he is in this world.
I am going to do it to unconditionally love them.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
This Lent thing is already killing me ....
So, for Lent I decided to give up posting relevant rants about political issues.
Recently my wife and sisters-in-law encouraged both my mother and my mother-in-law to each join the Facebook community. Well, obviously I could not "ignore" the request from the woman who gave life to me, and therefore I have my Mom as one of my FB friends. (it was unanimously decided between myself, my spouse, and my father-in-law that, for the sake of all that was Holy and good in the Universe, my mother-in-law not be able to read my postings) I was disturbed then when recently I inquired as to whether my dearest Mom followed my humorous postings, only to discover that she did indeed "read my rants."
So, I started thinking that I did spend an good bit of my verbiage to complain about politics and the stupidity that I would read. Perhaps I had become too attached to the ability to vent publicly? With this new insight in hand, I decided I had my Lenten vow.
Well, now I find myself frustrated!!!
I never realized how liberating it was to stand on the "virtual steps" of the "online" version of the Roman Forum and scream my opinions to all that would listen. Hell, I even enjoyed a bit of "stir the pot" just to get people involved and commenting to my posts. I was having fun seeing all of the interest that my words and opinions (however liberal, conservative, or just plain perverse) could generate.
I find myself voluntarily muzzled for the last 48 hours.
I have several times concocted poignant points, only to remember that, damn, I have to keep them to myself!?!?!
So, I will seek to persevere in this continuing sacrificial endeavor for the remaining days and nights.
Really, this may have been the hardest Lenten sacrifice?
Dumbass, I should've just stuck with giving up chocolate (again)!!!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Really people, this is why you should answer the Census
It bothers me to hear recent "right wing" hacks and politicians encourage a national refusal to respond to the Census forms we are receiving in the mail right about now.
According to ultra-"right wing" crack pot, House Rep. Michele Bachmann (R.-MN), this CONSTITUTIONALLY REQUIRED process (Article I, Section 2, Para. 3 if your interested) is tantamount to "big brother" (and to those of you generationally challenged, I mean Orwell and not the CBS show):
"Take this into consideration. If we look at American history, between 1942 and 1947, the data that was collected by the Census Bureau was handed over to the FBI and other organizations at the request of President Roosevelt, and that's how the Japanese were rounded up and put into the internment camps ... I'm not saying that that's what the Administration is planning to do, but I am saying that private personal information that was given to the Census Bureau in the 1940s was used against Americans to round them up, in a violation of their constitutional rights, and put the Japanese in internment camps."
She says she will not provide anymore than the number of people living in her home.
Then outspoken mouthpiece/entertainer/snake oil salesman, GLEN BECK, also equates the Census to slavery. What the hell? I bet neither one of these people would have even balked at the Japanese internment -- I feel confident that each would have the most outspoken of supporters!
Really, you want to go with that argument for refusing to follow and obey THE LAW?!?
First and foremost, the internment of American Citizens for nothing more than the nation of their ancestry is but one of SEVERAL blights on our history as a growing nation.
Yep, there were a few mistakes or minor "hick-ups" in our national development like the displacement of the ENTIRE indigenous population in favor of manifest destiny, the "War of Northern Aggression," the justification of segregation in Plessy v. Furgeson, and the Dred Scott decision which closed the books on the justified rights of African-Americans for the next 100 years by giving the important status of chattel to be owned, and not human to be free. That's just a few that jump to mind here at my desk.
Well, that is, if the Texas State School Board has not already voted to remove these issues from historical discourse in a classroom? But, I digress.
It is not my intent to bash the nation of my birth, the one place on this planet that my ancestors struggled, scrimped, and saved to relocate to for a better life. Instead, it is because of the Census that I can learn more about my personal history, and more importantly, where I came from to guide my path.
In 1929, a 19 year old Irish girl boarded the RMS Adriatic, owned by the White Star line, and came to this country to follow her dreams. That family history was always clear as my maternal grandmother was still around to tell her stories to my mother. These were later passed from mother to son in the most ancient of traditions.
But what of Georges Edouard Govignon, my great grandfather, who was born in France on February 24, 1888? After all, I carry this man's name, gave this name to my wife, and passed this name on to my two daughters.
I could learn no history from this man directly, as of course, he had long since passed away prior to my birth in 1970. I knew the legend about how a young man from Dijon traveled to this country and find his way to Lodi to work the vines. Problem was, he ended up in Lodi, New Jersey, and not California. Also, I had always been told that the present pronunciation of my last name, not the proper French, had come from his relocation into a largely "Italian" neighborhood.
But for the United States Census, I would have never discovered the truth to any of these claims.
In 1900, through these government records, I have discovered that Georges was living in a home owned by Albert Faesch, himself a Swiss immigrant in the City of Lodi, Bergen County, New Jersey. Well, seems the "Lodi" part of the legend was right.
Problem is this: the census record indicates that Georges came here with his mother, Marie, in 1889 -- making him only 1 or maybe 2 years of age at the time of his immigration." The mystery becomes only more complex by the new addition that my great grandfather is listed as "Step Son."
Huh?
Then, in 1910 something interesting happens. Albert Faesch is again listed, but now he is a widower and little Georges (actually 21) is no where to be found.
What happened to Georges? Thanks to the 1920 Census, he reappears right there in Lodi, Bergen County, NJ. Now he is 30 years of age and married to woman named Rose. He has a two year old named George Edward (my paternal grandfather). Thanks to his lawful participation, I can now, nearly 90 years later, discover that he became a naturalized citizen in 1919. Ironically, this is two years AFTER he registered for the draft in WWI on June 5, 1917.
I now know why my Grandfather was not called "junior." His spelling dropped the French "s" and adopted the English spelling for "Edward."
Thanks to this constitutional counting, I have discovered or confirmed where the "Italian" phonetic pronunciation of my name originated. Right there in Lodi where Georges lived with 50 of his neighbors, 30 of which listed Italian as their "mother tongue."
In 1930, Georges is 42 and now has a second son, Edward. He has transformed from a renter, and has purchased his own home for $6,000.00. Now it is revealed that he was 25 years old when he married Rose, sometime around 1913. I discover that he never attended college, and apparently worked in management as an accountant/timekeeper/paymaster for the local dye works for most of his adult life.
Alas, this is where the trail ends, for now. Thanks to the United States Census, I have a picture of the man who brought my family name to this Country shortly before the turn of the century. I have been able to put "flesh" upon those old bones. Evidence has been provided to explain how my name is pronounced.
Just think, none of this would have been possible had Georges, the immigrant turned United States Citizen, had never bothered to comply with a simple, legal request.
What would I have been able to discover had only the number of people in his home have been shared?
Go now, do your duty as an American and answer your Census.
Actually, ours came to the house yesterday. I know that I will tonight.
According to ultra-"right wing" crack pot, House Rep. Michele Bachmann (R.-MN), this CONSTITUTIONALLY REQUIRED process (Article I, Section 2, Para. 3 if your interested) is tantamount to "big brother" (and to those of you generationally challenged, I mean Orwell and not the CBS show):
"Take this into consideration. If we look at American history, between 1942 and 1947, the data that was collected by the Census Bureau was handed over to the FBI and other organizations at the request of President Roosevelt, and that's how the Japanese were rounded up and put into the internment camps ... I'm not saying that that's what the Administration is planning to do, but I am saying that private personal information that was given to the Census Bureau in the 1940s was used against Americans to round them up, in a violation of their constitutional rights, and put the Japanese in internment camps."
She says she will not provide anymore than the number of people living in her home.
Then outspoken mouthpiece/entertainer/snake oil salesman, GLEN BECK, also equates the Census to slavery. What the hell? I bet neither one of these people would have even balked at the Japanese internment -- I feel confident that each would have the most outspoken of supporters!
Really, you want to go with that argument for refusing to follow and obey THE LAW?!?
First and foremost, the internment of American Citizens for nothing more than the nation of their ancestry is but one of SEVERAL blights on our history as a growing nation.
Yep, there were a few mistakes or minor "hick-ups" in our national development like the displacement of the ENTIRE indigenous population in favor of manifest destiny, the "War of Northern Aggression," the justification of segregation in Plessy v. Furgeson, and the Dred Scott decision which closed the books on the justified rights of African-Americans for the next 100 years by giving the important status of chattel to be owned, and not human to be free. That's just a few that jump to mind here at my desk.
Well, that is, if the Texas State School Board has not already voted to remove these issues from historical discourse in a classroom? But, I digress.
It is not my intent to bash the nation of my birth, the one place on this planet that my ancestors struggled, scrimped, and saved to relocate to for a better life. Instead, it is because of the Census that I can learn more about my personal history, and more importantly, where I came from to guide my path.
In 1929, a 19 year old Irish girl boarded the RMS Adriatic, owned by the White Star line, and came to this country to follow her dreams. That family history was always clear as my maternal grandmother was still around to tell her stories to my mother. These were later passed from mother to son in the most ancient of traditions.
But what of Georges Edouard Govignon, my great grandfather, who was born in France on February 24, 1888? After all, I carry this man's name, gave this name to my wife, and passed this name on to my two daughters.
I could learn no history from this man directly, as of course, he had long since passed away prior to my birth in 1970. I knew the legend about how a young man from Dijon traveled to this country and find his way to Lodi to work the vines. Problem was, he ended up in Lodi, New Jersey, and not California. Also, I had always been told that the present pronunciation of my last name, not the proper French, had come from his relocation into a largely "Italian" neighborhood.
But for the United States Census, I would have never discovered the truth to any of these claims.
In 1900, through these government records, I have discovered that Georges was living in a home owned by Albert Faesch, himself a Swiss immigrant in the City of Lodi, Bergen County, New Jersey. Well, seems the "Lodi" part of the legend was right.
Problem is this: the census record indicates that Georges came here with his mother, Marie, in 1889 -- making him only 1 or maybe 2 years of age at the time of his immigration." The mystery becomes only more complex by the new addition that my great grandfather is listed as "Step Son."
Huh?
Then, in 1910 something interesting happens. Albert Faesch is again listed, but now he is a widower and little Georges (actually 21) is no where to be found.
What happened to Georges? Thanks to the 1920 Census, he reappears right there in Lodi, Bergen County, NJ. Now he is 30 years of age and married to woman named Rose. He has a two year old named George Edward (my paternal grandfather). Thanks to his lawful participation, I can now, nearly 90 years later, discover that he became a naturalized citizen in 1919. Ironically, this is two years AFTER he registered for the draft in WWI on June 5, 1917.
I now know why my Grandfather was not called "junior." His spelling dropped the French "s" and adopted the English spelling for "Edward."
Thanks to this constitutional counting, I have discovered or confirmed where the "Italian" phonetic pronunciation of my name originated. Right there in Lodi where Georges lived with 50 of his neighbors, 30 of which listed Italian as their "mother tongue."
In 1930, Georges is 42 and now has a second son, Edward. He has transformed from a renter, and has purchased his own home for $6,000.00. Now it is revealed that he was 25 years old when he married Rose, sometime around 1913. I discover that he never attended college, and apparently worked in management as an accountant/timekeeper/paymaster for the local dye works for most of his adult life.
Alas, this is where the trail ends, for now. Thanks to the United States Census, I have a picture of the man who brought my family name to this Country shortly before the turn of the century. I have been able to put "flesh" upon those old bones. Evidence has been provided to explain how my name is pronounced.
Just think, none of this would have been possible had Georges, the immigrant turned United States Citizen, had never bothered to comply with a simple, legal request.
What would I have been able to discover had only the number of people in his home have been shared?
Go now, do your duty as an American and answer your Census.
Actually, ours came to the house yesterday. I know that I will tonight.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
A wee bit 'o humour on this me Patron Saint's Day
While everyday I am proud of my direct lineal Irish heritage, I really get excited as this is also the feast of MY Patron Saint.
My Saint is the cool one, the one that EVERYBODY LOVES, and the one that apparently forgives and encourages the most sin. Take that St. Valentine!
Beyond the party, the stout, and everything green, this day is very special to me, because of one young lady who took that great trip across the Atlantic on a White Star Liner to pass on her legacy in the new world. A woman of about 20 years of age who came to this Country to live out the American Dream. I talk of my maternal Grandmother, Margret "Peggy" Barrett O'Brien.
I had only one grandparent that I ever really had the chance to know before I lost them all. My mother's mother, an immigrant who persevered through all types of hardships in Ireland, and later in her journey to the States, was my cherished Grandma Peggy, my Irish Queen. As the oldest child of our little clan, I had the most time with her before she began to deteriorate in 1981, and ultimately wander on home to God in 1985.
I can't remember how to say the "Hail Mary" in Gaelic an more.
I can't share a BLT, hold the mayo and the "t" with my beloved Irish Queen.
I can no longer argue with her about the fact that Star Trek IS NOT the devil and I will not go to hell for watching it.
My mind struggles now to remember the sound of her voice and that soft remnant of a brogue colored by a life in the North, and later Atlanta.
I will always remember that Morrison's was HER restaurant.
I will miss her chocolate iced, yellow layer cake that she would make only for me.
I mourn my Grandma Peggy. These days I regret that I never had the chance to sit down with her and hear all of her life's rich and wonderful tales. I wish that she had been there to bless my children when they were born.
I choose to remember her in a more traditional way. Why bog myself down with tears and remorse when I should reach out to grab life and suck out it's marrow. Why taste the salt of regret, when a nice pint of stout chased by a great shot of Irish whiskey tastes so much better. Remember the good that was a person's life, and relish all that they meant to this world.
I will always remember my Grandma Peggy's laugh and the way that she could appreciate humor (or humour) and I celebrate her life with a good Irish pub joke that I am sure would have her rollin':
"An Irish man shows up in a pub one day and orders three pints of Guinness. He takes sips from each glass until they are empty and calls the bartender for three more.
The bartender says, 'Sure it's up to yourself, but wouldn't you rather I was bringing them one at a time? Then they'll be fresh and cold.'
'Nah...' your man says, ' I'm preferrin' that ye bring 'em three at a time. You see, me and me two brothers would meet at a pub and drink and have good times. Now one is in Australia, the other in Canada and I'm here. We agreed before we split up that we'd drink to each other's honour this way.'
'Well,' says the bartender, 'that's a grand thing to do, all right. I'll bring the pints as you ask.'
Well, time goes on and your man's peculiar habit is known and accepted by all the pub regulars. One day though, he comes in and orders only two pints. A hush falls over the pub. Naturally, everyone figures something happened to one of the brothers. A group of the regulars corner the bartender and finally persuade him to find out what happened.
With a heavy heart, the bartender brings the two pints and says, 'Here's your pints... and let me offer my sincerest condolences. What happened?'
The Irish man looks extremely puzzled for a moment, and then starts laughing.
'Oh, no, no, no! 'Tis nothing like that. You see, I've given up drinking for Lent...'
So you beautiful Irish Queen, I will raise my glass tomorrow and drink the pint I could never share with you. I will try to remember that life is so short, and that there is still so much to live. I will remember that someday, with God's will, I will see you again.
AND TO ALL WHO MIGHT READ THIS TOMORROW, I leave you with this traditional and old Irish blessing that my mother toasted us with on our wedding day, and you pass a framed copy on your left as you leave my home:
"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand."
Beannachtam na Feile Padraig!
My Saint is the cool one, the one that EVERYBODY LOVES, and the one that apparently forgives and encourages the most sin. Take that St. Valentine!
Beyond the party, the stout, and everything green, this day is very special to me, because of one young lady who took that great trip across the Atlantic on a White Star Liner to pass on her legacy in the new world. A woman of about 20 years of age who came to this Country to live out the American Dream. I talk of my maternal Grandmother, Margret "Peggy" Barrett O'Brien.
I had only one grandparent that I ever really had the chance to know before I lost them all. My mother's mother, an immigrant who persevered through all types of hardships in Ireland, and later in her journey to the States, was my cherished Grandma Peggy, my Irish Queen. As the oldest child of our little clan, I had the most time with her before she began to deteriorate in 1981, and ultimately wander on home to God in 1985.
I can't remember how to say the "Hail Mary" in Gaelic an more.
I can't share a BLT, hold the mayo and the "t" with my beloved Irish Queen.
I can no longer argue with her about the fact that Star Trek IS NOT the devil and I will not go to hell for watching it.
My mind struggles now to remember the sound of her voice and that soft remnant of a brogue colored by a life in the North, and later Atlanta.
I will always remember that Morrison's was HER restaurant.
I will miss her chocolate iced, yellow layer cake that she would make only for me.
I mourn my Grandma Peggy. These days I regret that I never had the chance to sit down with her and hear all of her life's rich and wonderful tales. I wish that she had been there to bless my children when they were born.
I choose to remember her in a more traditional way. Why bog myself down with tears and remorse when I should reach out to grab life and suck out it's marrow. Why taste the salt of regret, when a nice pint of stout chased by a great shot of Irish whiskey tastes so much better. Remember the good that was a person's life, and relish all that they meant to this world.
I will always remember my Grandma Peggy's laugh and the way that she could appreciate humor (or humour) and I celebrate her life with a good Irish pub joke that I am sure would have her rollin':
"An Irish man shows up in a pub one day and orders three pints of Guinness. He takes sips from each glass until they are empty and calls the bartender for three more.
The bartender says, 'Sure it's up to yourself, but wouldn't you rather I was bringing them one at a time? Then they'll be fresh and cold.'
'Nah...' your man says, ' I'm preferrin' that ye bring 'em three at a time. You see, me and me two brothers would meet at a pub and drink and have good times. Now one is in Australia, the other in Canada and I'm here. We agreed before we split up that we'd drink to each other's honour this way.'
'Well,' says the bartender, 'that's a grand thing to do, all right. I'll bring the pints as you ask.'
Well, time goes on and your man's peculiar habit is known and accepted by all the pub regulars. One day though, he comes in and orders only two pints. A hush falls over the pub. Naturally, everyone figures something happened to one of the brothers. A group of the regulars corner the bartender and finally persuade him to find out what happened.
With a heavy heart, the bartender brings the two pints and says, 'Here's your pints... and let me offer my sincerest condolences. What happened?'
The Irish man looks extremely puzzled for a moment, and then starts laughing.
'Oh, no, no, no! 'Tis nothing like that. You see, I've given up drinking for Lent...'
So you beautiful Irish Queen, I will raise my glass tomorrow and drink the pint I could never share with you. I will try to remember that life is so short, and that there is still so much to live. I will remember that someday, with God's will, I will see you again.
AND TO ALL WHO MIGHT READ THIS TOMORROW, I leave you with this traditional and old Irish blessing that my mother toasted us with on our wedding day, and you pass a framed copy on your left as you leave my home:
"May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand."
Beannachtam na Feile Padraig!
Friday, March 5, 2010
Yep, call me lazy ....
I wanted to try and post something terribly insightful today, but to tell you the truth, it has been a long week and I am tired. I have a great deal to work on, and I thought I would be "green" and recycle in an effort to save time.
About a year or so ago, people were posting these "25 things about you" lists. I took a moment to read mine this morning and was pretty jazzed by what I thought about a year ago. Therefor, I thought I should post it again as a blog entry to tell you a bit more about the man in the mirror so enjoy my "25 things:"
1. I made an art of procrastination, like doing this list when I have more than enough to do on my desk.
2. I voted for Barak Obama proudly and even donated enough money to be reported so I could be counted amongst his supporters. This is the first time in my 38 years that I have heard someone I respect speak and truly inspire me mentally and emotionally to be a better person, demonstrate pride in being an American, and boldly ask "What do you need me to do?"
3. I love my wife as she is my best friend in the entire world and my partner on our journey and worry that I do not do enough to show her how much she really means to me each day.
4. I really like to win in court. I really like to be in court during the heat of battle and LOVE when I have a wicked cross examination.
5. I can be grumpy and snappy even when I don't intend to be and that bothers me.
6. I can't stand talking on the phone after having it glued to my head all day at work.
7. I love my girls and lay awake at night wondering if I will be the kind of Daddy they deserve. I don't want them to ever grow up.
8. I feel guilty whenever I don't win a case for a client and beat myself up for letting them down.
9. I think that Dad's deserve a great deal more than they are given in our legal system. In the modern era sexism is still very much a part of any custody case whether we will admit it or not.
10. Some days I think that it is a good thing I love the law, because those days I hate my job.
11. You will rarely hear me admit when I am wrong -- it is just not in my nature to concede any point on any subject and sometimes I think this gets in the way of my relationships with others.
12. I am proud that I am a geek and love science fiction shows and movies.
13. Playing games on a console or a computer are my best ways to relax and get lost after a bad day.
14. Exercise -- just do not do enough of this at all and that bothers me because I need to take much better care of myself than I do to ensure that I am around for my wife and daughters.
15. I am absolutely happy having two daughters and did not want to have a boy.
16. Auburn Football -- know it, love it, worship it -- if you know me now in my mid-life years, you know that I bleed orange and blue and that I have EARNED the right not to have to take crap about it.
17. I could be a better man, father, husband, and Christian every day.
18. I did not have a great deal of fond memories of high school -- life began for me in college and I really miss my group of friends in law school after all those hours, days, weeks, months, and years we spent together.
19. Sometimes I wonder what life could have been like if I had taken the opportunity presented to me to play college football in New York. Where would I be now?
20. I HATE TEXT MESSAGING AND THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE BY OUR YOUTH AND THIS DAMNED TECHNOLOGY. I treasure the art of the word and the ability to convey thought by prose. I envy a time when writing letters was the only real means of communication -- they could employ the language so eloquently back then.
21. I loved working at the student newspaper in college and secretly harbored a desire to change majors to abandon a pursuit of law.
22. I still like toys.
23. I get nervous every morning when I have a case on the calendar and usually will not eat to keep from throwing up. Somebody once said that the "butterflies" were important because they prevented you from getting cocky.
24. I am pro-choice because, while I personally think that abortion is morally wrong, it is for the individual to exercise their morality in making the decision and not the government. Also, if God made this miracle and man should not interfere, then I believe that means of artificially creating life outside the womb are also as wrong because man is so vain as to contradict God's will.
25. I dread the fact that someday I will have to bury my parents.
About a year or so ago, people were posting these "25 things about you" lists. I took a moment to read mine this morning and was pretty jazzed by what I thought about a year ago. Therefor, I thought I should post it again as a blog entry to tell you a bit more about the man in the mirror so enjoy my "25 things:"
1. I made an art of procrastination, like doing this list when I have more than enough to do on my desk.
2. I voted for Barak Obama proudly and even donated enough money to be reported so I could be counted amongst his supporters. This is the first time in my 38 years that I have heard someone I respect speak and truly inspire me mentally and emotionally to be a better person, demonstrate pride in being an American, and boldly ask "What do you need me to do?"
3. I love my wife as she is my best friend in the entire world and my partner on our journey and worry that I do not do enough to show her how much she really means to me each day.
4. I really like to win in court. I really like to be in court during the heat of battle and LOVE when I have a wicked cross examination.
5. I can be grumpy and snappy even when I don't intend to be and that bothers me.
6. I can't stand talking on the phone after having it glued to my head all day at work.
7. I love my girls and lay awake at night wondering if I will be the kind of Daddy they deserve. I don't want them to ever grow up.
8. I feel guilty whenever I don't win a case for a client and beat myself up for letting them down.
9. I think that Dad's deserve a great deal more than they are given in our legal system. In the modern era sexism is still very much a part of any custody case whether we will admit it or not.
10. Some days I think that it is a good thing I love the law, because those days I hate my job.
11. You will rarely hear me admit when I am wrong -- it is just not in my nature to concede any point on any subject and sometimes I think this gets in the way of my relationships with others.
12. I am proud that I am a geek and love science fiction shows and movies.
13. Playing games on a console or a computer are my best ways to relax and get lost after a bad day.
14. Exercise -- just do not do enough of this at all and that bothers me because I need to take much better care of myself than I do to ensure that I am around for my wife and daughters.
15. I am absolutely happy having two daughters and did not want to have a boy.
16. Auburn Football -- know it, love it, worship it -- if you know me now in my mid-life years, you know that I bleed orange and blue and that I have EARNED the right not to have to take crap about it.
17. I could be a better man, father, husband, and Christian every day.
18. I did not have a great deal of fond memories of high school -- life began for me in college and I really miss my group of friends in law school after all those hours, days, weeks, months, and years we spent together.
19. Sometimes I wonder what life could have been like if I had taken the opportunity presented to me to play college football in New York. Where would I be now?
20. I HATE TEXT MESSAGING AND THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE BY OUR YOUTH AND THIS DAMNED TECHNOLOGY. I treasure the art of the word and the ability to convey thought by prose. I envy a time when writing letters was the only real means of communication -- they could employ the language so eloquently back then.
21. I loved working at the student newspaper in college and secretly harbored a desire to change majors to abandon a pursuit of law.
22. I still like toys.
23. I get nervous every morning when I have a case on the calendar and usually will not eat to keep from throwing up. Somebody once said that the "butterflies" were important because they prevented you from getting cocky.
24. I am pro-choice because, while I personally think that abortion is morally wrong, it is for the individual to exercise their morality in making the decision and not the government. Also, if God made this miracle and man should not interfere, then I believe that means of artificially creating life outside the womb are also as wrong because man is so vain as to contradict God's will.
25. I dread the fact that someday I will have to bury my parents.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Ooops .... I knew there was something I forgot to do.
Yeah, I forgot to post anything this week, and only once last week. Sue me. Really, I could use the retainer.
Trouble with life is that it often finds a way to interfere with the fun stuff. I have determined that, if I want to continue to be a blogger worth a damn, I have to find the time to post, and keep posting at regular intervals, if not everyday. How the hell do I expect to build any readership if I don't provide anything to read. (assuming that more people than my wife are actually reading -- seriously, a bit of feed back would be nice)
Unfortunately, while there are the standard distractions of family, employment, and money management, there have been the Olympics barring my quiet time in the basement. Additionally, and pleasantly, work has found a way to prevent me from spending time pining away the hours in procrastination espousing my "bloggy" wisdom.
Things seem to be picking up in the economy. This may be a purely anecdotal observation on my part, but cases are rolling in and some bills are beginning to find satisfaction. The problem is that during this time every year there is a spike in filings and new clients. Why you might ask?
Tax Season.
No, I don't mean needing help filing. I refer instead to the fact that people are now flush with cash as a result of rapid refunds and electronic filing. Myself, I have not seen a "refund" since about 1998 and I am no longer familiar with this alien concept of the "gov'ment" giving back money once a year.
So, is the recent dramatic rise in my own available resources a result of the annual "tax spike," or have we started to turn a corner in the economy?
It feels like this is more than that annual litigation fest caused by large sums of redistributed funds. For example, last year one could sense that people were guarded and weary. Rather than splurge on that new divorce, or file to finally have custody of a child, the populace seemed more concerned with paying debts or "squirreling" money away in trepidation of a more serious crisis on the horizon.
By no means do I allude to a return to the largess of the early years of this new century. Sorry, that may or may never happen. As a student of history (really, a double minor even), I harken back to the fact that the "Great Depression" may have been set off in 1929, things were still pretty bad by 1935.
So things may be looking up on the local front. Still think I might put off the purchase of that new laptop for a few more months just to be sure.
Trouble with life is that it often finds a way to interfere with the fun stuff. I have determined that, if I want to continue to be a blogger worth a damn, I have to find the time to post, and keep posting at regular intervals, if not everyday. How the hell do I expect to build any readership if I don't provide anything to read. (assuming that more people than my wife are actually reading -- seriously, a bit of feed back would be nice)
Unfortunately, while there are the standard distractions of family, employment, and money management, there have been the Olympics barring my quiet time in the basement. Additionally, and pleasantly, work has found a way to prevent me from spending time pining away the hours in procrastination espousing my "bloggy" wisdom.
Things seem to be picking up in the economy. This may be a purely anecdotal observation on my part, but cases are rolling in and some bills are beginning to find satisfaction. The problem is that during this time every year there is a spike in filings and new clients. Why you might ask?
Tax Season.
No, I don't mean needing help filing. I refer instead to the fact that people are now flush with cash as a result of rapid refunds and electronic filing. Myself, I have not seen a "refund" since about 1998 and I am no longer familiar with this alien concept of the "gov'ment" giving back money once a year.
So, is the recent dramatic rise in my own available resources a result of the annual "tax spike," or have we started to turn a corner in the economy?
It feels like this is more than that annual litigation fest caused by large sums of redistributed funds. For example, last year one could sense that people were guarded and weary. Rather than splurge on that new divorce, or file to finally have custody of a child, the populace seemed more concerned with paying debts or "squirreling" money away in trepidation of a more serious crisis on the horizon.
By no means do I allude to a return to the largess of the early years of this new century. Sorry, that may or may never happen. As a student of history (really, a double minor even), I harken back to the fact that the "Great Depression" may have been set off in 1929, things were still pretty bad by 1935.
So things may be looking up on the local front. Still think I might put off the purchase of that new laptop for a few more months just to be sure.
Friday, February 19, 2010
$1.99 for fried rice? WTF?
Last night, in honor of my surrogate son's 12th birthday, we dined on sushi and teppenyaki.
As one given to the wonders of umami and the art of cold vinegar rice, I am often caught aghast by the very last dish delivered to that table.
You know, the most dangerous of crockery, the most potentially toxic of all culinary experiences.
No, not the candied ginger.
Nope, not an accidental overdose of wasabi.
Not sashimi of Tessa (puffer fish) that can cause paralysis if prepared improperly.
Ladies and gentlemen, I speak instead to that most dreaded of platters, the one that comes to the table carrying the bill.
My spouse says that I cannot be trusted with a sushi menu. Apparently, I tend to get a bit too over eager when making my selections on the order form. Seems that I transform instanter into an imbecilic idiot, blinded by aliment ambition, and completely ignorant to the fact that I just ordered some 50 or 60 bite size pieces. On one occasion, after having a dalliance with the wonderful list of comestible ecstacy and a writing utensil, I discovered I'd indeed ordered about $200.00 worth of rice, seaweed, and bait.
Last night, however, was rather unique.
It was not the price of the sushi that sent my world into a spin. Self control had been displayed.
There weren't outrageous bar tab charges to swallow. Only one large Asahi.
No, my shock came at the price added to each hibachi dinner for fried rice.
What the hell?
As a student of all things Japanese (even studied the language for one year in college), I am the first to acknowledge that these people have a routine for everything. Seriously, I am not sure whether or not there might be an ornate ritual attached to merely wiping one's own arse. Have you ever watched them make tea? For the love of all that is holy, it is just dried leaves and hot water dammit.
Did I slip into some alternate universe? Had I consumed liquid from the wrong bottle, traveled to wonderland to hang with Johnny Depp?
When did fried rice cost extra at a damn teppenyaki table?
The preparation of the meal is uniform. The performance almost scripted. Fried rice -- followed by meat-- concluding with vegetables.
Entertainment blended with piquant use of scythe and spatula.
Hell, they all make the same onion volcano and convert it into a "choo choo" train, don't they? How many times have I seen the egg spin/"egg roll" joke throughout my life's travels?
In EVERY teppanyaki joint I have visited, without fail or departure from the norm, part of the culinary ritual is the damned fried rice! When did this become an "add on," an option that was not normally available. Shit, I remember when getting the bland, starchy steamed rice was the actual "special request."
I have never been afraid of spending money on a nice meal. To me, there really is no problem with "sticker shock" if I enjoyed the art and magic presented by any chef ,regardless of the style of preparation.
Seriously, no wonder we have economic problems.
What is next?
Are we going to have to pay extra for sauce for the barbeque?
Are there going to be "ala carte" itemized expenses for the "all you can eat" salad bar items?
Will salt on french fries require a premium upgrade?
Will ice in a $3.00 soft drink require a $1.99 surcharge?
As one given to the wonders of umami and the art of cold vinegar rice, I am often caught aghast by the very last dish delivered to that table.
You know, the most dangerous of crockery, the most potentially toxic of all culinary experiences.
No, not the candied ginger.
Nope, not an accidental overdose of wasabi.
Not sashimi of Tessa (puffer fish) that can cause paralysis if prepared improperly.
Ladies and gentlemen, I speak instead to that most dreaded of platters, the one that comes to the table carrying the bill.
My spouse says that I cannot be trusted with a sushi menu. Apparently, I tend to get a bit too over eager when making my selections on the order form. Seems that I transform instanter into an imbecilic idiot, blinded by aliment ambition, and completely ignorant to the fact that I just ordered some 50 or 60 bite size pieces. On one occasion, after having a dalliance with the wonderful list of comestible ecstacy and a writing utensil, I discovered I'd indeed ordered about $200.00 worth of rice, seaweed, and bait.
Last night, however, was rather unique.
It was not the price of the sushi that sent my world into a spin. Self control had been displayed.
There weren't outrageous bar tab charges to swallow. Only one large Asahi.
No, my shock came at the price added to each hibachi dinner for fried rice.
What the hell?
As a student of all things Japanese (even studied the language for one year in college), I am the first to acknowledge that these people have a routine for everything. Seriously, I am not sure whether or not there might be an ornate ritual attached to merely wiping one's own arse. Have you ever watched them make tea? For the love of all that is holy, it is just dried leaves and hot water dammit.
Did I slip into some alternate universe? Had I consumed liquid from the wrong bottle, traveled to wonderland to hang with Johnny Depp?
When did fried rice cost extra at a damn teppenyaki table?
The preparation of the meal is uniform. The performance almost scripted. Fried rice -- followed by meat-- concluding with vegetables.
Entertainment blended with piquant use of scythe and spatula.
Hell, they all make the same onion volcano and convert it into a "choo choo" train, don't they? How many times have I seen the egg spin/"egg roll" joke throughout my life's travels?
In EVERY teppanyaki joint I have visited, without fail or departure from the norm, part of the culinary ritual is the damned fried rice! When did this become an "add on," an option that was not normally available. Shit, I remember when getting the bland, starchy steamed rice was the actual "special request."
I have never been afraid of spending money on a nice meal. To me, there really is no problem with "sticker shock" if I enjoyed the art and magic presented by any chef ,regardless of the style of preparation.
Seriously, no wonder we have economic problems.
What is next?
Are we going to have to pay extra for sauce for the barbeque?
Are there going to be "ala carte" itemized expenses for the "all you can eat" salad bar items?
Will salt on french fries require a premium upgrade?
Will ice in a $3.00 soft drink require a $1.99 surcharge?
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine's Day
Too much pressure. Too much agony. Too much pain.
That is Valentine's Day.
I have always thought that this was one of those "made-up," bullshit holidays anyhow.
Seriously, how did we decide to take the celebration of a patron saint who was beat to death before beheading, and suddenly make it full of red heart shaped boxes of chocolate candy?
The meaning of the holiday becomes lost on me when all I see is naked commercialism forcing poor saps to trod into card and gift stores to buy tomes of affection contained in limerick form, trinkets, baubles, and confections to demonstrate affection and care. Then there is the obligatory date, the dinner costs, the movie or entertainment expenses.
Why? Why? Why?
Is this to demonstrate "true love?" By exercising this great exercise of consumerism, are we making sure that the most important person in our lives really knows how much we care? Are we just providing a fiscal stimulus to the struggling rose flower agricultural industry?
Why do these kind acts of affection have to be limited to just one day a year? Why put all that pressure to make just one day perfect? Isn't it more important to do that everyday, or at the very least, when is not expected and a pleasant surprise?
This Tuesday, February 16, 2010 will officially commemorate the passing of 19 years since my spouse and I had our very first blind date. We have been exclusive since that point. We have been married for twelve years, working on lucky 13 as I pontificate. Oddly enough, as I find myself commiserating about the oncoming mark of "middle age" this November, my wife noted in passing that, this time next year, we will have both spent more of our lives together than without.
In 367 days, I will have been with her for more than half of my existence on the face of this planet.
I don't need a "card holiday" to remind me that I love her more today than I did all those years ago.
I don't need red and pink decorations to remind me of how cherished and special my two daughters are in my heart.
So, why then do I have to play along with Valentine's Day and do all of these things that are required by the female predisposition to this one day a year? Why am I compelled to buy cards to show my love this day picked randomly on a calendar by some guy in Rome more than 2,000 years ago?
I mean, I already have their birthdays, Mother's Day, and my anniversary to buy cards and material offerings to them feel special. These important and unique days are spent buying a nice meal, providing gifts, and require spending 30 minutes to an hour in the Hallmark store.
I guess that I simply surrender and comply because it is just expected of me.
I do the things that are required because they would be crushed if I did not perform as conditioned.
I do these things because I do actually love them.
So, like Pavlov's dog, I will probably perform my identical response next February as well.
That is Valentine's Day.
I have always thought that this was one of those "made-up," bullshit holidays anyhow.
Seriously, how did we decide to take the celebration of a patron saint who was beat to death before beheading, and suddenly make it full of red heart shaped boxes of chocolate candy?
The meaning of the holiday becomes lost on me when all I see is naked commercialism forcing poor saps to trod into card and gift stores to buy tomes of affection contained in limerick form, trinkets, baubles, and confections to demonstrate affection and care. Then there is the obligatory date, the dinner costs, the movie or entertainment expenses.
Why? Why? Why?
Is this to demonstrate "true love?" By exercising this great exercise of consumerism, are we making sure that the most important person in our lives really knows how much we care? Are we just providing a fiscal stimulus to the struggling rose flower agricultural industry?
Why do these kind acts of affection have to be limited to just one day a year? Why put all that pressure to make just one day perfect? Isn't it more important to do that everyday, or at the very least, when is not expected and a pleasant surprise?
This Tuesday, February 16, 2010 will officially commemorate the passing of 19 years since my spouse and I had our very first blind date. We have been exclusive since that point. We have been married for twelve years, working on lucky 13 as I pontificate. Oddly enough, as I find myself commiserating about the oncoming mark of "middle age" this November, my wife noted in passing that, this time next year, we will have both spent more of our lives together than without.
In 367 days, I will have been with her for more than half of my existence on the face of this planet.
I don't need a "card holiday" to remind me that I love her more today than I did all those years ago.
I don't need red and pink decorations to remind me of how cherished and special my two daughters are in my heart.
So, why then do I have to play along with Valentine's Day and do all of these things that are required by the female predisposition to this one day a year? Why am I compelled to buy cards to show my love this day picked randomly on a calendar by some guy in Rome more than 2,000 years ago?
I mean, I already have their birthdays, Mother's Day, and my anniversary to buy cards and material offerings to them feel special. These important and unique days are spent buying a nice meal, providing gifts, and require spending 30 minutes to an hour in the Hallmark store.
I guess that I simply surrender and comply because it is just expected of me.
I do the things that are required because they would be crushed if I did not perform as conditioned.
I do these things because I do actually love them.
So, like Pavlov's dog, I will probably perform my identical response next February as well.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Why pay $5.51 for coffee every morning?
Simple answer: "'Cause I can."
That sounds bad, but it is all so true. I like my coffee hot, dark, strong, bitter and with a complicated but "fancy" name. Somewhere in my head a voice is saying "like I like my women" but that could get me into ALLLLL kinds of unnecessary trouble.
Born and raised in Atlanta, schooled in a college town, and "legally educated" in Birmingham, one can become accustomed to certain privileges, amenities, conveniences, or perks. Having gourmet coffee readily available is just one of those things you come to appreciate in "the big city."
This is not intended to be snobbery, just a realization that, when watching the Food Network, the selections of ripe goat cheeses are a bit limited at the Piggly Wiggly on Red Bud Road. In the realm of seafood, "fresh" is a generic term meaning flash frozen and placed in a box at the source before being shipped in refrigerator trucks for weeks to the Food Lion. On occasion, fine wines are not even an option at Walmart, where rather than distinguish by region, varietal, or even appellation, instead the magic of the grape is segregated by Red, White, and Other.
Oh the woes of the big city boy transplanted into rural northwest Georgia these last 13 years.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I like to be extravagant and taste cultural allurment and culinary alchemy without having to drive all of the way to Atlanta or Chattanooga.
On occasion, just the whiff of finely roasted Sumatran beans can give my mind the chance to day dream of being some high priced, silk stocking attorney who has an office located in some Buckhead high rise on some obscenely numbered double digit floor. A time where my spouse has the election of staying home in our 5,000 square foot home and the children are gaining their education in a uniformed private institution. Where one of my most important daily decisions is whether I chose from one of my 50 or so finely tailored suits, or simply dress down and take the convertible to work. Where lunch alone generally requires a reservation made by my very own, attentive personal assistant.
Life is a real bitch MOST days, and that is the god's honest truth. We have our little moments, but in the long run, each passing of the sun, each rising of the moon, each complete rotation of the planet generally brings forth an entirely new set of challenges to add to those that did not resolve themselves in the day now exhausted. You have to find joy and solace where you can, and that is the way to simply deal and survive. This respite can be the laugh of your five year old, the sound of your eight year old acting out her own cooking show in the basement, or merely the gentle touch of your partner, spouse, and best friend's hand while driving in the car.
These are the things that idiots like Suze Orman don't comprehend. The soul needs its brief escapes from the ordinary human condition to survive. I heard her once go off on some poor sap about how much he was spending for his double vanilla latte at Starbuck's ever morning as he walked to work as a door man in New York. She chastised him about how, by sacrificing this one instant and ethereal moment of routine joy, he could pay off some credit card in 5 years instead of 5 years and three months. Really, wow, that seems sooooooo worth it. Thanks.
It is not that I don't believe in saving for some far off future retirement. I just feel that I can better appreciate the finer things in life such as a good vino, or a fancy named coffee, NOW while my taste buds are intact, my teeth don't need adhesive gel to stay in, and I am not back to crapping myself in diapers after a 68 year hiatus.
Yep, I pay that much for coffee, and I am damn proud of that fact 'cause I can.
That sounds bad, but it is all so true. I like my coffee hot, dark, strong, bitter and with a complicated but "fancy" name. Somewhere in my head a voice is saying "like I like my women" but that could get me into ALLLLL kinds of unnecessary trouble.
Born and raised in Atlanta, schooled in a college town, and "legally educated" in Birmingham, one can become accustomed to certain privileges, amenities, conveniences, or perks. Having gourmet coffee readily available is just one of those things you come to appreciate in "the big city."
This is not intended to be snobbery, just a realization that, when watching the Food Network, the selections of ripe goat cheeses are a bit limited at the Piggly Wiggly on Red Bud Road. In the realm of seafood, "fresh" is a generic term meaning flash frozen and placed in a box at the source before being shipped in refrigerator trucks for weeks to the Food Lion. On occasion, fine wines are not even an option at Walmart, where rather than distinguish by region, varietal, or even appellation, instead the magic of the grape is segregated by Red, White, and Other.
Oh the woes of the big city boy transplanted into rural northwest Georgia these last 13 years.
Sometimes, just sometimes, I like to be extravagant and taste cultural allurment and culinary alchemy without having to drive all of the way to Atlanta or Chattanooga.
On occasion, just the whiff of finely roasted Sumatran beans can give my mind the chance to day dream of being some high priced, silk stocking attorney who has an office located in some Buckhead high rise on some obscenely numbered double digit floor. A time where my spouse has the election of staying home in our 5,000 square foot home and the children are gaining their education in a uniformed private institution. Where one of my most important daily decisions is whether I chose from one of my 50 or so finely tailored suits, or simply dress down and take the convertible to work. Where lunch alone generally requires a reservation made by my very own, attentive personal assistant.
Life is a real bitch MOST days, and that is the god's honest truth. We have our little moments, but in the long run, each passing of the sun, each rising of the moon, each complete rotation of the planet generally brings forth an entirely new set of challenges to add to those that did not resolve themselves in the day now exhausted. You have to find joy and solace where you can, and that is the way to simply deal and survive. This respite can be the laugh of your five year old, the sound of your eight year old acting out her own cooking show in the basement, or merely the gentle touch of your partner, spouse, and best friend's hand while driving in the car.
These are the things that idiots like Suze Orman don't comprehend. The soul needs its brief escapes from the ordinary human condition to survive. I heard her once go off on some poor sap about how much he was spending for his double vanilla latte at Starbuck's ever morning as he walked to work as a door man in New York. She chastised him about how, by sacrificing this one instant and ethereal moment of routine joy, he could pay off some credit card in 5 years instead of 5 years and three months. Really, wow, that seems sooooooo worth it. Thanks.
It is not that I don't believe in saving for some far off future retirement. I just feel that I can better appreciate the finer things in life such as a good vino, or a fancy named coffee, NOW while my taste buds are intact, my teeth don't need adhesive gel to stay in, and I am not back to crapping myself in diapers after a 68 year hiatus.
Yep, I pay that much for coffee, and I am damn proud of that fact 'cause I can.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Nope, this is retarded.
WARNING: USE OF OFFENSIVE LANGUAGE AND TERMS CONTAINED WITHIN THIS BLOG FOR DEMONSTRATIVE PURPOSES. THE USE OF CERTAIN FOUR LETTER WORDS OR RACIALLY CHARGED NOUNS ARE EMPLOYED FOR THE SAKE OF THE AUTHOR'S POINT AND FOR NO OTHER PURPOSE.
From Webster's (only Etymology removed):
re·tard -- Pronunciation: \ri-ˈtärd\ -- Function: verb
transitive verb 1 : to slow up especially by preventing or hindering advance or accomplishment :impede
2 : to delay academic progress by failure to promote
2 : to delay academic progress by failure to promote
nig·ger -- Pronunciation: \ˈni-gÉ™r\ -- Function: noun
1 usually offensive; see usage paragraph below : a black person
2 usually offensive; see usage paragraph below : a member of any dark-skinned race
3 : a member of a socially disadvantaged class of personss…all the people who feel left out of the political process — Ron Dellums>
usage Nigger in senses 1 and 2 can be found in the works of such writers of the past as Joseph Conrad, Mark Twain, and Charles Dickens, but it now ranks as perhaps the most offensive and inflammatory racial slur in English. Its use by and among blacks is not always intended or taken as offensive, but, except in sense 3, it is otherwise a word expressive of racial hatred and bigotry.
1 usually offensive; see usage paragraph below : a black person
2 usually offensive; see usage paragraph below : a member of any dark-skinned race
3 : a member of a socially disadvantaged class of persons
usage Nigger in senses 1 and 2 can be found in the works of such writers of the past as Joseph Conrad, Mark Twain, and Charles Dickens, but it now ranks as perhaps the most offensive and inflammatory racial slur in English. Its use by and among blacks is not always intended or taken as offensive, but, except in sense 3, it is otherwise a word expressive of racial hatred and bigotry.
I sat and watched Sarah Palin on Fox News Sunday as I relaxed in bed, waking to the day that ahead. (At this time I refuse in principle to give her the moniker of "Governor" after she voluntarily, and without legitimate reason, just up and quit the job that she was elected to do by her Alaskan constituents) I was absolutely shocked by her casual dismissal of seemingly offensive comments by Rush Limgaugh, while in the same breath condemning the White House Chief-of-Staff for identical conduct.
My immediate and instant thought, "No mam, what you just espoused is absolutely retarded."
As background, there are a few things I should first provide for one to better understand my point.
First, I am one of those dichotomous creatures neither party seems to serve, a "Moderate." I believe in being culturally sensitive, however, I despise the recent attempts by the politically correct "Speech Police" in the last twenty or thirty years to destroy free thought and an effective use of the English language. I absolutely DESPISE the regulation of my thoughts and speech, no matter how offensive it may be perceived. Funny thing, I would also fight vehemently to protect your right to say what you want to say, even if I think it offensive, stupid, banal, or even insane. Why? In the arena of thought and speech, freedom of these concepts is the only means to insure a proper discord, to protect the ability to express one's self to others, to share points of view that my otherwise go unnoticed.
Second, some historical background for her comment. Apparently, sometime last week it was revealed that, in a private conversation in the White House between a small group of staff members, Chief-of-Staff Rahm Emanuel referred to liberal groups (apparently objecting to some aspect of the White House political agenda) as "fucking retards." (yeah I used the word -- it is a word and he said it, so I quoted it)
This comment, again said in private and not from the lectern or pulpit, brought scathing condemnation from Sarah Palin. She almost immediately went onto Facebook and responded calling essentially for his resignation or termination. (http://www.facebook.com/search/?q=Sarah+palin&init=quick#!/notes/sarah-palin/are-you-capable-of-decency-rahm-emanuel/278672843434 -- I wonder who writes this stuff for her as she is completely unable to be this articulate in public)
She equated the "R" word with using the "N" word. Oh no she didn't. Yep, she went there.
Then, when asked about the use of the same offensive "R" word on almost the same day as her post, she replied:
But the former governor went to great and sometimes awkward lengths to insist that when conservative talk show host Rush Limbaugh used the same exact term to describe the same exact group, it was simply in the role of political humorist.
"They are kooks, so I agree with Rush Limbaugh," she said, when read a quote of Limbaugh calling liberal groups "retards." "Rush Limbaugh was using satire ... . I didn't hear Rush Limbaugh calling a group of people whom he did not agree with 'f-ing retards,' and we did know that Rahm Emanuel, as has been reported, did say that. There is a big difference there."
With this historical background, I post this warning: Careful Alice, we have just fallen through the looking glass.
What the hell? Can one really be that naive, vapid, and without reasonably calculated thought? Her handlers planted this argument into her hard drive to vomit there on national television with Charles Wallace? I don't know what scares me more: she came up with this on her own, or a consensus of learned and politically savvy individuals thought this made sense?
Nope. I can't let it pass Sarah. Can't let you slide on this one. Can't just let you play the "I have a special needs kid" card for your political gain. What you said is absolutely fucking retarded.
There is ABSOLUTELY nothing different between the way this "R" word was employed by either of these two men. In ABSOLUTELY no way does the use of the "R" verb equate to the damage and destruction of the "N" noun.
I am sorry, but last time that I checked, I am not forgiven for the use of racially derogative "slang" merely because I am trying to use it for "comical satire." Last time that I checked, even when joking with my best friend, under no set of circumstances calling him a "nigger" would be acceptable. Why? Because I am white, and this term harkens back to the very notion that, because his skin is pigmented more darkly than mine, he is a subspecies who can't consider himself my equal, or even superior for that matter.
No, the condemnation of the "R" word is something new by the "Speech Police." It is more akin to people similarly situated as myself preferring to being called "Big & Tall" rather than just fat, obese, or overweight. It is an attempt to restrict the use of a perfectly good verb because of only ONE possible definition. Yeah, there ain't no "good" way for one to use the "N" word noun outside of artistic purposes.
But what about the use of the word "retarded," that is bad because it describes a person and not an activity? Sorry folks, but adding an "ed" to a verb merely makes it the past tense form. Adding the "ing" would make it an adverb. Unlike the "N" word, this harmless verb is no more destructive as an adjective or adverb like "fire retarding foam" or "flame retardant clothing."
Rahm Emanuel apologized. He met with a Kennedy/Shriver to make amends. No one seems to have considered that "preventing or hindering advance or accomplishment" may have anything to do with his description of the offending liberals.
Rush Limbaugh, on the other hand, joked about the fact that now we would have a "Retard Summit" at the White House.
Yeah, that is the same thing Sarah. But this once, I will honor your inane request that I not use the word "retard" to describe someone I find objectionable both personally and politically. Rather, I will simply call you:
Fuckin' moron.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Beaming with pride
There she sat in all of her regal and majestic glory.
The queen of the pride, the wise and graceful lioness, watched in quiet glee as her cubs gathered around her to eat. There might have been some gray in that mane, but there was still a youthful exuberance shinning in those eyes.
Content.
Happy.
At ease with life.
That was the best way to describe my mother tonight as she dined with her sons, her "daughters" (having raised only boys, she prefers to call them her daughters and not daughters in law), and finally her beautiful grand children. She may have failed to express her feelings in words, but I could read it in her face and her demeanor. Everyone home in one place.
The queen of the pride, the wise and graceful lioness, watched in quiet glee as her cubs gathered around her to eat. There might have been some gray in that mane, but there was still a youthful exuberance shinning in those eyes.
Content.
Happy.
At ease with life.
That was the best way to describe my mother tonight as she dined with her sons, her "daughters" (having raised only boys, she prefers to call them her daughters and not daughters in law), and finally her beautiful grand children. She may have failed to express her feelings in words, but I could read it in her face and her demeanor. Everyone home in one place.
Today my baby brother arrived at Hartzfield at 9:05 AM from Germany on a military charter. Just three or four days ago (he really was not sure as he was so tired) he was sweating in the "winter" in Baghdad. Now he was showered, freshly clothed, and after an afternoon at the J. W. Marriott with his wife, Uncle Mike Mike was back in the world.
We were gorging ourselves on Brazilian gaucho style barbeque. Children experimented with new tastes and culinary sensations. Even my nephew was in rare form for a two year old hellion. Everyone was smiling, joking, laughing, just having a good time. Tonight we were drunk on happiness and joy while our bowels were packing with steak.
My mother lost her father while in college. We lost my Grandma Peggy while I was in high school. Sometime after that, my mother lost her somewhat estranged brother unexpectedly. Finally, her remaining sibling, her sister, her best friend in the entire world, succumbed to cancer over 10 years ago. My mother is alone.
This evening, however, she was surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Her entire world was centered there at one table, celebrating life, celebrating family, celebrating just breaking bread together. She was happy. She was not alone.
I have never really appreciated everything that my mother did for me, or for that matter, continues to do for me as we pass through this journey together. Unfortunately, in the passage of this final year before "middle age," I have come to the realization, that someday I will not be able to call my mom, my strength, my bastion of Irish-Catholic wisdom and guidance. The realization has taken root that, as all time must move forward, I might have to say good bye to that wonderful lioness. I hope, ney I pray, that this does not come for many, many, many moons.
This evening, however, will be one of my fondest memories of my wonderful mother. In those dark days sometime in the future when I will not be able to hear her voice, I will still have this moment to remember. This seemingly insgnificant instant in time will last forever in my heart, and I will find solace in the fact that she was happy.
I love you Mom, more than you will ever know. You gave me a wonderful example of everything a person should be, and I hope that I make you proud. The love you have held in your heart only becomes ever more apparent as I watch my daughters grow.
Proud lioness, I only ask one thing of you this day -- you have to go last, don't leave me with Dad.
We were gorging ourselves on Brazilian gaucho style barbeque. Children experimented with new tastes and culinary sensations. Even my nephew was in rare form for a two year old hellion. Everyone was smiling, joking, laughing, just having a good time. Tonight we were drunk on happiness and joy while our bowels were packing with steak.
My mother lost her father while in college. We lost my Grandma Peggy while I was in high school. Sometime after that, my mother lost her somewhat estranged brother unexpectedly. Finally, her remaining sibling, her sister, her best friend in the entire world, succumbed to cancer over 10 years ago. My mother is alone.
This evening, however, she was surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Her entire world was centered there at one table, celebrating life, celebrating family, celebrating just breaking bread together. She was happy. She was not alone.
I have never really appreciated everything that my mother did for me, or for that matter, continues to do for me as we pass through this journey together. Unfortunately, in the passage of this final year before "middle age," I have come to the realization, that someday I will not be able to call my mom, my strength, my bastion of Irish-Catholic wisdom and guidance. The realization has taken root that, as all time must move forward, I might have to say good bye to that wonderful lioness. I hope, ney I pray, that this does not come for many, many, many moons.
This evening, however, will be one of my fondest memories of my wonderful mother. In those dark days sometime in the future when I will not be able to hear her voice, I will still have this moment to remember. This seemingly insgnificant instant in time will last forever in my heart, and I will find solace in the fact that she was happy.
I love you Mom, more than you will ever know. You gave me a wonderful example of everything a person should be, and I hope that I make you proud. The love you have held in your heart only becomes ever more apparent as I watch my daughters grow.
Proud lioness, I only ask one thing of you this day -- you have to go last, don't leave me with Dad.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Life is a "fun vampire"
So, while I wanted to be dedicated to posting a blog everyday, unfortunately the circumstances of life keeps getting in my way.
I love my little family and find solace in the world that surrounds me. I do, however, wonder where life might have taken me had I selected the "other" path.
The date is found in the spring of 1989. I am in the Spring semester of my post-graduate year at Hotchkiss. I have discovered myself, and discovered what I could accomplish on my own without the support structure that I left behind 1,000 miles away. What if I had elected to play football at the University of Rochester in upstate New York that Spring rather than giving into my fear? Where would I be now? What would I be doing now? Who would I call my friends and family?
It is ironic that one decision, one mere moment in time, can effect the time line that exists as the remainder of my life. The fact that in one night, I so dramatically altered the direction of travel that resulted in where I am today. In one decision, I carved out what would the future would hold.
Well, I guess I may have had too much to drink this evening ... or I did not drink enough. The deep thoughts are making my head hurt. Maybe it is the screaming children. I don't know -- just know that there is one week less in my travels toward the big 4 -0.
I love my little family and find solace in the world that surrounds me. I do, however, wonder where life might have taken me had I selected the "other" path.
The date is found in the spring of 1989. I am in the Spring semester of my post-graduate year at Hotchkiss. I have discovered myself, and discovered what I could accomplish on my own without the support structure that I left behind 1,000 miles away. What if I had elected to play football at the University of Rochester in upstate New York that Spring rather than giving into my fear? Where would I be now? What would I be doing now? Who would I call my friends and family?
It is ironic that one decision, one mere moment in time, can effect the time line that exists as the remainder of my life. The fact that in one night, I so dramatically altered the direction of travel that resulted in where I am today. In one decision, I carved out what would the future would hold.
Well, I guess I may have had too much to drink this evening ... or I did not drink enough. The deep thoughts are making my head hurt. Maybe it is the screaming children. I don't know -- just know that there is one week less in my travels toward the big 4 -0.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
"Support" requires more than forwarding e-mail!
It happens almost everyday. The volume begins to rise whenever there is a holiday or an election of some type on the horizon. It is a phenomenon that, quite honestly now just pisses me off whenever it appears in my in-box.
I am talking about those generic, ultra patriotic "Support Our Troops" e-mail form communique that demand my unquestioned loyalty. They were particularly bad during the last White House Administration.
These diatribe letters are offensive to me for one essential reason -- it takes more than forwarding a stock text, or a magnet on your car, to take care of those who are in harm's way for our benefit.
First and foremost, there is little more myself and my family can do for those men and women in the theaters of combat. My brother, my one and only sibling, the only one who shared my childhood home, to be there when I can no longer call upon mom and dad, is serving his second combat tour. Sending a family member, a kin of direct consanguinity, it the greatest manner in which the "House of Govignon" can support the cause.
Removed from this initial circle of effect, there are other things we are doing to provide "support." There have been an above average number of treckin's to North Carolina by my parents to spend time with my sister-in-law who is left to raise a two year old boy single handed. The are currently staying at Chez Govignon on Stonehaven this week to provide a respite. She has been forced into the life of a single parent without the benefit of divorce. I try to spend sometime with my nephew to give him a male influence while his father is away.
Additionally, I help provide "support" by providing dramatically reduced legal fees for clients in uniform. I have volunteered to provide all of the legal services for establishing a local monument for the fallen caused by these to conflicts. I try and provide to the USO, or other care agencies, to give an anonymous gift to someone in country. I can't count how many pounds of Starbuck's coffee I have provided in the past three years in the basket for the local Guard unit on deployment when buying my morning cup of Joe. A little taste of home is the least that I can provide.
All of this is what I AM doing. What are YOU doing? Aside from "spamming" up my in-box, what has the author of this decree endeavored to accomplish?
I feel everyone who is not directly effected, has forgotten those in uniform. Anyone remember that there are two armed conflicts in which the blood of our families are being spilled into timeless sand?
Maybe we have become too complacent. During WWII, there was sacrifice on the part of everyone. During Vietnam, the war was finally brought into America's living room every night to the horror of those who had never "seen the elephant."
Perhaps we are immune now. Maybe we have fooled ourselves into the belief that "war" is clean, efficient, and surgical with unmanned drones and smart weapons. Truth is, those without a personal investment of some kind in the armed forces of the United States have little impact in their lives anymore while sons and daughters return home in unmarked, flag draped metal caskets. Our current President caught some flack for having been photographed saluting one of those sacred flights, but he made the effort to welcome those souls home one last time. Never saw Cheney there.
Here is my challenge to America -- our chance to really be the team behind the team! If you know someone in the service, or one of those left behind while a loved one is serving in harm's way, just take a moment to ask them the following, to wit: (1) how are they doing?; and (2) is there anything that you can do to help them out? Then do it!
Send them a card or letter. Surprise them with dinner. Offer to watch the children to give them a night out.
Hell, offer to pay a utility bill.
Really America -- put your money where your mouth is, get off your ass, and do more than hit "forward."
Monday, February 1, 2010
Hosting family
Nothing like having a Monday and coming home to a house full of people. By full I mean, FULL, as in excess of the governmental approved number of occupants. I may be violating certain zoning ordinances now that we have multiple families residing under one roof. Am I violating any subdivision covenants?
Today my sister-in-law and nephew arrived for Cat's birthday party on Sunday. They are presently residing legally in the home that was purchased during my brother's assignment at Fort Bragg, N.C. and have been stranded here by the weather. Rather than have them drive all the way back, my wife invited them to just come spend the week with us here in Calhoun. Upside to all of this -- the sister-in-law is ONE HELL OF A COOK. Too bad she did not bring her stand mixer with her for all of those wonderful baked goods that she is capable of producing!
I have decided that only having girls was a blessing. They may be difficult, argumentative, frustrating, aggravating, you know, like ordinary women -- but they are not two year old boys.
Jackson is a wonderful kid, but there is no confusion regarding his gender. He is ALL boy and ALL over the place. Each time I hear something hit the ground, crash, or bang, I fear discovery of what else might be destroyed.
Pray for me.
Today my sister-in-law and nephew arrived for Cat's birthday party on Sunday. They are presently residing legally in the home that was purchased during my brother's assignment at Fort Bragg, N.C. and have been stranded here by the weather. Rather than have them drive all the way back, my wife invited them to just come spend the week with us here in Calhoun. Upside to all of this -- the sister-in-law is ONE HELL OF A COOK. Too bad she did not bring her stand mixer with her for all of those wonderful baked goods that she is capable of producing!
I have decided that only having girls was a blessing. They may be difficult, argumentative, frustrating, aggravating, you know, like ordinary women -- but they are not two year old boys.
Jackson is a wonderful kid, but there is no confusion regarding his gender. He is ALL boy and ALL over the place. Each time I hear something hit the ground, crash, or bang, I fear discovery of what else might be destroyed.
Pray for me.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
I think my youngest is on meth
I should have seen it.
All of the signs were there.
It explains so much that defied explanation.
The frantic and frenetic speech patterns. The inability to understand the narratives shared. She pontificates with such dispatch that at a party, another guest complimented her on her Spanish. The lady is not bi-lingual!
The explosive flurries of activity followed by the sudden crash into deep slumber. Seriously, trains could run THROUGH the hallway outside of her room and she would sleep through it.
The ability to stay awake longer that the rest of the household. Sleeping late into the day if left undisturbed.
Then there is the fact that she lives in an alternate reality. One that defies the very fabric of the space time continuum. She frolics along at a pace that baffles. Her conversations come from way out in left field. Instructions are never followed, or even heard and comprehended for that matter.
It has to be! She has to be using meth. I think I need to go to CVS and buy one of those tests.
Wait .....
Never mind, my wife just reminded me that she is merely four, turning five in a week.
All of the signs were there.
It explains so much that defied explanation.
The frantic and frenetic speech patterns. The inability to understand the narratives shared. She pontificates with such dispatch that at a party, another guest complimented her on her Spanish. The lady is not bi-lingual!
The explosive flurries of activity followed by the sudden crash into deep slumber. Seriously, trains could run THROUGH the hallway outside of her room and she would sleep through it.
The ability to stay awake longer that the rest of the household. Sleeping late into the day if left undisturbed.
Then there is the fact that she lives in an alternate reality. One that defies the very fabric of the space time continuum. She frolics along at a pace that baffles. Her conversations come from way out in left field. Instructions are never followed, or even heard and comprehended for that matter.
It has to be! She has to be using meth. I think I need to go to CVS and buy one of those tests.
Wait .....
Never mind, my wife just reminded me that she is merely four, turning five in a week.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Ya lost me there Tebow
Before this week, I harbored no innate reason to dislike, abhor, or loath Timothy Richard Tebow. In the two times that this young man took the field against my beloved Tigers, he never saw a victory (2006: AU27 (#3)UF17 & 2007: AU20 (#4)UF17). Indeed, as he was despised by all who wear the red and black, and he had a habit of destroying and embarassing my most reviled arch enemy for the last two years, hell, I kinda grew to like the kid.
What I always found to be even more impressive, though, was the essence of this collegiate athlete. In a sport were superegos and arrogance make mouths and bodies do assenine things both on and off the field of battle, here was a positive archetype we could parade to the youth of America. Dedicated, hard working, passionate, compassionate, magnanimous, and philinthropic are traits found in this young humanitarian. Add to this his willingness to work voluntarily in the Third World, and his desire to genuinely serve his God and his fellow men, damn, I wanted to BE this guy. I REALLY wanted this kid to marry one of my girls.
Unfortunatley, this goldenrod for all that is good became tarnished for me this week with the controversy over his Superbowl advertisement for Focus on the Family:
What I always found to be even more impressive, though, was the essence of this collegiate athlete. In a sport were superegos and arrogance make mouths and bodies do assenine things both on and off the field of battle, here was a positive archetype we could parade to the youth of America. Dedicated, hard working, passionate, compassionate, magnanimous, and philinthropic are traits found in this young humanitarian. Add to this his willingness to work voluntarily in the Third World, and his desire to genuinely serve his God and his fellow men, damn, I wanted to BE this guy. I REALLY wanted this kid to marry one of my girls.
Unfortunatley, this goldenrod for all that is good became tarnished for me this week with the controversy over his Superbowl advertisement for Focus on the Family:
The Heisman Trophy winning quarterback — one of the most celebrated college football players of all time — has cut an ad with his mother Pam, who tells of her decision not to end her 1987 pregnancy in spite of advice from doctors to do so. Pam Tebow and her husband were working as missionaries in the Philippines at the time when doctors there advised her to have an abortion due to health concerns. She did not, and Tim Tebow was born. - Politico
Dude, you are not even in the NFL and now you are going to destroy the very institution that made you what you are? Football was sacred. The Superbowl was apolitical, a place where right and left, east and west, North and South, Christian and everybody else, could put aside all of the innane and useless partisan bickering for just a few hours and come together to consume mass quantities of food and fellowship.
“Some people won’t agree with it, you know, but I think they can at least respect that I stand up for what I believe,” Tebow said. “I'm just standing for something. That's the reason why I'm here because my mom is a very courageous woman.”-- POLITICO
An athlete like yourself is one in a million. I get that. Had your mother followed doctor's advise, you would not be here. Duh!
Just like you, the odds are often one in a million that at child in a troubled pregnancy might also grow up to be healthy, loved, nurtured, and protected without having physical difficulties to overcome and burdens to be placed upon families. In my world, this is referred to as "anecdotal evidence."
Whoa now! Those of you that might want to comment quickly about the sins of abortion can just calm down. I am not supporting the killing of innocent fetuses who have done nothing against the world. I am not advocating the employment of selective eugenics to build a better race. I would not suggest this even be a form of mere birth control.
My problem is that each week in my volunteer work through the juvenile courts, I get to witness firsthand the results of unwanted pregnancies, or challenged children born to parents who can't wipe their own ass, much less care for my dog (who only needs food and water, and to be let in at night and out in the morning -- a trained chimp could do these tasks).
I do, however, object to having the government MANDATE a decision upon a woman, a man and a woman, or a family. That is having a choice. One that can be made by those who are directly effected by its impact, not career politicians living tens, hundreds, or a thousand miles away. More importantly, if you advocate the government's control of reproductive rights, you had better be ready to spend your hard earned money in tax dollars for a support system to give that child a chance, to wit:
If you are going to protect it in the womb, you had better be prepared to provide for it until the tomb. -- My Mom, Shelia O'Brien Govignon (sage woman I tell ya, just took @ 20 years to figure it out -- Hi Mom!)
Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. I respect your rights. I respect your beliefs. Just don't force them down my throat at the Superbowl. Just let me drink my libations, and chew on my chicken wings and nacho chips in peace. Keep the politics out of my game. It's not much to ask. It's only one damn day! Just play football and then do your non-athletic work off the field. That is all I ask, as I don't wish to exercise my "choice" and be forced to watch Fox on Sunday night.
It is all about "choice." Funny that an advocate for life, not choice would be quoted with the following:
“Some people won’t agree with it, you know, but I think they can at least respect that I stand up for what I believe,” Tebow said. “I'm just standing for something. That's the reason why I'm here because my mom is a very courageous woman.”-- POLITICO
An athlete like yourself is one in a million. I get that. Had your mother followed doctor's advise, you would not be here. Duh!
Just like you, the odds are often one in a million that at child in a troubled pregnancy might also grow up to be healthy, loved, nurtured, and protected without having physical difficulties to overcome and burdens to be placed upon families. In my world, this is referred to as "anecdotal evidence."
Whoa now! Those of you that might want to comment quickly about the sins of abortion can just calm down. I am not supporting the killing of innocent fetuses who have done nothing against the world. I am not advocating the employment of selective eugenics to build a better race. I would not suggest this even be a form of mere birth control.
My problem is that each week in my volunteer work through the juvenile courts, I get to witness firsthand the results of unwanted pregnancies, or challenged children born to parents who can't wipe their own ass, much less care for my dog (who only needs food and water, and to be let in at night and out in the morning -- a trained chimp could do these tasks).
I do, however, object to having the government MANDATE a decision upon a woman, a man and a woman, or a family. That is having a choice. One that can be made by those who are directly effected by its impact, not career politicians living tens, hundreds, or a thousand miles away. More importantly, if you advocate the government's control of reproductive rights, you had better be ready to spend your hard earned money in tax dollars for a support system to give that child a chance, to wit:
If you are going to protect it in the womb, you had better be prepared to provide for it until the tomb. -- My Mom, Shelia O'Brien Govignon (sage woman I tell ya, just took @ 20 years to figure it out -- Hi Mom!)
Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. I respect your rights. I respect your beliefs. Just don't force them down my throat at the Superbowl. Just let me drink my libations, and chew on my chicken wings and nacho chips in peace. Keep the politics out of my game. It's not much to ask. It's only one damn day! Just play football and then do your non-athletic work off the field. That is all I ask, as I don't wish to exercise my "choice" and be forced to watch Fox on Sunday night.
It is all about "choice." Funny that an advocate for life, not choice would be quoted with the following:
Marjorie Dannenfelser, president of the Susan B. Anthony List, defended CBS’s decision during an interview with POLITICO.
The head of the group opposing abortion rights said that “Women can be trusted with information and they certainly don’t need to be protected from the idea that if they have a crisis pregnancy that they can choose life.”
“What are they protecting people from?” she asked. “It is just so counter to the whole mission which is to provide women choices. This is just the one choice they can’t abide.”
Friday, January 29, 2010
I need more "Jersey Shore"
Let me begin with the fact that I am the product of 12 years of private Catholic education including a stretch at one of the finest parochial high schools in Atlanta (at that time actually the only one). That was followed by a successful "Post Graduate" year at an "Ivy League" preparatory school (http://www.hotchkiss.org) before embarking upon a college career. I graduated Cum Laude as a University Honors Scholar with a bachelor's degree in Political Science with a concentration in Public Administration and a double minor in History. My Honor's Thesis is published as a bound volume and on the university shelves. I have a Doctorate of Jurisprudence from one of the oldest institutions of legal education in the United States.
Why this litany of credentials? To declare my status as an intellectual first, 'cause I want, need, must confess that I have become addicted to this damn program. I have found myself irreparably drawn to a "reality" program that defies any logical form of normal human reason. I have become unabashedly envious of those who master their lives by the simple, but zen mantra, to wit: G-T-L.
I am a survivor of the initial MTV generation. I can remember calling my cable provider to proudly declare that "I want my MTV!" I still tune in on the satellite radio to the 80s channel to hear the nostalgic voices of Nina Balckwood and Martha Quinn. My heart yearns for the days when Music Television actually had something to do with music videos. I mourned at the loss of "Remote Control" host Ken Ober last November. Anyone remember the antics of a very young Adam Sandler pre-SNL?
Just when I had given all hope that the crap MTV airs would ever hold my interest again, along came this delectable piece of video candy. Could we have returned to the days when watching this vanguard network was actually an act of rebellion? Have we restored the honor of the "moonman" and planted the flag back into the hinterland of everything offensive to political sensitivity? Where we finally going to abandon forcing a politically correct agenda with pregnant teenage mothers and spoiled 16 year old rich children?
I best described it to my wife as the horrible road side accident with morbid and sanguinary fatalities. Reason, social training, and proper more dictate that one must look away in respect, however you are helplessly trapped in a gawky stare as you pass by unnecessarily slowly. Try as I might, an obsession formed to find out what would happen in next week's episode. In the absence of college football, my Saturdays would be spent watching the "catch-up" replays to bring myself up to speed.
Who could resist the "folksy" wisdom of a veritable genius that is "Snooki" (had to remind myself that it is with an "i" and not the traditional "y") I relish my new found knowledge that one should not eat lobsters because they are alive when you kill them!
As a man, husband, and father I am reminded of everything I have missed in life by the exploits of "The Situation." Oh to be an unapologetic chauvinistic alpha male asshole! My life would be so much simpler if all I had to do was strive to "get girls." How I waste my days at work paying bills to the man, when I could be at the gym or working on my tan! Before this program, my socially sheltered naivete thought "robbery" had to do with theft of goods or personalty by threat of force or harm. Now, I am a better person for discovering it means taking advantage of another man's bathroom break to steal away his conquest.
Thanks to Vinny, I know the sins of taking the bosses "girl" home from the bar.
Paulie demonstrated the proper etiquette when serving as a "wing man" in the hazards of wild hunting grounds that are the modern night clubs.
From Ronnie, I have taken away caution to avoid men from the Bronx with heavy accents who are bulging with muscles. Apparently steroids, combined with the lifting weights, make one more than swollen, it gives them the superhuman ability to put my ass on the ground with a single strike. Seriously buddy, love the ability, but you might want to put someone like myself on steady retainer for the future.
What I love the most is the ridiculous "outrage" by several Italian-American groups who protested the negative stereotype of the "guido." As they did when HBO broadcast the magic that was "The Sopranos," these groups flocked to the media to decry "foul" and demand retribution. According to UNICO National President Andre DiMino, Italian-Americans continue to be the only ethnic group that it is acceptable to negatively stereotype and demean. Here is my favorite quote by New York Post columnist Linda Stasi:
[Jersey Shore is a show]"...in which Italian-Americans are stereotyped (clearly at the urging of its producer) into degrading and debasing themselves -- and, by extension, all Italian-Americans -- and furthering the popular TV notion that Italian-Americans are gel-haired, thuggish, ignoramuses with fake tans, no manners, no diction, no taste, no education, no sexual discretion, no hairdressers (for sure), no real knowledge of Italian culture and no ambition beyond expanding steroid-and silicone-enhanced bodies into sizes best suited for floating over Macy's on Thanksgiving."
Let me just say this, as a overweight man, of Irish and French ancestry, raised in the South --
"Shut the hell up and quit your whining. Last time I checked, it remains perfectly fine to ridicule and mock people who are overweight, or to refer to those of us with a drawl as ignorant, uneducated, inbred hicks or rednecks. Hell, just a few years it was patriotic to make fun of the French and everybody thinks Irishmen are drunks."
If we are to celebrate diversity in our modern society, that means taking the good with the bad. America, as a melting pot, requires that we have people of all types, and stereotypes, to enhance the dish. When did it become so wrong to celebrate that which is merely reality, whether or not we like it? We may all have that weird in-law who smells funny and is a constant embarrassment, but we are not a family without them. There are Irish who are sodden. Some gay men are flamboyant, like my man, Cameron. Some Hispanics sound like Speedy Gonzalez when the speak. Some of Asian decent are really good at math. The guy from the credit card company sounds like Apu when he calls. There are actually white guys like myself who are nerdy geeks who follow Star Trek and have comic book collections.
The fact that I point these out does not make me intolerant or racist. It just makes me observant with the ability to find joy and humor in the human condition. My obsession with this program, "Modern Family," and "The Big Bang Theory" all stem from the fact that I might occasionally say internally "yeah, I've done that" or "I have a friend just like that." Even better still, I might gain some insight into a life that is not my own. I might garner a new understanding from witnessing first hand the trials and tribulations of another.
In the "light of day" the "ugly," might be seen more aptly, as the wonderfully unique.
I think Sammi "Sweetheart" Giancola said it best in her own defense:
"It's just people living life on the show … that's it... We shouldn't judge, because everybody's their own person. I feel, as an Italian-American, I understand their ways. People are what they are ... and that's the way it is."
So, MTV, bring me another season with the majority of this cast. Feed my hunger and entertain me.
Oh, dear enchantress Snickers, I am hungry for more and I am not going anywhere for a while.
Babe, orange is the new tan!
"Shut the hell up and quit your whining. Last time I checked, it remains perfectly fine to ridicule and mock people who are overweight, or to refer to those of us with a drawl as ignorant, uneducated, inbred hicks or rednecks. Hell, just a few years it was patriotic to make fun of the French and everybody thinks Irishmen are drunks."
If we are to celebrate diversity in our modern society, that means taking the good with the bad. America, as a melting pot, requires that we have people of all types, and stereotypes, to enhance the dish. When did it become so wrong to celebrate that which is merely reality, whether or not we like it? We may all have that weird in-law who smells funny and is a constant embarrassment, but we are not a family without them. There are Irish who are sodden. Some gay men are flamboyant, like my man, Cameron. Some Hispanics sound like Speedy Gonzalez when the speak. Some of Asian decent are really good at math. The guy from the credit card company sounds like Apu when he calls. There are actually white guys like myself who are nerdy geeks who follow Star Trek and have comic book collections.
The fact that I point these out does not make me intolerant or racist. It just makes me observant with the ability to find joy and humor in the human condition. My obsession with this program, "Modern Family," and "The Big Bang Theory" all stem from the fact that I might occasionally say internally "yeah, I've done that" or "I have a friend just like that." Even better still, I might gain some insight into a life that is not my own. I might garner a new understanding from witnessing first hand the trials and tribulations of another.
In the "light of day" the "ugly," might be seen more aptly, as the wonderfully unique.
I think Sammi "Sweetheart" Giancola said it best in her own defense:
"It's just people living life on the show … that's it... We shouldn't judge, because everybody's their own person. I feel, as an Italian-American, I understand their ways. People are what they are ... and that's the way it is."
So, MTV, bring me another season with the majority of this cast. Feed my hunger and entertain me.
Oh, dear enchantress Snickers, I am hungry for more and I am not going anywhere for a while.
Babe, orange is the new tan!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Hello World
That pretty much sums it up. I guess like everyone else in the modern day world of public display and closet voyeurism, it was only a matter of time before this happened. Not one to keep my opinion to myself, or tread lightly in most conversations, I have grown weary of the word count limitations created by Twitter or Facebook.
So, the experiment begins .... can I rant each day, everyday, and keep it light and fluffy? Not even going to try. Just seeking to write and publish my thoughts and feelings on certain subjects or topics in an attempt to regain or maintain sanity as my 40th birthday looms in the next 12 months. In this economy professional therapy is too damn expensive, and let's face it, I already know how I feel having to resolve my own problems while getting paid to fix the issues in the lives of others.
I am 39, practicing law, married for more than a decade (together for almost a score), trying my best to raise two wonderful girls, and keep them from having me fixed like the dog.
I live in a small town where being a "liberal" is generally considered a dirty word and generally an offense to God himself for some reason. The mere fact that I might consider a different, more secular opinion gets me in trouble more times than I care to count these days.
I have a baby brother who took a different route on the highway of life and proudly serves our nation in uniform living in harm's way. We both live our lives by virtue of two oaths to protect our nation and Constitution: mine with the power of words and text, his by the power of the sword. I am an Auburn Tiger and he is a Georgia Bulldog, both actually being alumni of these sacred institutions. Imagine my face when he called from Baghdad last November to give me hell about my beloved Tigers losing yet again to those bastards.
I am generally a centrist or moderate in my views. Some times I lean left, and other times I lean right.
I dread and fear the day that some boy comes to my front door and tells me that he is there to get one of my girls.
So, as any journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, here is my right foot forward.
If you feel the need to comment, please do. I welcome other opinions and never turn away any stroking of my ego. All I ask is that you be nice -- I may have a tough exterior but I have a warm, soft nougat center.
So, the experiment begins .... can I rant each day, everyday, and keep it light and fluffy? Not even going to try. Just seeking to write and publish my thoughts and feelings on certain subjects or topics in an attempt to regain or maintain sanity as my 40th birthday looms in the next 12 months. In this economy professional therapy is too damn expensive, and let's face it, I already know how I feel having to resolve my own problems while getting paid to fix the issues in the lives of others.
I am 39, practicing law, married for more than a decade (together for almost a score), trying my best to raise two wonderful girls, and keep them from having me fixed like the dog.
I live in a small town where being a "liberal" is generally considered a dirty word and generally an offense to God himself for some reason. The mere fact that I might consider a different, more secular opinion gets me in trouble more times than I care to count these days.
I have a baby brother who took a different route on the highway of life and proudly serves our nation in uniform living in harm's way. We both live our lives by virtue of two oaths to protect our nation and Constitution: mine with the power of words and text, his by the power of the sword. I am an Auburn Tiger and he is a Georgia Bulldog, both actually being alumni of these sacred institutions. Imagine my face when he called from Baghdad last November to give me hell about my beloved Tigers losing yet again to those bastards.
I am generally a centrist or moderate in my views. Some times I lean left, and other times I lean right.
I dread and fear the day that some boy comes to my front door and tells me that he is there to get one of my girls.
So, as any journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, here is my right foot forward.
If you feel the need to comment, please do. I welcome other opinions and never turn away any stroking of my ego. All I ask is that you be nice -- I may have a tough exterior but I have a warm, soft nougat center.
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