Cosmetics Intermezzo: In Praise of "Makeup Alley"

And now for something completely frivolous.  Just kidding.  Fact is, for us women, makeup is not only NOT frivolous; it's a way of life. It's part of our LIFESTYLE. That said, that lifestyle can be pretty unattractive and frustrating at times.

If you're anything like me, you've got at least one drawer in your bathroom that is piled full of discarded warpaint and other weapons of mass destruction, the moldering stack of makeup a silent testament to the frustratingly "hit-or-miss" approach that we are all too often forced to take in the face of a barrage of  information (and not all of it good).

Any woman who has ever used a skincare, haircare or cosmetic product knows that there is a bewildering array of tools, devices, creams, lotions, powders and sprays out there; literally thousands of products, each with sometimes-incredible and often conflicting claims.  Whether you are spending $10.00 for a drugstore mascara or hundreds of dollars for an "anti-wrinkle" cream (notice the quotes of cynicism), the selection is seemingly endless and the benefits questionable.

Personally, I am one who tries to "do my homework" before spending my money on another makeup item or skincare product that is guaranteed to solve all of life's problems, everything from an unrefined pore size to split ends to split personality (just kidding about that last one (I think)). Unfortunately, it's not always easy to be well-informed.

Problem is, much as there are thousands of women's beauty and skincare products out there (compared to, say, about five such products for men), there are an equal number of websites, magazines and "testimonials" (again with those cynical quotation marks) dedicated to reviewing these products.  Even worse, it's often impossible to know which reviews to believe. 

What may seem like an "objective" website with "scientific" data substantiating the claims of the latest miracle cream all too often, upon closer inspection, turns out to be tainted by an undisclosed relationship with the product's manufacturers.  Since the recently-enacted legislation prohibiting bloggers and others from writing testimonials about products without full disclosure of any compensation received for such testimonials, I've noticed that several of these types of sites have started inserting the requisite disclosures; others have not, either ignorant of the new law or taking their chances that their transgressions will never be discovered. 

So what's a makeup-lovin' girl to do?

Enter "Makeup Alley" (complete with my unabashed quotations of adoration and worship).  Makeup Alley (or "MUA"), comprising several thousand registered members providing thousands of reviews of various beauty products and accessories, is a woman's best friend. I just can't say enough good things about it. The site has no axe to grind, nor do the vast majority of the reviewers.  Better yet, you will never be overwhelmed with irrelevant information, because you can filter each product's reviews by age group, skin type, date, etc. (after all, with all due respect, who wants to read an 18-year-old's review of an anti-wrinkle cream???). 

By the same token, if you just want to do some research to find the best brand in a given category, you can filter results by most popular with the MUA reviewers or even the most reviewed brands in a category.  The site has other features (a swap section and a mail function, for instance), but the product reviews are the best for all the aforementioned reasons.  All I know is, whenever I see an ad for the latest promising new product, I go straight to MUA to get the real scoop about that product.  Whether I'm looking for the best option for mascara or lipstick or flat irons, MUA's where it's at.

Makeup Alley:  Rocking my world, one beauty product at a time.

DISCLAIMER: In the interest of dotting the t's and crossing my eyes, I can assure you that I have no relationship with MUA, other than being a loyal registered member. I have received no compensation for my opinions as expressed herein (though I'm certainly willing to entertain any such offers!).

Deja Vu All Over Again at the USDA

In the category of “Man, I hate it when I'm right”:

A couple of days ago, I was at the gym using the elliptical machine (boring!) and the gym had the TV tuned to Rick Sanchez's “Rick's List” show on CNN.  I usually avoid this type of tripe like the plague, but unless I wanted to spend 40 minutes staring at the calories burned readout or the second-by-second ticking down of the clock on my workout, I had no choice. 

Anyway, the subject matter for this particular edition of “Rick's List” was the fallout from the Shirley Sherrod debacle and Sanchez was delighting in this prime opportunity for sticking it to Fox News.  Called “Shirley's Story”, the segment focused on the latest developments in Sherrod's firing from the USDA and the reconsideration given her dismissal following the revelation that that dismissal had been based on—wait for it-- incomplete information. 

As we all know, everyone from the NAACP to the White House (all of whom had originally tripped all over themselves in their rush to denounce Sherrod) has been in a stampede of backtracking since realizing that in their haste to stamp out perceived racism they had neglected to view all of the facts (or even most of the facts, or even a preponderance of the facts).

I am shocked and chagrined (not)!

This type of story is all too familiar.  In fact, I wrote about this sort of thing in a previous blog entry.  Unfortunately, it looks like nothing has changed in the interim, the ultimate proof in this particular pudding being self-evident. 

But I find myself wondering who was most culpable in this whole distasteful incident:  Was it the blogger who started this tidal wave of controversy by airing a very select portion of Sherrod's speech?  The so-called “news” networks like Fox that ran with it and stirred up the pot?  Or the equally culpable parties like the NAACP and the White House that almost single-handedly ruined this woman's career and reputation (at least, temporarily) in their rush to judgment based on misinformation? 

Judging from the reactions of the parties involved, I'd say all were to blame to some extent.  While the White House and the NAACP tried to bury their mea culpas in a self-serving “defense” of being “snookered” by Fox News, Fox News itself attempted to distance itself from the mess by claiming they never reported this incident as “news”.   Pure semantics at its self-serving best.

What ever happened to accountability? 

Fox News can try all it wants to distance itself from this mess, but when they have made their money based on the hyperbolic bloviating of people like Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity (both of whom ran with this story when it was originally reported), their fate and their reputation are inextricably intertwined with them.  And deservedly so.   They deserve what they get.

Meanwhile, the reactions from the White House and society at large are more difficult to quantify, but are much more disappointing.  While President Obama shouldn't be expected to have personally reviewed Ms. Sherrod's entire speech to get “the rest of the story”,  the people who work for him and most certainly the people who initially made the recommendation to fire Sherrod surely had that responsibility. 

And as for the NAACP, while it may be admirable to have “zero tolerance” for racism of any sort, it behooves such organizations (and all of us) to consider all of the facts before making such judgments.  As for being “snookered”, shame on the NAACP for not taking responsibility for their own actions and shame on anybody who would take the word of Fox News as gospel without further corroboration.  

What does it say about us as a society that we decry those who would make uninformed assumptions about people based on the color of their skin but then accuse people of racism based on the same type of misinformed assumptions? 

There's an increasingly disturbing intolerance in this country for what used to be called freedom of expression and there's precious little effort being made to give people the benefit of the doubt in these types of situations. 

Instead of focusing on education and enlightenment through healthy debate, we focus on censorship and suppression, blackballing from our midst those who would disagree with us.  Let me tell you, folks, censorship is censorship, whether it's directed against “unpopular” thoughts and ideas or against what we consider to be more “acceptable” thought.  (i.e., what's in vogue).  And if there's one thing I've learned in my lifetime from personal observation, it's that you don't change people's underlying attitudes by suppressing their opinions. 

And I also know that my own attitude of distrust toward the media won't be changing anytime soon if CNN's coverage of this incident is any indicator of things to come.  In my view, CNN missed a golden opportunity here to address the “big picture” issue, instead contenting themselves with using their air time for yet another self-serving opportunity to bash their rival network.  

Perhaps they should instead be asking why it is that so-called news stations continue to pump out half-truths and lies and why it is that we are all so willing to lick it up with a spoon. 

Perhaps it's time we all began asking as much.

The Cult of LeBron: Fellowship of the Insufferable

For those few remaining fans of LeBron James (outside of Miami, of course), you may wish to avert your eyes now.  This is sure to be a hyperbolic firestorm.

Can I say it now?  I really despise LeBron James, and I suspect I'm not alone on that one, following last night's pitiful display of unabridged narcissism on ESPN.

Oh, I didn't actually WATCH “The Decision” (and how self-important is that title, by the way?).  Then again, I didn't have to watch it, seeing as video clips and audio bites have been making the rounds across our televisions, computer screens and radios in a steady stream of fallout after the fact.  Still, the whole episode leaves me feeling like I need to take a shower.

I would say that it “almost” makes me embarrassed to be an NBA fan, but I'm not even sure I was a fan anymore (at least not of the NBA as it is currently constituted).  And make no mistake about it, this was embarrassing on a grand scale.  I don't know which was worse:  watching for the past couple of years as "the King" relieved himself all over the collective upturned faces of his minions until it culminated with last night's retch-fest; or watching those fawning masses not only taking the dousing but sucking it up with a straw while begging for more.  Or perhaps most nauseating of all was the breathless commentary of a media that had long ago shed the bothersome bonds of journalistic integrity in its relentless pursuit of the Next Big Thing in the cult of celebrity.

Oh, I've long known that professional sports is big business, that it's primarily about endorsements and paychecks and entertainment extravaganzas more traditionally witnessed with the WWE.  I guess that's just part of growing up.  But the tripe that millions witnessed last night goes way beyond the pale, even for a sports cynic such as myself.

There's an old Stephen King miniseries called “The Stand” where Jamey Sheridan (yes, that Jamey Sheridan from “Law & Order” spinoff fame) plays a post-apocalyptic devil incarnate in cowboy boots.  In one of the penultimate scenes of the movie, the cheering crowds are gathered in Las Vegas to worship Sheridan as he prepares to dismember two innocent sacrificial chumps for the collective joy of his cheering minions.  It's a scene of spectacle and an obvious reference to both the crucifixion of Jesus Christ and to modern-day society's immorality and mob mentality.  It's also the scene that kept running through my head as ESPN dragged us inexorably closer to the moment of “King James's” self-coronation and pronouncement of the American burg where he would deign to “take his talents”.  Turns out, it wasn't Cleveland.  Big surprise.

Naturally, the people of Cleveland are devastated.  And, no doubt along with the people of New York, New Jersey, Chicago and any other city whose team and hopes were jerked around by this jerk, they are angry.  And frankly, it's about time.  For at least a year now I've been wondering when the fans of Cleveland were going to stop prostrating themselves and start resenting LeBron.  I mean, at what point exactly does a person start to feel a sense of shame at the loss of personal dignity that is required to grovel in an effort to please a fickle, overpaid superstar for whom no amount of fawning would ever be enough?

I feel bad for the fans of Cleveland.  I really do.  After all, they took that last step in self-inflicted humiliation by creating a musical love letter to LeBron, a “Hymn to Him”, as it were, only to have their affections spurned before a national audience.  Called “Please Stay LeBron” (set to the tune, appropriately enough, of “We Are the World”, penned by yet another insulated ambassador of selfdom by the name of Michael Jackson), the heartfelt rendition resembles nothing so much as what passes for Sunday worship by the NBA faithful.  But I can't also help wonder if these same fans would've seen LeBron for the selfish megalomaniac he is if he had elected to keep his “talents” in Cleveland.  I'm thinking no, but I guess we'll never know for sure.

Still, I have to confess that there's a part of me that thinks the fans of Cleveland brought at least some of this on themselves.  I'm hearing more and more of how over the past 17 years or so seemingly everyone in the Buckeye State, from his family to his friends to his coaches, teachers and teammates and other assorted sycophants and hangers-on have done everything in their power to enable LeBron's colossal sense of entitlement.  He's been surrounded by a solar system of lesser planets, all willing to simultaneously subjugate their own egos while inflating his.   Basking in his glow, they've gladly cloaked his sins for him.  Too bad there's not a fart blanket big enough or strong enough to cloak us from the noxious, malodorous cloud now emanating from his gravitational pull.

I mentioned earlier that the hoopla surrounding “The Decision” reminded me of that mob scene in “The Stand”.  Something else I remember from that scene in the movie is when one of the few people in the slithering mob stood up to his fellow countrymen in an attempt to stop the insanity, yelling “this ain't how Americans act!”.  Maybe not.  But it's a fair imitation of how sports fans act.  And we all know that we get exactly what we deserve.


Rant over (for now).

Better Marriage Blanket

You know you're really scraping the bottom of the creativity barrel when you find yourself writing about a "fart blanket", but hand me a scraper and let's start the scrubbing, shall we? 

Three words:  Better.  Marriage.  Blanket.  Also known as the "fart blanket" to those in the know.  If you've never personally had the pleasure, the “Better Marriage Blanket” purports to use “the same type of fabric used by the military to protect against chemical weapons” to “neutralize” gas molecules caused by flatulence.   The ad is accompanied by a photo (right) of a happy, smiling couple enjoying some flatulence-free bivouac time while the husband is wrapped up in his hermetically-sealed methane blocker (although no word if the blanket comes complete with a set of earplugs as well).  The manufacturers even go so far as to say their product “makes a great wedding or anniversary gift”.  And they say romance is dead.  

Seriously, though, I'm trying to imagine the look on the bride-to-be's face when she unwraps her very own “fart guard” at her bridal shower and what she's supposed to make of it.  (Although, could be she'd just be bewildered, since, if her fiance were smart, he'd have taken great pains to keep that part of his “personality” at bay during their courtship, only to spring it on her when it's too late for an annulment.  But I digress.) 

While I wish that the secret to a better marriage were so simple, I somehow doubt it.   Fact is, this is just the latest example of assorted materiel being offered by manufacturers to address the battlefield of the marriage bed.  Think about it for a minute:  We've got “Breathe Right” strips to quell the aural misery of snoring; fart blankets to tame the malodorous excretions of our bedmates; and mattresses designed to withstand an onslaught of jumping jacks and restless legs syndrome.  Next thing they'll be offering is a Glade enema.

Speaking as someone who once slept on the floor of a walk-in closet in a bed and breakfast suite that offered no alternative respite from my husband's loud and continuous snoring; and speaking as someone who has on more than one occasion slept on the floor next to the bed to escape my husband's tossing and turning, I appreciate the efforts of products such as this.  I really do.  But really, when you need to call in the military to defeat the enemy at the gates of flatulence, I'm thinking it's time for twin beds (either that, or combat pay).

Just my opinion.

Heroes Among Us

So another Memorial Day has come and gone, receding with the sunset and not to reappear until another year has passed.  Just as we carelessly throw around the term “veteran” in our everyday speech to describe

all manner of things completely unrelated to true veterans, for many of us Memorial Day, too, has lost much of its meaning.  With all the holiday sales on clothing, electronics and grilling equipment, along with the backyard barbecues and treks to the beach, it is all too easy to forget the true import of this day.  But I was reminded  recently as I watched the HBO miniseries “Band of Brothers”, which was being re-broadcast on cable television.

I had seen this miniseries before, but it bears re-watching for many reasons.  Perhaps more than anything, what leaves a mark is the unflinching depiction of the true horrors of war (at least, as true as they can ever be to someone who has never been there) and the honest portrayal of those ordinary individuals who fought in World War II, a study in heroism that included pain and anger and misery and, yes, fear.  And it's the fear that makes the sacrifice all the more poignant.  It was Mark Twain who said that “[c]ourage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.”  I believe that wholeheartedly, as there can be no greater bravery than that which trumps the fear of one's fate.

Also striking is the realization that following incredible acts of heroism and bravery in the midst of unimagineable horror, those who survived returned to live the anonymous and typical lives of mid- and late-century Americans.  They were men whose once-ordinary lives had been interrupted by the extraordinary circumstances of history, only to return to their ordinary lives when history had been made.  They became businessmen and mill workers and landscapers and teachers whose resumes were surely humble but whose accomplishments were surely not.  And aside from the fact that it's hard to imagine that they could ever have had the same perspective on life's minor annoyances as those who did not share their experiences, they could have been any one of us.  And I think that's the point.

As a society, we yearn for heroes, often bestowing such misplaced epithets on sports stars, cartoon “superheroes” and even celebrities.   But I would submit that we need look no further than our brave veterans whose contributions we honor on Memorial Day.  We rightfully admire the heroism of Eisenhower and Churchill and FDR, without whose leadership in the darkest days of recent history we are left to ponder what fate may have befallen the world.  But what of the everyday lives that were lost or forever changed on our behalf, both long ago and in the recent past?  And what of the brave men and women that continue to fight on our behalf  half-way across the globe?

I find myself wondering how we could ever possibly thank these people for their sacrifice.  As Winston Churchill famously said, "Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few".   Churchill was specifically referring to the valor shown by the Royal Air Force during the Battle of Britain in 1940, but his words have broader meaning, resonating through time and space.  I wonder how many of us ever really take those words to heart and contemplate their truth?

We can, and will, continue to debate the merits and necessity of war as the years go by.  We will continue to question what it is that ails the human heart, making such conflict a seeming inevitability.  But what cannot be debated is the debt of gratitude that we all owe to all of our veterans, these heroes among us.



Photo credit: 
Arlington National Cemetery.  Photo used by permission and license of the U.S. Army.  

Musings of a Non-Cigarette Smoking Woman*

* "X-Files" reference.

Just a few random thoughts, ideas and questions on my mind that I thought I'd share:

1. Why are bottled water bottles so cheap and flimsy nowadays?  You can't even get the cap off without geysering yourself.
2. What in God's name are they singing in those "Kayem" hotdog commercials?  Try as I might, I just can't seem to make out the words.  Is it even English? 
3. What exactly constitutes "honest" ingredients in pre-packaged food products?  For that matter, what ingredients would be considered "dishonest"?
4. Do cats see themselves in the mirror?  Sometimes I think they do, but if that's the case, then why don't they seem to recognize themselves?  And even if they don't recognize themselves, you'd think they'd react to seeing another cat....
5. Why is it that when someone asks for someone's opinion, they offer a penny, but when someone volunteers an opinion, it's worth two cents?  Is this the new math, or just Keynesian economics gone awry?
6. Pull-top canned goods are the greatest invention in recent history (and one of the most long overdue, I might add).
7. Why can't I find chocolate-covered Altoids anymore?  And while we're on the subject, I'd like to know who came up with the name "Altoids".  Sounds like a particularly nasty medical condition, doesn't it:  "I have Altoids".
8. I was watching that old Stephen Spielberg movie "Duel" the other night.  That's the one where Dennis Weaver plays a put-upon henpecked husband who's driving to a sales call on the California highways and byways and finds himself in a deadly fight for his life with a ticked-off truck driver that he passed on the highway.  This was before anyone had coined the phrase "road rage".  Great movie.  But I found myself wondering (and not for the first time), why Dennis Weaver didn't just turn his car around and go home after the truck passed him the first time (or even the tenth)??  
9. Speaking of driving, precisely how much acceleration does it require to back your car through the
   
   
   
   WALL of a parking garage??  And by the way, how do you do that and have no damage to the back end of your car??
10. Carl Yastrzemski (aka "Yaz"):  One of the most iconic (or as Boston Mayor Tom Menino would say, "ionic") players in Red Sox history.  And, to my knowledge, the only pro athlete to have had a birth control pill named after him.
11. "The X-Files" is and always will be one of the best shows in television history.  Government conspiracies.  Rampant paranoia.  General spookiness.  Oh, and one of the most (if not THE most) intelligent and engrossing television romances of all time.  FBI Agents in love.  It just doesn't get any better than that.  More on this at a later date.
12. I was reading an article the other day and one of the contributors was identified as someone who "studies disgust" (disgustologist?).  Brother, if there was ever an indicator that we've gone too far with this "culture of outrage" business, then that would be it.
13. Can anyone tell me what the purpose is of the "code search" button on the TV remote control (other than to act as a kill switch for the remote control, that is)?  Seriously.... 
14. Why is it that whenever someone uses the phrase "it's only human nature", it's usually in connection with something negative?  What does that say about our nature as humans?
    
15. How come they have flea and tick collars for dogs and cats but not for people?  Wouldn't it be easier to wear one of those than to spray yourself head-to-toe with tick repellent?
    
16. How come hotels stock their bathrooms with all kinds of fancy soaps and skin creams but never provide any paper towel so you can wipe out the sink and counter after each use?  And speaking of such, if I were to find a hotel bathroom vanity that actually had functioning drawers in it, I think I could fall in love.
    
17. Why is it that the officiating in NBA games has become such an open joke, but no one is doing anything about it (hello David Stern?)?
18. I'm sure that Emeril is a fine chef and a fine human being, but his cooking show is unwatchable, primarily due to the fawning audience that "ooh"s and "aah"s with his every move.  You'd think these people never saw parsley before.
19. You know those fat "torso shots" of pedestrians the news shows always show when doing a story on obesity?  I wonder if those people recognize themselves, or if the news stations just keep showing the same torsos over and over again?
20. Every time I watch one of those "best pig-out joints" shows on the Travel Channel or on the Food Network and I see someone scarfing down a five-pound burrito, I can't help thinking that the rest of the world sees something like that and thinks that's how all Americans eat.
21. I'm still miffed that Pluto has been de-planetized.  If they weren't sure it was a planet, then shouldn't they have held off classifying it as such in the first place?  Think of all the people who have come and gone and who died with the knowledge that there were nine planets when in fact there were only eight?  What else in the canon of human existence will be reconsidered upon further review?  Talk about revisionist history.... 
22. Ever notice that your more traditional Communists have no sense of humor (and if you think I'm exaggerating, try to imagine Stalin or Lenin watching "The Three Stooges")?  I'm pretty sure that explains the ultimate demise of the Soviet Union.  Think about that, next time you're tempted to take yourself or your causes too seriously.
 

Photo credit:  Cat looking in mirror. Photo used by permission and license of RBerteig.

Listmania

Did you know that there is actually scientific evidence that the act of crossing off items on a “to-do” list triggers feelings of pleasure and well-being in the brain?  Did you also know that there are over 200 MILLION hits on Google about making “to-do lists”?  200 MILLION HITS.  Do you know what that means?  It means we're all a bunch of list junkies.

But like any other addiction, there comes a time when too much is just, well, too much.  Case in point, my good friend Diana, who recently succumbed to the lure of the list and found herself trapped in a literary limbo.

Diana and I have always been two peas in a pod.  We've always shared a similar sense of humor.  But more than anything, we've bonded over books.  Big books.  Little books.  Tall books.  Short books.  Old books.  New books.   Books.  Books.  Books.  You name it, we'd read it.    But she took me one further, for she'd read a cereal box if that's all there was (and she'd like it).

One night last winter, Diana and I were celebrating her birthday at our favorite restaurant.  I remember it was bitterly cold outside.  It was one of those nights where you could hear the sound of sleet slapping against the window panes of our corner booth, as if drawn to the light and the warmth within.  I was savoring the heady mix of sizzling fajitas and frozen margaritas, when suddenly the evening took a wrong turn into a really BAD neighborhood.

For it was then that Diana put me on notice.  Seems she'd found a list somewhere called “Books You Must Read Before You Die” and was slowly—painfully—making her way through it with a dogged determination usually reserved for preparing a tax return.  See, she had come to realize that if she lived to be 75 years old and read one book per week, that meant she “only” had one thousand, eight hundred and twenty books to read before she died.  And, by God, she did NOT intend to waste her quota on what she called “crap” (and I'm guessing that meant no more perusal of the Wheaties Times for her).   Wah wah...

Well, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  Idly stirring the melting ice in my now-empty glass, I couldn't help wondering what she would do if she finished the list and still had 20 years left to live?  What then?  Paging Dr. Kevorkian...

But in all seriousness, this was depressing.  Her passion for reading had become a chore, even as her life had become one big “to-do” list.  And it wasn't even her list!  She was stuck in an endless literary loop, trying repeatedly to get through Finnegan's Wake and hating every minute of it.   But she couldn't just stop reading it and move on to something she actually enjoyed, oh no, because Finnegan's Wake, you see, was on “THE LIST” (and let's be honest, why else would anyone be reading it??).  

My heart sank.  Diana had become one of them:  One of those people who toe the line of conformity, ignoring her own path to follow that of some arbitrary third party.  It was a real “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” moment.  I silently screamed that I wanted whomever had replaced my book-loving friend with this android to GIVE HER BACK!!  I sensed we had reached a crossroads in our reading lives.   You could almost feel the fissure form between us.

What had happened to my longtime friend?   Whatever it was, I hoped it wouldn't happen to me too!

And then I realized that to some degree, it already had happened to me.  Because somewhere along the way, much of the joy and spontaneity of life had been swept away and buried under a tidal wave of “responsibility” and needing to “accomplish” things with my time.  But it wasn't always that way.

When I was a kid, my friends and I used to spend hours telling each other ghost stories, thrilling to the goosebumps on our arms and the toasted marshmallows stuck to our fingers.  We'd catch fireflies in the warm summer dusk, watching in wonder as they'd light up in the glass jar we kept for such special occasions.  We'd ride our bikes to nowhere, speeding as fast as we could pump the pedals, just to feel the wind on our faces.  Life was all about being in the moment. 

But it seems the further we get from childhood, the more regimented our lives become as we strive to keep free-form thought at bay.  We are forever planning ahead or looking behind.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that my friend Diana really isn't that unusual.  Scary, isn't it?  I mean, let's face it: We're all a little “list-crazy”.  From an early age, we worry over our Christmas lists for months on end.   Even God Himself was a list-maker,  the Ten Commandments being the ultimate “NOT-do” list.   I'm actually beginning to think that there's an unspoken 11th commandment, that being “Thou shalt make a list and check it twice”.

Everywhere, we are inundated with evidence of humanity's need to synthesize and categorize:  Best-seller lists.  Best-dressed lists.  Worst-dressed lists.  Most eligible lists.  Fortune 500 lists.  Craig's List.   There's a list for the “most annoying words” (there should be one for the most annoying lists).  And the mother of all guilt-trips:  The to-do list.

Celebrities are on the A-List, B-List, C-List or D-List (whose only inhabitant seems to be Kathy Griffin). There are “wish lists” we can compile online to remind ourselves what it is we really want, and then we share our lists with other listmakers on Listmania.

And if all that's not enough, there's even a BOOK of lists (I wonder if it's on the list of books to read before you die?).

Even the words we use every day speak volumes about our fear of  living “off the list”:   If a company is performing poorly, it will be DE-listed from the stock exchange.  If we have no energy, we are list-LESS (literally, we have no list (whatever that means)!!).

What is with all this list-making and our cosmic place on “the list”?   We're forever pushing our way to the goal line, with the goal line forever being pushed back by the addition of new tasks to our to-do list.  But are we even really making our own  lists?  Or are we, like my friend Diana, letting others define our goals and standards for us?  We've all seen those lists of  "Places to visit before we die";  "Movies to see before we die".   Even the articles that seem on the surface to be about taking control of your own life are based on socially-defined goals rather than personal joys.

That's not to say that there's anything wrong with lists in moderation, of course.   After all, they can help keep us organized, anchor us when we might otherwise float aimlessly.  But lists can also make our lives too rigid, too regimented, and too restricting. Look at my friend Diana.  She had transformed something that had been a great source of joy in her life (reading) and turned it into the literary equivalent of the Bataan death march:  One thousand six hundred and forty-two books to go before I die;... Nine hundred and seventy-three books to go before I die;  Four hundred and fifty-two books to go before I die;....   I don't know about you, but that doesn't inspire me to read.  If anything, it just makes me want to run out and enlist (or not).

It's great to be goal-oriented, but we need to find a balance point, taking the time for some “off-list” living.  For in the end, it's not just about what we do but who we are.  And how can we really know who we are if we don't follow our own intuition once in a while?  Open ourselves up to the joys of the unplanned moment, like a windchime caught in a summer breeze? 

A few weeks after my dinner with Diana, I found myself in a Barnes & Noble.  I noticed a small table on the first floor with a sign that read “thought-provoking books”.  (The IMPLIED list.)  Around the table stood three or four silent, unsmiling customers who were scanning book jackets, presumably looking to have their thoughts provoked.

After my initial reaction of disbelief that there could only be one table's worth of books in this 3-story building deemed able to provoke thought, I thought of my friend Diana, plowing through her unhappy list of books.  And I walked past that table and proudly  into the “cheap and mindless” section.  I would decide what I found thought-provoking, letting my intuition be my guide.  I was living off-list, if only for a moment.

On some level, I think Diana would have approved.

Voluntary Commitment

Ladies and gentlemen, the theme for this week's blog entry is “Commitment”, and if you take a look at the photo to the right, you'll see my inspiration.

This photo has been all over the news lately.  But for those of you who haven't heard the story, the photo is actually a still taken from a video of a college baseball game that's been making the rounds on the Internet.    The video shows a player from Fordham University who, as he rounds the corner at third base and finds his way to home plate blocked by the catcher of the opposing team, leaps head first over the head of that catcher, doing a flip in mid air, and landing head first on home plate.  SAFE!!!!  Unbelievable, and YOU SHUT UP while you're at it.

Now, I can't help wondering what this guy's train of thought must have been when he rounded third base and realized, too late, that he was stuck between third base and home:  Unable to go back, unable to go forward.  I'm thinking he had two choices:  He could either give up and allow himself to be tagged out, or he could leap over the catcher's head!  Of course!  And that's exactly what he did, in the process becoming a poster child for the idea of commitment to a goal.

I confess that the first time I saw this video I'm not sure if I thought, “Wow.  Now that guy's committed”, or “Wow.  Now that guy needs to be committed.”  What I did know, however, was that I had my theme for this week's musings.

Too often it seems that the idea of committing oneself is seen as a negative thing.  If we are committed, we are “going out on a limb” or “sticking our necks out”, or, if things are really dire, we are out on a limb while sticking our necks out.  And my own personal favorite, comparing involvement and commitment with bacon and eggs:  “The chicken was involved, the pig was committed.”

Of course commitment involves some risk, because we are typically outside of our comfort zone while we're doing it.  But I for one believe that a little bit of risk in life can be a good thing, because that's how we grow.  While I'm not saying that we want to “grow” ourselves into a slab of bacon on someone's breakfast plate (like the proverbial pig referenced above), how else can we find out what we're capable of if we never stretch our limits?  If we never commit ourselves to a goal?

All too often, we are hesitant to commit to something because we are afraid of embarrassment or failure.  It seems to be a yardstick in our lives, a marker for our self-awareness and maturity.  When we're children, we're completely un-self-conscious as we explore new things, rushing headlong into our brave new world.  We run around naked, screaming at the top of our lungs with the sheer joy of being. If you did the same thing as an adult, you would be committed.

And when we hit puberty and our teens, life becomes just one big embarrassment.  And when we're teenagers, we're embarrassed by everything, aren't we?   We're embarrassed by our parents.  We're embarrassed by acne.  We're embarrassed by the massive faux-pas that is social interaction at that age.  And did I mention we're embarrassed by our parents?  We may be committed in our ideals, but often too embarrassed to act on them.  I'm not sure why that should be, but it be.  Religious allegories about banishment from the Garden of Eden due to that Tree of Knowledge thing, and high-fallutin' theories about the Songs of Innocence versus the Songs of Experience surely abound.

But what I do know is that this tempered approach to life all too often seems to follow us into adulthood, until we hopefully reach a point where we're secure enough in ourselves to not really worry about failing or until we're at least wise enough to realize that if we never really try, then we've already failed.

I want you to take one more look at the baseball player in the photo.  That guy did not fear failure when he made his leap of faith into immortality.  And neither should you.  Commit yourselves voluntarily...before someone does it for you!

Thought for the Day:

“Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life.  Don't be trapped by dogma—which is living with the results of other people's thinking.  Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice.  And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.  They somehow already know what you truly want to become.  Everything else is secondary.”  --From the 2005 Stanford commencement address given by Steve Jobs, Apple CEO.

Remote Controlled

This blog entry is going to be relatively short, as I am of the firm belief that in this case, at least, a picture is literally worth a thousand words.

My simple question is this:  If technological advances are supposed to make our lives easier, then why is it that the mere act of viewing one of my "X-Files" DVDs requires mastery (and color coding) of the herd of remote controls pictured to the right?

I'm pretty sure it would've been easier (not to mention faster) to petition the cable networks to run the show in syndication....

 

Too Much Information: The Private Life of John Q. Public

I SEE LONDON, I SEE FRANCE

Anyone here been strip-searched at the airport yet?  Mark my words, folks:  It's coming soon to a theater near you.   Reminds me of when I was really little and I had a cousin who used to bust in without knocking when I was using the bathroom, setting me up for a lifetime of urinary paranoia.  At the time, I couldn't have imagined a worse invasion of my privacy.  That is, until now.

By now, you've probably heard the news:  In response to the near-miss “underwear bomber” scare back on Christmas Day 2009, the body scanning technology that had heretofore been resisted as too invasive is now being installed in airports across the country.  As a result, people's naked bodies will be scanned for the viewing pleasure of airport personnel, all in an effort to head off terrorist attempts.

Of course, we are assured that these airport images are only accessible to a single employee who has no personal contact with the passenger being scanned.  Of course, we are assured that the images can't be saved, printed or transmitted, and are “instantly deleted”.  Of course, we are assured that security personnel in the United States aren't allowed to have cameras or mobile phones or any other device that would enable them to download or otherwise copy the image (which also supposedly blurs out the individual's face and naughty bits).   Blah blah blah.  Of course!  And I don't believe a word of it.  Because it stands to reason that if terrorists are forever able to come up with new ways to beat the security system, then sooner or later airport personnel making minimum wage will come up with a way to beat the "safeguards" in that system. 
 
One way or another, you can be certain that immaturity will ALWAYS find a way and that sooner or later there will be wholesale distribution of naked body images among airport employees for the purposes of derision or titillation (no pun intended) or profit.  Remember where you heard it when the inevitable loophole rears its ugly head and we're all left scratching our collective heads and wondering what went wrong. 

Now, don't get me wrong:  I'm right there in lockstep with the majority of the flying public in my willingness to compromise my privacy ideals in order to feel a little safer.  But this whole “react-after-the-fact” approach just smacks of too little too late, perhaps appeasing the masses but really just plugging yet another hole in security that will no doubt ultimately be replaced by something else.

And to make matters worse, there is skepticism about whether these scanners even work for their intended purpose.  (Though it's hard to be certain, since no network news reporter worth his or her salt is willingly going to submit to the scan and have their naked images broadcast before the nation just to see if and how the thing works.)

Given all this, it's amazing to me that there has been surprisingly little uproar over this latest assault on the dignity of the flying public.  Just a year or two ago, this drastic step would have been all but unthinkable.  But it now seems that people will agree to just about anything in order to feel safe.

I find myself wondering how this happened and how we got to this place of virtual transparency in our lives and beings.  The primary answer, of course, is and always will be 9/11.  As with so many areas of our lives, 9/11 changed everything about how we think about individual privacy and its place in our hierarchy of erstwhile non-negotiables.   At the nation's airports, at the very least, privacy's place in that hierarchy has become practically subterranean. 

Now, I don't think that 9/11 was the first time that privacy took a back seat to safety concerns on a widespread basis; but I do believe that 9/11 and its aftermath of fear, mistrust and anxiety made such invasiveness a little harder for us all to resist.  

But fear has become only one of many motivating factors.  For some time now, the imperative of safety against terrorism has been inexorably morphing and expanding into everything from the dating world to plain old civilian eavesdropping, in some cases for no better motivation than to satisfy our thirst for convenience or our idle curiosity.  And with each instance of the chipping away of the privacy wall around us, it becomes that much easier to submit to it in all areas of our lives.  

FAME AND MISFORTUNE:  OR, CAN I HAVE MY FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME BACK?

Jacqueline Kennedy once famously remarked that “[i]t's really frightening to lose your anonymity at 31”.  Nowadays, I'm thinking that if you've reached the age of 31 and have any semblance of anonymity or personal space, then you are a rarity indeed.

It used to be that privacy was the one glaring advantage that “average” people had over the rich and famous.  While celebrities and politicians served as the lightning rods of attention, drawing the stares of idle curiosity away from the rest of us, we “non-famous” were free to sin in private, going about our daily toils and troubles away from the prying eyes of complete strangers.  It was almost as if the famous were the “sin-eaters” for all of us, having traded in the sanctity of self for celebrity and status. 

But that's all changed, especially in the past ten years or so.   Willingly or not, we've all become celebrities, casualties of the electronic culture wars.  With the explosion on the scene of camera phones, intrusive reality shows featuring Mr. and Mrs. Nobody, and assorted ever-more-amazing technological advances that allow us to spy on one another to our heart's content, each of us plays a starring role in the secret lives of strangers.  As a result, we are subjected to the same lack of psychological and personal “space” as traditional stars, but without any of the perks that go with fame. 

And it's all too easy to become desensitized to it, until of course we're victimized by it, as happens all too often when we entrust our personal thoughts and personal information to technology that is supposed to enhance our lives but which all too often endangers our dignity instead. 

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THIS, WHO NEEDS FRENEMIES?

I'm sure by now we're all familiar with the well-documented dangers of the World Wide Web so I won't rehash them here.  Still, whatever lessons we may have learned from privacy disasters like the AOL search data leak from 2006, it's apparent that those lessons remain secondary to the ongoing lure of the Internet itself.  Because despite such wake-up calls, people still go online with impunity and make search queries by the millions (myself included).   But as long as such data is stored intact by providers such as AOL, Microsoft or Google, it's vulnerable to disclosure, whether through subpoena, data breach, or just plain human error.  You see, when it comes to your online activity, your private thoughts are never really your own.

But it doesn't necessarily take a massive data leak by a faceless corporation to expose you, body and soul.  While we've long been conditioned to focus on “Big Brother” types of privacy violations, we might do better to worry about our neighbors and fellow citizens on the street.  After all, it's worth noting that the aforementioned leaked search data was the same type of information that the Department of Justice had tried (unsuccessfully) to subpoena for anti-terrorism purposes shortly before the leak, but it was our fellow denizens in cyberspace who did the real dirty work by downloading the data for their own nefarious purposes.  Suffice to say that without much effort (and even less compunction), people can find out just about anything about you, and they're doing so by the millions: 

Background checking services that used to be reserved primarily for government offices and corporate environments are now offered to those looking for information about prospective dates, baby sitters and neighbors.  A hearing device currently advertised on television allows you to eavesdrop on the private conversations of unsuspecting others.  (And the accompanying visual of the hearing aid wearer grinning away as she listens in on the conversations of her neighbors from a distance is just plain creepy (not to mention pathetic).)

And these days, there's probably no greater threat to your physical privacy than the camera phone and digital camera.  Flickr, an online photo-sharing site, contains thousands of photos of people who are obviously total strangers to the photographer and who just as obviously gave no permission for their images to be posted online. (That is, unless you're of the opinion that the chunky young woman with the low-riding jeans who was photographed from behind as she lifted herself out of her seat at a baseball stadium was A-OK with having her butt-crack exposed to millions of Internet voyeurs?) 

Yet these photos, which often include derogatory and derisive comments, are available for unlimited viewing as well as download and broad distribution via a creative commons license.  Think about that the next time you're out in public and otherwise minding your own business (or anyone else's).   Oh, and for God's sake, pull your jeans up!

But even digital cameras can't compete with the mayhem to be wrought by a fool with a smart phone that has the latest bells and whistles.   Google Goggles, for instance, allows smart-phone users to photograph an object and use that photo to conduct a real-time information search on Google.  Sounds pretty cool and convenient, until you stop to realize that this application also has facial recognition capabilities.  What this means is that the potential exists for photographing a stranger on the street and searching for information about them through the Internet with the push of a button (letting your fingers do the stalking, as it were). 

For now, Google is blocking these facial recognition features until they can gauge consumer reaction to “possible” privacy concerns, but I'm a little unclear as to why Google finds it necessary to conduct a survey on the matter (though I suppose I should be grateful that it even occurs to them).  It shouldn't matter how many of Google's clientele object to facial recognition features due to  privacy concerns.  All that should matter is that anybody objects, because it seems to me that millions of Google users can't diminish a single individual's right to be left alone.  Call me a sentimental fool and a loose constructionist, but that's the way I see it.

And those who would disagree would do well to remember that electronic surveillance works both ways:  Google's “G1” mobile phone is one such device that provides Google with access to the user's Web-search history.  And all of this data, along with the user's email, contact lists, geographical location, instant messages, personal calendar and video downloading, belongs to Google for as long as their retention policy dictates.  Meanwhile, other mobile phones enable third parties to track the phone user's movements through cell-phone towers and GPS (though the same thing could've been accomplished with a dog collar and a microchip).

Karma, thy name is Bitch ("Miss Jackson" if you're nasty).


IN CONCLUSION

When I think of all the technological advances of the past few years that have gone to market before thorough consideration for the consequences, I can't help but wonder where it ultimately will end, and at what point we will finally reach the angle of repose on this all-too-slippery slope.

I'm reminded of that scene from “Jurassic Park” where the dinosaurs have run amok (all too predictably) and the character played by Jeff Goldblum tells the Richard Attenborough character that “your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should.”  They never do, Jeff.  They never do.

Which is why the next time you find yourself in the airport security line, you'd better pray that you're wearing clean underwear.

Tiger in the Rough

Man, I don't know about you, but am I ever tired of seeing, hearing, and reading about Tiger Woods.  Everywhere you turn, it's all Tiger, all the time.  Which is why I think it's my turn to add my two cents to the cacophanous fray.

Let me first preface this commentary by saying that I really don't “get” the whole Tiger Woods phenomenon, probably because I just don't get the appeal of golf as entertainment.   There have been other golf superstars before Woods, and no doubt there will be many more after him.  But I simply don't understand how someone becomes an international superstar because he can play golf.  Oh, I get that there are lots of weekend warriors out there who fancy themselves Tiger wannabes, but where is golf's value as a spectator sport? 

Nor do I have any particular interest in Tiger's recent peccadilloes.  I don't admire him any less (mostly because I didn't especially admire him in the first place, given my documented disdain for the game of golf and for the cult of celebrity).  Nor do I feel all kinds of offended by his behavior, since it's not like he's my husband or otherwise owes me anything.  To me, he's just one more famous person whose reality is a lot uglier than his image.

So put another way, you might say I have no dog in this fight (but enough about Michael Vick).

But be that as it may, I do acknowledge that Tiger Woods is a household name and, until recently, that that name was gold in the advertising world.  And as I see it, how far he makes it back into the public's good graces (and therefore Madison Avenue's) depends on three things:  1)  that he continues to be a “winner” at golf;  2) that he's popular and well-liked (which for many people equates with winning); and 3) that he convinces the public that he's told us the “whole truth” about his transgressions and that he's sorry for having committed them (and whether it is indeed the whole truth or just a good acting job is seemingly irrelevant).   And this is never truer than in the world of professional sports.  And if that sounds cynical, well, it's meant to be. 

Truth be told, there's plenty of cynicism to go around, from the sports stars whose arrogance comes from knowing we'll overlook just about anything as long as they give us a wink and a smile (and a championship); to the public whose moral compass is incapable of finding True North when a "fan favorite" is involved.

Or perhaps it's the corporate sponsors who are the most cynical of all.  How can anyone view the latest ad from Nike featuring a silent Tiger Woods (prominently displaying the Nike logo on his cap) being "scolded" by his dead father and not feel manipulated by Nike?  Sad thing is, there's a significant segment of the population that is all too willing to be manipulated for commercial gain.  And for that reason, it's all too certain that Tiger's current and former corporate sponsors are sitting around and withholding final judgment on their association with Woods until they get a sense of which way the "Q factor" winds are blowing. 

What it all boils down to is that our capacity for forgiveness and compassion as well as our moral outrage are all relative and all subject to compromise.  Who we revile and who we revere in the face of public scandal says much more about us than it could ever say about the “scandalizer”, and goodness knows we've all had plenty of experience in being judge, jury and career executioner.

After all, celebrity is all about building a person up with unrealistic expectations and then knocking them back down with an overblown sense of moral outrage when those expectations are not adequately met.  Nor should it come as any great surprise that fame is a double-edged sword:  If you're big enough to be worshiped from the gallery, then you are certainly big enough to be taken down by a fickle public. 

That being said, whether a public figure ever makes it back up from the depths of public scorn is primarily a function of the public identifying with them while still being able to feel morally superior to them.  (Hence the inevitable jokes that will forevermore accompany mention of Tiger Woods and others in the same boat.)  And the lynchpin of that co-dependent process is the wrongdoer's primetime (and more often than not, self-serving) mea culpa, served up for your approval on the televised altar of public opinion.  

It's predictable and like a well-worn scene from a morality play:  For the American public to forgive the transgressor, he must first come clean about himself or else suffer the consequences.   As a case in point, Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens will forever be baseball pariahs not necessarily because of their “sins”, but because of their perceived arrogance.  In short, their refusal to tell us the truth about their use of steroids and/or performance enhancing drugs (also known as “PEDs”) is what sealed their fate.  Add to that the fact that Clemens and Bonds are not likeable characters.  Never were, and never will be.  And ultimately, there is no forgiveness where there is no good karma.  

And now it is Tiger who has taken his first steps on that well-traveled road to redemption, having gotten the public apology out of the way before venturing out this week into the safe confines of the Masters Invitational.  We'll soon see how well he's laid his groundwork, but judging from the reception he's gotten at Augusta, the early returns look good.   I'd venture to say that sometimes being “popular” (the definition of which varies from person to person) is all that's needed to make a sincere apology all but unnecessary and any transgression short of a felony irrelevant.  And even then, the felony had better be a big one.

If you are a thinking individual, perhaps such a schism should be a source of cognitive dissonance for you.  At the very least, it should make us all a little bit uncomfortable in making value judgments (be they pro or con) about total strangers. This is especially true when the only "value" involved is whether we think that that stranger is a “good guy” or even a “good-enough guy” because he's good at what he does with a puck, club, bat, hoop or pigskin.

It's all well and good to pillory celebrities, politicians and sports figures or to deify them.  Whether these people “deserve it” or not is beside the point, as it just comes with the territory.  But let's at least be honest with ourselves about why we're doing it and drop the pretense of moral authority.

Opening Day Nostalgia: Snips and Snails and Red Sox Tales

When I was growing up, I lived in a neighborhood with lots of kids and one of the things we used to do was play pick-up baseball games in the field across the street from my house.

We all had different skill levels, but my brother usually pitched (sometimes for both teams).  I remember that as I would flail away helplessly at each pitch, I'd hear him yelling at me from the pitcher's mound:  “Choke up on the bat!!” (the “dammit” being implied).  Well, I could hardly see him in the summer dusk, never mind the baseball, and I'm afraid it showed.  And “choke up on the bat?!”  What did that mean, anyway?  Did bats have necks??

As I stood in the “batter's box”, baffled, I could feel the disapproval of my silent teammates.  The air was so still, that above the steady drone of cicadas and tree frogs we could all hear our shortstop's mother calling him home for the night, but pretended not to notice.  This was serious business.

Eventually, my brother would stalk from the mound, rearrange my hands in what I could only assume was a “choked” position, and return to the mound—all so he could blow it by me with a clear conscience.  It was mortifying, but par for the course at that age.

You see, growing up I was the youngest of three kids:  My sister was four years older than me, and my brother, eight.  And those of you who are the youngest in your family know what that means:  I played the dual roles of being the pampered baby of the family (allegedly), while also being the constant target of gang teasing by my older siblings.  I was also the one who had to “ride the hump” in the back seat during family car trips, seated between my brother and sister and being constantly shoved back and forth if I dared to move in either direction.  (But I would have my revenge as only a kid could, for I was prone to carsickness and I knew how to use it!)

For the first fourteen years of my existence, I shared a room with my sister, and for seven of those years, we shared a double bed.  I refer to this period of my life as “doing time”.   Being older than me (and therefore bigger), my sister would hog the blankets and the bed until eventually forcing me out of bed and onto the floor.  It was a nightly ritual.  For seven years, I learned to dress for bed in layers and to wear a helmet. Being in such close proximity, it's only natural that my sister and I argued a lot, playing starring roles in each other's weekly confessionals at church.

But things were a bit different with my brother.  He seemed somehow “exotic” and “worldly” to me.  I don't know if it was because he was so much older than me, or just because I didn't have to share a room with him!    But for whatever reason, I looked up to him, and that meant trying to do the things that he did.  I read the same books, listened to the same music, even studied his Boy Scout handbook (especially the section on tourniquets with the gruesome illustrations).   But more than anything, that meant living and breathing baseball, whether I liked it or not!  And at first, I. DID. NOT.

But a funny thing happened:  Through osmosis, I learned to love the game on its own merits.  I remember racing home from school to listen to the spring training games on the radio.  I watched the regular season games on television, and I studied the box scores.  Summers were lived to the soundtrack of Red Sox baseball.

And then, when I was about thirteen, my brother took me to my first Red Sox game at Fenway Park.  It was like a Red Sox bat mitzvah!  I don't remember who won the game or even who the Red Sox played that day.  What I do remember is walking into Fenway for the first time and being shocked by the brightness of the colors.  It was like that moment in "The Wizard of Oz" when the black and white magically transforms into glorious technicolor.  In my mind's eye, I can still see the neon green of the field; the brilliant red, white and blue of the American flag snapping briskly in the breeze;  the dazzling white of the Red Sox home uniforms.   I was in awe at seeing my heroes live and in person.  They really did exist outside the confines of my TV set!

That was such an innocent time for me—and for baseball.  The game was still steroid-free, and it was still a game, not so much the business it seems to have become.  And it had a simplicity that appealed to me at that age:  There were clear cut good guys (the Red Sox, of course) and bad guys  (everybody else, but especially the New. York. Yankees).

A local columnist once described Red Sox fandom as being the equivalent of a yearly reenactment of  the “Stations of the Cross”.  But I could never be that cynical (and being raised Catholic, I could never get away with being that blasphemous either, but that's another story for another day).  Instead, what I did was revel in every Red Sox victory, whether they made the playoffs or not (which was just as well, since in those days they seldom did).  And I enjoyed the bond I shared with my brother over baseball.

Now, this is not to suggest that my relationship with my brother was perfect.  Far from it.  Like any older brother worth his salt, he was endlessly irritating.  He would tease me relentlessly (and still does), and he wasn't always the best of role models.  I can still remember that when he would babysit for my sister and me, he'd make raw cake batter for our supper and call it a night.  But I cried when he moved out of my parents' house.  It felt like the end of something.  And it was.  But baseball remained a constant between us.

At Christmastime, I'd give him The Baseball Encyclopedia and a subscription to The Sporting News.  He'd give me tickets to Opening Day, and we'd go together.  When I married my husband, my brother walked me down the aisle (but only after confirming I had not planned my wedding on a date that would conflict with the baseball playoff schedule (AS IF!)).

Through the years, common interests have come and gone, but baseball was always there to keep the lines of communication open between us, even during those awkward times when we otherwise didn't know what to say to each other.  Even today, when I hear Red Sox news, I find myself thinking, “I need to give my brother a call”.

For I like to think of baseball not only as a harbinger of spring, but as something that can bring people together who might never connect:  People of different nationalities; different political persuasions; and especially different generations.

And now, another new Red Sox season is upon us.  For all our differences, we will collectively watch that first pitch, sharing the moment but each alone with our memories.  Mine will be of a hot summer evening in a tree-lined clearing, my brother's voice calling out to me to “choke up on the bat!” (with the “dammit” being implied).

Photo credit:  
Photo used by permission and license of adjustafresh. 

Man's Inhumanity to Man's Best Friend

I was going to write about something entirely different this week, when this story caught my eye and I knew I had to change direction.

In a nutshell, the story was about a Pekingese dog that was abandoned by its owners in a suburb of Boston and died of pneumonia a couple of days after being brought to a local animal hospital.  But that's not even half the story.  According to the article, this poor animal was “ensnared in its own fur” and couldn't even see or move due to its severely matted fur.  He was covered in his own feces and, according to the vet who treated him, probably got pneumonia from “breathing in feces and bacteria for years”.  His owners could not even be bothered to drop him off at an animal shelter, so they just left him to die.

Stories like this make me sick.

Gandhi said that “[t]he greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated”.  Given the frequency of stories like this, certain citizens of this planet are neither terribly great nor terribly moral.  What they are instead is terribly cruel, and that cruelty diminishes us all as human beings, especially when we tolerate such behavior either directly or indirectly through ineffectual legal remedies.

It's easy to treat the strong in society with dignity and respect, as we really have no other choice if we want to succeed and survive.  But it takes pure empathy and caring beyond one's own selfish needs to do the same for an animal.

To be sure, we as a society like to toot our own horns as being the “superior” species, above and beyond all the creatures beneath us on the evolutionary ladder.  We like to believe that our abilities to think and reason at a higher level, our advanced language skills, and for all I know our ability to text each other through our cell phones all somehow entitle us to the self-serving belief that all non-human creatures exist solely for the purpose of serving us and our whims.  We arrogantly assume that animals exist merely for our own entertainment, sustenance or usefulness.  But while we may have superior reasoning skills to those of, say, dogs and cats, we also have a far greater capacity for cruelty.

If the sheer inhumanity of inflicting this kind of suffering is not sufficient reason for cracking down on this type of cruelty, then perhaps the more selfish reasons are sufficient:  Do you or your children really want to be around people that have such disregard for the pain and suffering of others?  Do you honestly believe that such people's antisocial attitudes begin and end with cats and dogs?   Personally, I think there's something truly frightening about any so-called human being that demonstrates such a lack of empathy toward another living creature. 

The fact is, we all get outraged and condemn the people who do these things and who otherwise neglect and abuse animals (and I use the term “people” very loosely), but it keeps happening anyway, doesn't it?  I'm sure part of the reason for that is that the legal penalties for such cruelty are completely insufficient, amounting to a mere slap on the wrist.   You're likely to do longer jail time for stealing a car than for torturing an animal.  It's about time that society and its laws took these cases more seriously.  Maybe then such stories would be blessedly few and far between.

When I was a child, I would hear that animals don't go to heaven when they die because they have no souls.  Sometimes I think it's their owners who have no souls.  At any rate, it's clear that people like the owners of that poor, neglected Pekingese have no heart.

Stories like this make me sick.

Scared Straight into McDonald's: Through the Clown's Mouth, Darkly*

*To paraphrase one Frasier Crane.

I'm going to get straight to the point.  I think there's a vast conspiracy among the fast food joints to scare the hell out of us, and I think it's been going on for a very long time.  How else to explain the ranks of psychopathic shills that have come to represent these fine establishments over the years?

Now, we all know that McDonald's has had a long history of having the second coming of John Wayne Gacy in an oversized onesie as their spokesman, and I suppose we've grown accustomed to that on some level.  (Still, whenever I see Ronald McDonald he reminds me of that needle-toothed clown from Stephen King's movie "It" ("We all flooooooat down here"), so I guess I'm not that accustomed to it.)  And Wendy's isn't much better, since the face of that franchise has been Pippy Longstocking meets "Children of the Corn" for as long as I can remember (which, granted, ain't that long).

But in the past couple of years, things seem to have gone to a whole other level.  And, for me, it all starts with Dairy Queen, unless you somehow think it's normal to have a big, disembodied mouth full of big, disembodied teeth pitching DQ's fine assortment of fried meats and frozen treats.  (I believe there might even be some lip-smackin' tongue action in there as well, which I guess was designed to show yumminess but was just a bit too much evil-and-good-cheer-chumminess for my taste, know what I mean?)  Let's just say I can practically envision a cutlass between those layers of pearly whites.  I'm thinking if the giant chattery teeth in that Stephen King story of the same name had a vocation, this would be it.  Just a-grinnin' and a-killin' (and a-supersizin') all the way to the drive-through window.

Or maybe, just maybe, those big DQ lips bring me back to the rubber retainer I had to wear for two years after getting my braces off.  Either way, just a-grinnin' and a-killin' (and a supersizin').  (Hey, wearing a HOCKEY PUCK in your mouth just does things to a kid, that's all I'm sayin'.)  At any rate, I find it really hard to concentrate on fast food happiness in the face of such nasty imagery.  (In fact, I think I had a bad dream about that big, scary mouth the first time I saw it, though it might've just been Bill O'Reilly on late night, an even bigger and scarier mouth....)

And speaking of a-grinnin' and a-killin', if it all begins with Dairy Queen, then it begins, ends and middles with big BK (notice the resemblance to BTK?).  'Cos personally, I don't think there's much that can compete with Burger King's, um, "Burger King" (clever, eh?) for sheer nightmare-inducing potential.  I find myself wondering (and not for the first time) what these marketing people could possibly have been thinking when they came up with this one.  Let's see:  If clowns aren't scary enough, let's put a vacant-eyed, shiny-faced DOLL with an Elizabethan fetish and a maniacal grin into the mix and break out a big ol' can o' whoopass in tights.  Yeah!  No.  Just...no.

I still haven't quite decided if the intent is to show us that the Burger King is a pervert, a homicidal maniac, or a perverted homicidal maniac.  I can't believe it matters at this point (since it's six of one, 6-to-12-with-a-sentence-recommendation for the other), but I guess we'll just have to wait and see.  In the meantime, just remember that it's all fun and games until someone gets a bloody finger in their fries courtesy of "The King". (Oh wait, someone already has.  Think they paid extra for that?)

So the question remains:  Are the purveyors of fast food deliberately trying to tap into all the creepy symbols of childhood zeitgeist, or are they merely clueless enough to think that these things are somehow, well, cute?  (You know, the way parents think it's "cute" to regale others with your most humiliating moments to anyone who'll listen from the time you're old enough to embarrass yourself to the time when you're too old to care (but still embarrassing yourself)?  Yeah, cute like that.  But enough about me.  Back to the fast food thing.)

I don't know if this is a trend designed to intimidate us into eating more food that's bad for us (but OH. SO. GOOD), or whether I've just been watching way too many horror movies (most of them seemingly either written by, directed by, or inspired by Stephen King).  Could be it's both.

But I do know this:  The evil is spreading to other genres.  That tattoo-wearing, mechanical bull-riding sock monkey in those Kia Sorento commercials is really starting to work my last nerve, he and his Entourage of Evil.  (What IS that tall one-eyed red thing with the carbuncles all over it, anyway??)  It could just be that there's something vaguely annoying about a bunch of battery-powered toys and stuffed animals with superior social lives to my own.  But there's also just something about that mack daddy monkey that reminds me of a Stephen King story about a wind-up toy just a-grinnin' and a-killin'....Oh, never mind.

I'm sure it's just a coincidence.

Edumacation Rock: Declaring Open Season on the English Language

Remember those “Schoolhouse Rock” animated vignettes they used to show during Afterschool Specials back in the day?  I'm thinking we need to bring those back, because between all the bad grammar, bad spelling and bad language out there, it's pretty obvious that something's gone terribly awry in the public discourse. 

Now, I can just hear the disgruntled voices out there, complaining about yet another verbal assault on the great unwashed by a self-proclaimed grammar Nazi.  However, that is not my intent.  I'm not talking about minor infractions of those arcane grammar rules known only to a select group.  Unarguably, there are certainly cases where proper grammar usage sounds, well, improper (not to mention stiff and pretentious):  When's the last time you heard someone refer to a single piece of “data” in the grammatically-correct-but-still-dumb-sounding “datum”?  Nor am I suggesting I'm immune to linguistic error.  In fact, I'm sure that my own humble blog postings have their share of dangling participles, split infinitives and run-on sentences.

Instead, what I'm addressing here are the basics, people!  Just look around you, and you'll see what I mean.  Even as the diet foods we buy at the supermarket have “less calories” (the inference apparently being that overeating makes you illiterate, too), we are restricted to “10 items or less” at the checkout counter.  People have “exercise regimes” (guess there's been a fitness coup) while foreign countries have “hostile regimens”.  My own personal favorite is from a recent news broadcast where the anchorman referenced the proposed “beautification” of Pope John Paul II.  (I'm pretty sure the guy meant to say “beatification”, but since he said it twice, you couldn't very well argue that he just misread the copy, now could you?)

We've all heard that expression “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me”.  I don't know that I've ever believed that, since I've always been more of a “pen is mightier than the sword” kind of gal.  However, I do know that  these butcheries of the English language truly pain me (and my sensitive ears).  

Everywhere you look these days you will see misspellings, bad sentence structure and the denuding of our collective vocabulary through the assignment of value judgments to mere words (more on that later).  For the most part, I blame technology, popular advertising, and the “Political Correctness" movement for the carnage.


CONJUNCTION JUNCTION, WHAT'S YOUR MALFUNCTION: 
THE INTERNET AS ANTICHRIST

Subtitles notwithstanding, I have nothing against the Internet, per se (after all, I'm here, aren't I?).   However, widespread use of the Internet (and its minions) as a communication medium has resulted in excessive use of acronyms and partial words to save typing time; frequent misspelling and bad grammar by its users; and over-reliance on the spell check tool to do our thinking for us.

In particular, the increased usage of online and electronic communication devices such as email, online message boards, and texting has spawned a shorthand language of its own.  With all the OMGing, ROFLing, IMOing, JKing, ITAing and TMIing, people hardly ever see full words anymore, never mind proper English.

I also think that the “spell check” tool is not helping matters any.  I'm sure that whomever invented spell check had the best of intentions.  However, even as the invention of the hand-held (and cheap) calculator seemed to make simple addition and subtraction skills a thing of the past, so too does the “spell check” function allow people to turn off the spelling button in their brains.  Instead, people rely on spell check as a crutch, which means they rarely bother to understand language.  As a result, you see words used that are

spelled correctly in a vacuum but which are completely incorrect when taken in context.  Hence, some of the most common examples of incorrect grammar and spelling that I've seen online (most of which are punctuated with some type of insult to a person's intelligence, age, race, gender or looks) include:

•  “your” versus “you're” (as in “your an idiot”);
• “woman” versus “women” (as in “your an idiot and for every women...”);
•  “its” versus “it's” (as in “your an idiot and every dog has it's day”);
•  "to” versus “too” (as in “is it to difficult to ask why your an idiot?"); and
•  “jibe” versus “jive” (as in “you're facts don't jive and your an idiot”).

Actually, come to think of it, I think it's just one individual making all these errors, but you can see what I mean....

Notwithstanding all of the above, however, technology is only one of the guilty parties in this terrible troika.  Equally to blame is the constant reinforcement of bad spelling and “lazy” grammar through advertising and, to a lesser extent, our reference books.

YOU SAY POTATOE, I SAY POTATO:  THE CODIFICATION OF SLANG, BAD GRAMMAR AND MISSPELLING

Instead of maintaining language standards, we have persistently “dumbed down” to the lowest common denominator in society, codifying slang while in effect throwing in the grammatical towel.  One of the worst offenders:  Advertisements.

Simply put, advertising is a scourge on the English language.  In fact, I would venture to say that for as long
as advertising has been around, there has been a consistent trend to use deliberate (or not) misspellings and fractured grammar to promote products and services.  Theories vary on whether advertisers are doing this in an effort to speak to the “common man” (by using “our” language) or whether they are just populated by marketing majors who wouldn't know a noun from an adverb.  As a result, I'm not sure whether to feel insulted or appalled (and yet strangely superior).    Either way, Madison Avenue has been laying waste to our collective IQs for a very long time.

I remember growing up to the tag line “Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee” (a truly tortured double negative) and liking Pillsbury frosting because it “[s]preads as good as it tastes”.  Today, the cable network TNT promises “More movies, less commercials”, while Outback restaurant encourages us to “live adventurous”.  (As an aside, how does eating at a chain restaurant constitute doing anything adventurous(ly), bad meals and e.coli notwithstanding?)

And it doesn't end there.  The list of “cleverly” misspelled brand names is seemingly endless:  Acuvue Oasys contact lenses. Bonz dog biscuits.  Star-kist tuna.  Froot Loops cereal.  Reddi-wip whipped cream (two for the price of one!).  Is it any wonder none of us knows how to spell?  

It must be really frustrating being an English teacher these days. What chance does an English grammar textbook have against the steady bombardment of advertising slogans (which, after all, are designed to be memorably catchy)?

Meanwhile, each year the dictionary, which used to set the lexicon bar for us, has populated itself with slang words and phrases such as “yutz”, “wuss”, “google”, “soul patch” (don't ask, don't tell), “bling”, and “unibrow” (the synonym of which presumably would be “monobrow”).  Even “ain't”, a word which through the decades had been so reviled by the linguistic cognoscenti that it even had its own song of terror and woe, has been officially accepted into the dictionary (though, to my knowledge, nobody fell in a bucket of paint as a result).

All that being said, the dictionary does still have some standards.  As far as I know, former Vice President Dan Quayle's notorious misspelling of the word “potato” as “potatoe” (evidently referring to the little-known three-toed variety of spud) has yet to be embraced in print.  But give it time.

In all seriousness, when slang words become part of the dictionary, they not only “dumb down” our language; they also dilute whatever value these words may have once had as “out-of-the-box” expression.

 
I'M OK, BUT YOU'RE NOT (OK)

Adding slang terms to the dictionary is a case of common usage dictating grammatical standards, but the so-called “political correctness” movement (or “PC”, for you acronym junkies) is an example of social standards dictating actual usage.  Every year, just as poor erstwhile planet Pluto was banned from our solar

system and therefore our social consciousness as a “non-planet”, words that we've all come to know over the years have been virtually excised from our word-stock (at least in certain contexts).  “Used” is now “pre-owned”.  “Short” is now "petite" or “vertically challenged”.  “Fat” is now “curvy” or “real woman” (as I guess those of us who aren't “curvy” are considered mannequins (or is it “personquins” these days?)).  Not to be outdone, “hoarders” are being referred to as “over-treasurers” in some circles (of hell).

Everywhere, words that describe someone or something too directly are now verboten, destined to wither on the vocabulary vine, leaving us with not only fewer options but an imprecise terminology.  But what's the point?  You can try to police what people say (to some extent), but you'll never police the way people think entirely.  That's the way it works and that's the way it's always been.

After all, there was a time (and not that long ago) when terms like “moron”, “imbecile” and “idiot” were used as scientific terms to identify categories of lower intelligence.  It's only when people started using those terms outside of their original scope that the terms were deemed offensive or otherwise insulting (in short, words by themselves don't hurt people, people hurt people).  However, once you've established the precedent of assigning value judgments to ordinary words, it's just a matter of time before the new politically correct terms suffer the same fate.  (And, human nature being what it is (and what it is always seems to be something bad), they will.)

To some extent, I think the “PC” movement is also related to the “I'm ok, you're ok” and “we're all winners” era that ushered in the idea that we're all special and we're all good and talented in our own way.  Most of all, no matter how much we may stink at something, no one will ever tell us so.   

That being said, if someone were to tell us so, I'm sure it would look something like this:  Your spelling and grammar stink (and your an idiot).  JK LOL.  

Photo credits:

"Googe" screenshot of Google's homepage from February 14, 2007.  Photo used by permission and license of aetherworld.

"Potatoe Rama" sign.  Photo used by permission and license of lindsayloveshermac.

"Likker Store Open" sign.  Photo used by permission and license of quinn.anya