ARE YOU BLEEPING KIDDING!

[Author's Note:  From time to time, I plan to publish blurbs on patently stupid and incredible stories.  Rep. Anthony Weiner fits very nicely in the "patently stupid" column but the following report takes it one delicious step further.  As comedians have often noted: we can't make this stuff up!  How many ARE YOU BLEEPING KIDDING! columns I write depends entirely on the media.  Oh, and by the way, I had a more descriptive title in mind but it wasn't entirely proper.]

A short article in today's Post-Star newspaper (poststar.com) reports that Rep. Tony Weiner's celebrity continues to grow.  An online doll company famous for its celebrity action figures (Sarah Palin, Barack Obama, etc.) is marketing a Weiner Doll.  The sexting Congressman's figure will be available in two versions: standard and enhanced.  The latter costs an additional $10.00 and is reportedly "anatomically" correct.  The article did not address whether the Congressman - currently on a leave of absence to seek therapy - posed for the figure or simply provided a few handy photos.  The company reports that the more expensive doll is "for adults only".  It is not clear if the doll comes with its own Twitter account.

Rep. Weiner, as you probably know, tweeted suggestive (or possibly explicit) photos to several women and then lied both convincingly and with incredible ease to his constituents, the nation and CNN. (Wolf Blitzer discussed his own twittering experiences warning politicians that they needed to be careful.)  Weiner claimed that his account was hacked and he was investigating to find the dastardly culprit and uncover just what happened.  He should have added: pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.  The only excuse overlooked was multiple personality disorder.  That would have been interesting, at least.  The rest is too predictable and too familiar.

The Tony Weiner What a Guy doll (my name for it) belongs in the same dustbin as Serial Killer Playing Cards and Osama bin Laden Halloween masks.  Let's hope the only profit derived from this tasteless venture falls in the "learning from one's mistakes" category - but that's just me being naïve.  Worst case scenario: the company's CEO goes into therapy for two weeks.

Standing Up For Living

[for Marian and Etta who loved life and living]


The King is already here. 

Sorry, Reverend, but you don't have to wait for the new and improved date of October whatever.  As sure as the swallows return to Capistrano and lemmings return to the sea, he has returned and I have seen him.  Okay, before you start thinking deluded religious freak, let me add that I am neither religious nor alone.  Thousands of the faithful, fans one and all, have seen him at the exact same time, in the exact same place that I did.  The King returned, as advertised, and walked the streets of Lake George, New York.  Elvis Presley returned for Elvis Fest.

I am mocking and I apologize.  Sort of.  The fervor with which some people embrace the end of the world befuddles and bothers (and, yes, sometimes amuses) me on any number of levels.

Prior to the reported end of the world, the news highlighted what happens when you publish the exact date and time the ferry crosses the River Styx for the Promised Land.  (A couple of mixed metaphors but who cares.)  One woman slit the throats of her children to save them from the trauma of Armageddon. (They all survived, but the idea that someone, anyone, would be willing to slaughter their own children falls into the befuddled category.)  Another woman gave her entire meager fortune to the Church that predicted the end was nigh.  Her fortune was meager if you don't need three hundred thousand.  Since her family did, I doubt they saw it (or rather see it) as an insignificant occurrence.   Even worse, the woman died before the "rapture"; she wasn't aware that the ferryman was at Dunkin Donuts ordering a latte at the preordained time.  Her family got (or rather gets) nothing…practically and spiritually…while the pastor who got it wrong profited.  Hell, he pocketed the whole enchilada.  I recorded this one in the amused column.

With regards the whole let's give away all our stuff stuff I would like to ask a very simple question:  Why?  If the world really does end and if the end can be predicted right down to a last appointed second, what purpose does giving stuff away serve?  Who is going to benefit or, better yet, who is going to be left to enjoy it?  That said, let me add that I will accept anything you want to send.  All sales are final.

I find it obnoxious that a few seriously devout individuals revel not only in the end of the world but also in the inevitable extinction of billions of people.  It is incomprehensible to me.  Some of us heathens don't want to go.  Really.  We like it here.  To put things in perspective, consider this real Armageddon scenario.  When I was a boy (in the 60's) the world found itself on the brink of nuclear war (a.k.a. the Cuban Missile Crisis).  I was a third grade Catholic School student while my brother was a kindergartener at a different school.  My mother, who, like everyone else, followed the news and was terrified by what she heard, knew that missiles could reach us in 45 minutes and wondered, fretted and struggled with an insane decision.  Which son would she be with at the end?  I was four blocks to the north.  My brother was four blocks in the opposite direction.  She didn't drive and she knew she couldn't - wouldn't - be able to reach both of us.  She desperately wanted to envelope us in her arms and somehow protect us; she didn't put much stock in "duck and cover" but maybe a mother's aura would turn the trick.  That panic is the real face of annihilation.  It isn't we're going home halleluiah halleluiah.  It is who will I be able to save, who will I be able to protect, who will I be able to kiss before I die.

In my little corner of the world, everyday brings some insignificant reason to live and live happily.  I find joy in the giggle of a four year old (when the dog licks her face) or in the glee of a ten year old the first time his big-league swing sends a ball to the outfield (he just stood there in awe while we screamed RUN!) or in the immeasurable pride they all feel when the training wheels come off and they wobble down the block on their brand new big kid bikes for the first time.  This is my second bite at the apple.  I have grandkids but I remember every concert, every trip to the museum, every dive off the dock and every first step that made my children the people they are today.  On balance, maybe those memories aren't so insignificant after all.  If the rapture is scheduled again, I hope they don't wake me.  There is a lot more accomplishment to be had.

The dictionary defines "rapture" as follows:


1) overwhelming happiness: a euphoric transcendent state in which somebody is overwhelmed by happiness or delight and unaware of anything else.


2) Christianity mystical transportation: a mystical experience in which somebody believes he or she is transported into the spiritual realm, sometimes applied to the second coming of Jesus Christ, when true believers are expected to rise up to join him in heaven.


If you have to choose, choose carefully.  One is more expensive than the other.

My Family's Table...or Fat, Starch & Grease as Food Groups

When I was growing up, family meals were large - you could generally feed a small country - and heavy.  The rule of thumb was one pound per person and that was for everything.  It didn't matter if it was salad or lasagna.  Platters were piled so high you couldn't see your brother or your cousin, whoever was sitting opposite, to have a conversation.  Talking got in the way of eating, anyway.  My Grandfather would grunt and someone would pass the potatoes, the meatballs, the stuffing, the turkey, or the Arancini (rice balls).  Different foods had different grunts.  At the end of the meal, if there weren't leftovers, Grandma (and Mom) would be embarrassed: there wasn't enough food!  They'd plan on a bigger and heavier menu for the next holiday…even while Grandpa was protesting that we make too much food.


The typical post-holiday picture was my uncle sitting on the couch watching the game, breathing heavily through an open mouth and dozing by halftime.  His belt would be undone, his zipper lowered slightly and his hand, Al Bundy style, tucked comfortably in the waistband.  The kids would be off somewhere playing and the noise would continue around the table as the wine (sometimes with slices of orange mixed in) would flow and the conversation turned to politics or religion.  It was a lot of fun.


With apologies to my mother, however, there is nothing sexy about Italian cooking.  Not in our home, at least.  As proof, I offer the following memory: about three weeks after my wedding I visited my grandparents.  My Grandmother held my hands, took a set back and studied me.  I think she had me turn around.  I know she pinched my cheek (she had a pinch you couldn't forget) before announcing to my Grandfather: He's gaining weight.  She can cook.  My wife received a big hug and a kiss from the old lady and Grandpa threw her a smile.  That was as warm and fuzzy as he got.  I think it was the first time she was truly welcomed to the family.


If the meal is the gateway to sex and you want to be awake - and maybe even moving - never (Never!) take your girlfriend, your wife or even a first date to an Italian Family Meal.  Come late - insist your mother doesn't make you a plate because you're looking skinny or you'll get sick - and just have desert.  Italian desserts are the next best thing to spontaneous, unabashed, rock-your-world sex.  I don't care if it a fruit torte, an éclair, a zabaglione or my personal favorite, the tiramisu, the person making them is thinking of you and making sure you get happy - even if you say something stupid in the car on the way home and sour the deal.

Sitting Shivah for Charlie Harper

The presumed loss of Charlie Harper will be felt for years to come.  No, I am not talking about Charlie Sheen.  The self proclaimed rock star was one factor - but only one - in the injury suffered his better half.  Whether it was life imitating art or art imitating life, Charlie Harper hit rock bottom (Rose, really!) then looked for a shovel and dug deeper.  It had been coming for a long time.  Over the course of a year or two, he went from that funny jingle guy (He wrote "Maple Loops, remember) to a pathetic, hapless, directionless drunk.  The people expected to take care of him failed.  Alan, Berta, Evelyn, Jake,  even his Shrink tried but he lost purpose and focus; he became trapped in a temporal loop of booze and broads.  He didn't know what else to do so he kept digging and digging until the hole got so deep that only memories got out.  When I think of Charlie Harper, I hope he is remembered more as Charlie Waffles and less as Charlie what's his name.  Charlie Waffles was still that guy who believed everything would work out.  Probably won't happen…but at least he will be remembered.

BLING GATE!

…or how Newt's dreams were buried in a little blue box




I am loathe to defend Newt Gingrich.  It just feels preposterous and, maybe, a little unnatural.  And yet, here I am.  Damn you, Mr. Speaker…and your taste in jewelry!


Newt Gingrich, declared candidate for the Presidency of the United States, is currently baffled.  He said as much on NBC News this morning.  He is at the center of a storm because he spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on jewelry from Tiffany's for his wife.  His own wife!  Not somebody else's wife.  Not the wife of some contractor doing business with the government.  Not a mistress…

(You think he has trouble now…a mistress would generate the type of firestorm media moguls live for.  Tomorrow's headline: Arnold Who!)

...but his wife, the woman he married, loves and has the little blue boxes to prove it.


While discussing his befuddlement Mr. Gingrich announced that he is not carrying ANY debt.  The house, the car, the family jewels: all paid for from proceeds from his four businesses.  You would think that would make him the darling of Conservatives far and wide.  A politician who does not indulge in deficit spending, who has not mortgaged his future and who, apparently, lives within his means.  A politician who invests in the community, pays his taxes and grows business.  At least jewelry businesses.  Apparently that is a little simplistic, if not naive.


The problem is the amount.  My mother was absolutely incensed by the cost of the "Royal Wedding". How dare they spend that kind of money?  Couldn't they do it for half and use the rest to do some good?"  Newt, on a significantly smaller scale, is the victim of greenback envy.  He is spending money most people cannot imagine spending; most people actually believe they would do things differently if they had Newt's money.  For the record, I would not think twice about buying a $45,000 necklace for my wife and, while I wouldn't buy myself a $10,000 watch, I would take delivery on a ($100,000+) Tesla Roadster.  I am a friend of the planet and it is a small price to pay to go green.  Besides, it's a hot ride.  In the world a little closer to reality, I will not be taking delivery on my favorite breed of dog (the English Bulldog) anytime soon.  At present the $2,500 canine is 17 on the list - well below food, lodging, gas for the car and the occasional family vacation.


Have we come to a place in American Politics where a candidate has to buy gifts for his wife from Wal-Mart to be a credible candidate?  I do not agree with Mr. Gingrich's politics but he is intelligent, committed, dedicated and passionate.  With emphasis on the intelligent accolade, the Republican Party could do a lot worse.  I will not mention former 49th State governors or reality show moguls by name, but they really could do worse.


To paraphrase  Paul Simon, everyone wants to be "Richard Cory".  We should be honest about that.

Poppi's Elegy

On April 28th, my father lost a short battle with cancer.  


To be honest, it wasn't much of a battle.  Dad spent five of his last six weeks in the hospital and in rehab being treated for a persistent pneumonia that taxed his ability to breathe.  He kept insisting that he didn't have pneumonia ("I've had pneumonia before.  This doesn't feel like pneumonia.") and he was right.  Over that brief five week period, pneumonia became pleurisy and, after two procedures, pleurisy became cancer.  The oncologist was very kind but the only words that mattered were "very advanced", "aggressive", "untreatable" and "life-ending".  She gave him six months ("maybe") and Dad got what he wanted all along: he got to go home.


Hospice set up the bed and the commode, they brought the wheelchair and the walker and the oxygen machine and my father took up residence in the living room.  The living room was a television free zone, but we made an exception, ran the cable and gave him his Jeopardy and Law & Order.  In the corner stood a small oxygen tank on a cart.  We saw it as a way of taking him to a restaurant or the movies; Hospice saw it as back-up in case the power went out.


Dad came home on Good Friday.  Because of various obligations (my nephew had to get back to college…I, and my branch of the family, lived 200 miles away and had to drive home) Easter Sunday was celebrated on Saturday.  We prepared the classic Italian meal piling more food than humans were meant to eat at one sitting at one table.  A little later, my nephew sat with his grandfather and shared a scotch.  To be clear, my father has craved a scotch - and the doctors have said "no!" - for a good many years.  He even asked the hospital nurses to bring him a drink.  That last glass of Pinch gave him one of his last, cherished memories.  I watched him sip his favorite amber liquor and smile.  He even smacked his lips when he was done and, as was his way, sucked the ice cubes.  Not one drop of Highland whiskey would be wasted.


The tribe said their goodbyes on Easter Sunday and we drove back to Lake George and Bolton Landing.  On Monday, the phone calls started. "Dad can't get out of bed."  "Dad is breathing too quickly."  "Dad's not eating."  "Dad can't talk."  By Wednesday I knew I had to go back.  It was a decision I had been avoiding.  If I didn't go back, he wouldn't die.  I arrived at 12:10 on Thursday afternoon and he was gone at 12:20.  Ten minutes after I walked through the door.  Somehow, six months had become six days.  The only consolation, the one humans cling to, is that he passed peacefully.


Over the mantle is a photo that he loved.  It was taken on the occasion of my Mother's eightieth birthday and, from time to time, he would point to that portrait and exclaim, "I really like that picture!"  He wouldn't always remember when it was taken or where we were at the time (memory was no longer his strong suit) but, somehow, he recognized that we were all together and he was proud of that.  Towards the end, I used to hate his loving that photo.  Eleven months ago, two of my grandchildren died and his "we were all together" hurt deeply.  Two chairs were empty.  And now, the patriarch's chair stood vacant but it was not the same. The sense of loss was different.   It occurred to me that, at the end of his life, my Father got it right.  Families change, they grow, they contract, the characters in the portrait change but the members who came before never leave.  They are still there.  I do not see the empty chairs when I look at that snapshot.  I see Albert and Hope and Mackenzie.


It is the love we share that keeps us "all together".


Dad will always be "Poppi".


He will always have his place.

Hey Arnold...the World is Ending!

Remember the cartoon about the kid with the football-shaped head who faced adversity on an almost daily basis and somehow managed to triumph? Arnold Swartzenegger is not he.

Reports of the Terminator's (or the former Governator's) clandestine affair and the subsequent confession that he fathered a child with a member of his household staff has obsessed the media and pushed real news off the front page. Sarah Palin and Snookie must be pissed. Arnold and his dalliances, Arnold and his impending divorce, Arnold and his love child are not the stuff of great journalism. It is nothing more than a blip on the news cycle and, once upon a time, would only have been mentioned if the Lusitania had not sunk or the Hindenburg had not burst into flames. In other words, if nothing else had happened. The only real story is how cliche Arnold choose to be. I mean really: a member of his household staff! Did he insist on a "French Maid" outfit? People want to know.

In a nation where 50% of married partners (men & women) cheat, have an affair, slip, lust, diddle or canoodle I am amazed by the incredulity. How could this happen? Well, let's see: boredom, intrigue, adventure, opportunity, stupidity, revenge, stature (personal, not physical) or just plan want it, need it, can't live without it. One former employer once described it as nothing more than friction. He should know; he was divorced more than once.  This is not the stuff of great tragedy.  No one poured poison in the king's ear.  Star crossed lovers didn't allow their hormones to get the better of them.  Arnold is not Othello.  Maria Schriver is not Desdemona.  It was an affair, just an affair; even the fact that he got caught isn't news (though getting away with it for 14 years might be!).

One final fascination: the need for a public mea culpa. Arnold is putting his movie career on hold to deal with the impending divorce. The world will have to wait for yet another Terminator movie while he gets his proverbial house in order. Someone should point out how well that worked for Tiger Woods.

I am told the world will end at 6 PM this evening. I saw it on the news. (Guys, think of the possibilities: Honey, I know we don't have a lot of time but I can't face eternity without sleeping with you.") I'm not sure if 6 PM is Eastern Time but, if it is and it does, I should point out that the announcement met with less media attention than Arnold's own rapture. If you are reading this on Sunday, Monday or beyond, I guess that too was another oops moment.

[Post Apocalyptic Comments (that have absolutely nothing to do with this blog):  1) I cannot fathom being so dissatisfied with life that you rejoice in the extinction of everyone - whether we want to go or not and 2) I cannot understand why some people give away their earthly possessions.  Aren't we all leaving at the same time.  That ring you wanted.  Here.  Enjoy.  For the next 10 minutes. Gotcha!]

[Since the story won't die:  Early morning radio is reporting a second Arnold "love child".  CNN is running a video: How to Tell If He will Cheat.  Maybe someone should publish a list of what not to do - a Cheating for Dummies manual.  You know, things like, don't have the maid clean your room three times a day, don't leave your best videos in the DVD player, close your email and IM accounts and don't (please!) have your secretary bring you chicken soup - at home - when you're sick.]