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Happy Halloween

Wishing you all a happy, healthy and safe night of candy, costumes and community.

Happy Halloween to everyone outside of New Jersey. For those in the flooded Garden State, feel free to open this on Friday, when you are permitted to celebrate. Actually, due to conditions, you likely won’t be able to read this until then anyway (too soon?)

Seriously, though…I do hope all of you along Sandy’s devastating path are safe, along with your families, friends, pets and homes, and I send my thoughts and best wishes for a quick and easy return to normalcy, whatever that might mean.

And just think…next Halloween, I will likely be dressed up as a dad!

Peace, love and warm regards to you all,

IDROS

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Happy Father’s Day

This is a test post (technical difficulties), but the sentiment is real

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Five For Fixing, Part IV

So here is my long-awaited fourth installment in a growing list of issues and frustrating cluster-f*#ks that if eliminated or amended, would help improve the world we all live in…sure, I offer opinions and recommendations on how to best resolve and/or eradicate the issues at hand, but other than to type and edit, I seldom lift a finger in an effort to enact change. I know my strengths, and I am definitely a better complainer and instigator than I am a doer. I campaign for and champion change, but as an idea man rather than as a front-line warrior. So without further ado:

1)      Recent legislation requires minors (read: girls under the age of 17) to have a prescription from a doctor in order to purchase “the morning after pill” known as Plan B at a pharmacy.  Sure, I can see both sides of this debate, and am actually somewhat sympathetic to those who agree with this legislation. But the double standard with regard to other contraception sold in pharmacies – and make no mistake, Plan B is contraception; nothing more and nothing less – as well as the fact that we do not live in a perfect, “Green Acres” world has me shaking my head much in the same way I shudder at pro-life activists who cannot see any possible scenario where their philosophy wouldn’t hold water (rape, incest, extreme poverty, illness, etc).

For those of you who haven’t been following this story, the FDA approved over the counter sales of Plan B, which was then quashed by Health and Human Services secretary Kathleen Sebelius last Wednesday, December 7. In fact, last Wednesday marked the first time EVER that a scientifically backed FDA decision was publically overruled by a HHS secretary.  This decision by Sebelius was clearly made based upon political (and perhaps religious) beliefs, and is another in a long line of attempts at government trying to dictate how its constituents, and particularly women, should choose to live their lives and treat their bodies. 

Parenthood is a decision for the parent(s), not our government; particularly when the often difficult decision is made not to have a child. Even if the government is offering the parent(s) in these cases the going rate of surrogacy inclusive of all health care costs during pregnancy and childbirth and then is willing to foot the entire bill for raising and educating the child (and beyond should prison, mental health issues and/or unemployment enter into the equation), the parent(s) should still have the ultimate decision. And the government makes no such offer, and even if it did, the true financial burden then falls on us, as taxpayers. So for crying out loud, reverse this ludicrous legislation and allow Plan B to be sold over the counter. I am not happy to give our immature, ignorant and often misguided youth such omnipotent free reign to act foolishly and without responsibility for their actions, but unfortunately, it is the better alternative in this case.

 

 

 

2)      When ordering in a restaurant and a dish comes with a predetermined number of pieces (i.e. –  5 dumplings, or 3 chicken strips, or 4 chocolate beignets, etc.), your server should automatically ask the table whether everyone will be sharing, and if there will not be enough of a sharable dish to accommodate everyone at the table, the server should let his or her table know the situation, and offer a solution. This solution is simple: If there are four people at the table and the dumplings come 3 per order, let the table know that fact and recommend getting a fourth dumpling for 2 dollars more, or whatever makes sense. This is a simple solution and does not create that awkward moment when you are forced to splitting bite-sized pieces into smaller and unappetizing pieces in order to allow everyone at the table to taste everything. This lack of service is particularly vexing at higher end and pricier restaurants, where frankly, for the prices charged, this should be done automatically for no additional charge, but is no less frustrating at your neighborhood Chinese restaurant. People go out to eat for the food and the service – so to all of you restaurant owners and managers, please get a clue regarding service. And to all you servers out there, 20 percent gratuities are expected on your end…please earn them.

 

 

 

3)      We all know the BCS system needs fixing. Most people would like to see some sort of playoff among the top four or eight teams. The NCAA and BCS proponents champion their current system based upon the monopoly they have and the fact that, as far as the most popular collegiate sport is concerned, they are the only game in town. But remove the “C” and it is clear that the BCS is total BS. And this year in particular, when we all get to behold a rematch of one of the most boring games in recent college football history, a 9-6 bore fest between colossal SEC stalwarts Alabama and LSU, the demand for systemic change is as strong as ever. There is only one unbeaten team (LSU), and countless one-loss teams behind them. There is no doubt LSU deserves to play for the national championship, but why should they have to play a team they already have defeated on the road again?

I am not going to explain how and why the system should be fixed. That has been done to death, and frankly, I do not want to bore you all with the thousands of words it would take to effectively debate the merits of a new system. However, my recommendation for this year to all of you fans and non fans out there is rather simple. DON’T WATCH THE GAME. Don’t go to the game in New Orleans and don’t watch it on television. I guarantee if Madison Avenue feels the pain of only getting true Crimson Tide and Tiger fans to watch their pricey ads on Tuesday night January 9, 2012 (and we all know advertisers coveted demographic are the large and sophisticated populations of backwoods Alabama and bayou country Louisiana), there will be widespread ramifications, not the least of which will be a push by the deep-pocketed sponsors of the BCS for change.

So will it be that difficult for all of you to just ignore the game this year? Spend time with your family, or on work, school or a hobby. Just don’t turn on the TV. If you must, check the score on your iPhone or laptop. But judging from the prior meeting this year in Tuscaloosa, you will not be missing much. And your ambivalence may very well be the pivotal factor to bring about much needed change.

 

 

 

 

4)      Recent sex abuse scandals are dominating our headlines, and clearly change is necessary as it relates to sex crimes across the board, from education of society as a whole to finding and helping victims of such heinous acts to making it more difficult for situations like what allegedly occurred at Penn State and Syracuse Universities to transpire. But among the long and growing laundry list of things that piss me off and bewilder me beyond words about both scandals is a fact that leaves me shaking my head in disbelief.

How can a Statute of Limitations be placed on a crime as heinous as the rape and molestation of a child (or children)? I understand the need for statutes and/or periods of prescription (the equivalent term used to describe statutes of limitation in civil courts or proceedings) for non violent or horrific crimes. After all, over time, evidence can be corrupted or disappear, memories fade, crime scenes are changed, and companies dispose of records. The best time to bring a lawsuit, clearly, is while the evidence is not lost and as close as possible to the alleged illegal behavior.

But unfortunately, because the crimes in question are all committed against children, who are seldom mentally equipped to handle the stress of questioning and scrutiny under normal circumstances, a time limit to bring charges seems ridiculous. After the life-changing experience of being raped and/or violated, youths often do not have the courage to even come forward and speak to their own parents, friends or trusted loved ones about the ordeal let alone strangers in a courtroom setting.

There are no statutes of limitations for murder. There should not be for rape or child molestation/abuse either. Syracuse (and any other city, state or municipality that has a similar statute) ought to be ashamed of itself right now, and may have the lives of many children on its hands.

5)      I realize it isn’t baseball season right now, but pitchers and catchers report on Sunday February 19, 2012, just 66 days from now, in case you were wondering. Anyway, I was at a game last year and a play occurred that left everyone at the stadium absolutely dumbfounded as to what happened. No replay was shown, no scoring decision was posted on any of the many digital screens throughout the stadium and no announcement was made.

I love to attend a live sporting event, particularly a baseball game on a nice day or night. But there is no excuse for the paying fans to be left on their own to decipher the occasional complex umpiring decisions and rulings on the field with no recourse. I was forced to call home to figure out what just happened at a game I was at, for a play I watched live. Read that sentence again and you will begin to crack the surface of the absurdity of this phenomenon.

Is it so much to ask that someone on the stadium staff gets the ruling from an umpiring official, either by direct communication or through an umpiring official upstairs and posts the scoring decision or on-field ruling on the giant screen for the fans? Furthermore, on weird plays, a replay or two should always be run. Finally, an announcement could be made on certain occasions where a play was unclear or bizarre, with some sort of explanation. Even if the play is so obscure and bizarre that a formal ruling can’t be posted until a few minutes later, please humor us paying fans with some sort of acknowledgement that the people who actually forked over the dough to see the game may actually care what they are watching.  

Thank you.

IDROS

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My Blog Has Moved….

In order to cater to my throngs of fans, I have relocated my blog to WordPress. Please check out my new link at:

http://idontrollonshabbas.wordpress.com

You can now follow my blog without being given the third degree by an archaic and frankly, poorly conceived blog site heretofore not to be mentioned again.

Thank you to my loyal readers for your diligence and patience as I find my best online solution to quench my thirst to write.

Thank you also to those of you who will now join my journey to find and comment on truth, justice and humor.

All the best,

IDROS

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Five for Fixing, Part III….

1) Multiple person restrooms (those without locking doors) located in public venues, such as restaurants, shopping malls, casinos, amusement parks and movie theaters, etc., should be required by the NIH and OSHA to engineer their entrance doors to open as a pull door from the outside and as a push door from the inside…ALWAYS. People entering a public restroom will not care that they are forced to touch a door handle on their way in, but we all loathe any situation requiring us to touch the obviously germ-infested handles on our way outs, particularly those of us who make a habit of actually washing our hands after using the facilities.

2) Be it white collar, blue collar or maximum security prison, any person who serves time in jail during their lifetime, gets out after serving their sentence, and makes more than $100,000 per year (maybe less, but that would be a good starting point) at any time following their release, should be required to first repay the full cost in tax-payer dollars to keep them in prison throughout their sentence, and then pay a “prison tax” above and beyond their traditional tax requirements on a sliding scale, based on income.

The scale could ensure all moneys are repaid in full over the same period they were imprisoned, so for example, Michael Vick, who served nearly 2 years, would need to repay the full cost of his imprisonment over a two-year period, and since Vick earns a ridiculous salary, he would also need to pay the “prison tax” on top of said repayment, and continue to pay it for as long as he earned 6+ figures. Someone like Vick would be taxed an additional 25 to 30% over and above his tax bracket, making his total tax percentage somewhere around 60%. His ridiculous $100 million contract, if paid in full, would therefore net Vick around $40 million, minus whatever his total cost of imprisonment turned out to be.

It is totally ridiculous that people like Michael Milken, Martha Stewart, Plaxico Burress, Wesley “Demolition Man” Snipes, Michael Vick, Lindsay Lohan, Mike Tyson, myriad Mafiosi, drug dealers, ponzi schemers, inside traders, embezzlers, DUI killers (like Donte Stallworth) and repeat offenders (like half of Hollywood), tax evaders, sex offenders, arms dealers, insurance fraud perpetrators, robbers et al are 100% free to make egregious sums of money without repaying the cost to taxpayers their crimes and others like them cost us every day.

I know. I know. They all pay their debt to society when serving their prison sentence. And I agree, in a moral sense. But financially I completely DISAGREE. There are costs to our society to have a criminal element among us. Police departments, prisons, auditors, and our entire court system to name a few spend billions in taxpayer dollars every year dealing with criminals of all types.

Compare this to our health system, which I agree is broken, but still helps make a case here. All of us who have health insurance are forced to pay even higher premiums and co pays to basically cover the costs of all the people who refuse or cannot afford to get insurance. Similarly, those criminals who will earn 6-figure salaries after serving time will be “covering” (or at least defraying) taxpayer costs for themselves as well as all the criminals who will not (and there are a lot more of them) as well as all the criminals who will never be released.

3) People (and by people I am generally referring to females, and possibly bottoms) need to stop referring to every milestone in a relationship or marriage as an anniversary. There is no such thing as a 5-month anniversary, or a 3-week anniversary. Anniversary is a word which derives from the Latin root word annus, which means YEAR, and versus, the past participle of vertere, meaning to turn. So while everyone is certainly entitled to celebrate 8 months together or 2 weeks together, please stop referring to the event as an anniversary. It completely dilutes and belittles true anniversary celebrations, and is frankly infantile, reminding people of early childhood when most of us referred to our ages in fractions. Moreover, our youth does not engage in celebrations upon turning 4 ¾ or 8 ½.

4) I think movie studios should raise their own stakes for cop-out decisions to remake a movie, whether it was a classic or not. With the pending release of an “updated” Footloose, and the atrocious recent performance of an updated “Arthur,” I had a pretty great epiphany. I am fine with ambitious updates of movies that market great stories to new generations in original ways. Last year’s release of True Grit by the Coen Brothers was a perfect example of re-releasing a classic movie with sharper writing, smart casting choices all while still honoring the original film with a modicum of deference and respect.

 

 

 

With Footloose, however, I am a bit skeptical. So, here is my recommendation, guaranteed to increase the stakes of releasing an updated film and generally heightening the experience for everyone. Every studio or producer that intends to update a previously released film should always have an addendum to their contract with the original studio/owner of the film when purchasing the rights. And if the same studio or owner of the film’s rights decides to update a film on their own, they still must be subject to this same addendum:

If the updated film fails to earn more than the original, when converting original box office receipts to present day dollars, all proceeds must be yielded to the original studio, cast and crew. If the updated film fails to break even, all future revenues attached to said update (including but not limited to international box office, DVD sales, television rights and merchandising) go to the original studio, cast and crew.

Recent releases “Fright Night,” and “Conan the Barbarian,” both updates of 1980s films, are not faring too well at the box office. Were my recommendation enacted, perhaps the Governator would have been right all those times he warned “I’ll be back.”

5) Why do armored truck companies like Brinks and Dunbar insist on emblazoning the sides of their trucks with the company name and the words “armored vehicle”? This is a clear signal to criminals to target that particular vehicle for a heist. I understand the advertising value inherent in name recognition, but there has to be a better, safer way. Banks put their name on the outside of their buildings because they NEED people to be able to find them, walk in and make deposits or secure loans. Armored trucks do not need or want people to find them.

The same principal holds true for police officers. Uniformed officers wear their uniforms and drive clearly marked police cars so that everyone around knows there is an officer of the law in the vicinity. It makes the innocent feel safer and deters criminals from committing crimes. But undercover police officers and detectives drive UNMARKED cars and wear civilian attire so they attract no attention. This allows them to perform their detective work and gain access to places and sometimes gangs or drug cartels unnoticed, to uncover massive injustice and illegal activity. It also allows some police officers and U.S. Marshalls to make our highways and airplanes safer by patrolling the roads and skies unbeknownst to other drivers and fliers. Similarly, unmarked armored trucks would be free to engage in their primary responsibilities without a blatant bulls-eye on their sides.

So to all armored truck companies, please rethink your strategy. Advertise on television, in periodicals and on-line. Put your name on billboards and in stadiums. This may not completely eliminate robbery attempts on your trucks, but it will certainly decrease their frequency.

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WY SP, WY? Say it isn’t so….

As Philadelphia’s once undisputed FM radio king of the ratings, 94.1 WYSP, sets to close its doors, ending its nearly 40 year run in a now anachronistic era of terrestrial music radio, I feel it imperative to give the station its due.

Having come of age in the Philadelphia area during WYSP’s heyday, I have very fond memories of the station.

I suppose you could say I have always been an old soul regarding my musical preference. From a young age, I generally have preferred music dating from before my time with very few exceptions. Sure, I loved MJ, Madonna and The Police as much as most every other adolescent girl and boy of the 1980s did. In fact, I was a fan of most 80s music, which helped shape my generation, for better or for worse, and still love most songs from that decade to this day.

But the music that truly shaped my journey through puberty and that I must credit (along with my father and various camp counselors) for my vast musical knowledge to this day mostly dates from the 1960s and 1970s. From Aerosmith to ZZ Top and all things Motown, I couldn’t get enough. I was sure from a very young age that I had been born at least a decade too late.

This was before MP3s. This was even before CDs. Exchanging music was done through mix tapes and copies of albums. My first album collection was an incredible stack of 8-track tapes that included Billy Joel’s The Stranger, Steely Dan’s Aja, Simon and Garfunkle’s Bookends, Stevie Wonder’s Innervisions and Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors.

My father made brunch on many a Sunday as I grew up with the melodious tunes of Liverpool’s Fab Four echoing throughout our house. Breakfast with the Beatles, a Philadelphia staple since 1976, was an actual event, not just a radio show, in my household for most of my youth. My father’s vinyl collection was an impressive sampling of all the greatest artists of the 1950s through 1970s.

When 94.1 WYSP went to a “Classic Rock” format in 1981 (and WYSP invented “Classic Rock,” becoming the first station in the nation to adopt the format), it seemed to be catering to my personal musical preference. Except for the Motown, all of my favorite artists and songs were played on this station – and the best part was, I wouldn’t become sick of the same two or three tracks from each album that they would play over and over again for quite a few years.

Sure, WYSP expanded its playlist over the years, adding late 1980s and even 1990s music to its repertoire (and making me and my generation feel old in the process, as music from our youth became “classic”), but the lions’ share and most significant and beloved music the station had to offer dated from the preceding decades, tacitly acknowledging that all music created after those decades, even if attaining classic rock status, owed everything to the pioneers of the genre, the golden age of rock, the 1960s and 1970s.

Furthermore, in 1986, WYSP became the first station on which Howard Stern syndicated his incredible and controversial morning show and ratings monster. 94.1 became a force to reckon with on the airwaves, destroying its local rival 93.3 WMMR. I loved Howard Stern and listened and laughed as I got ready for school (and later drove to school) each morning. And when school let out, I listened to WYSP’s music on the way home.

But for me, what I will always remember about WYSP is how it basically built my vast music collection overnight.

For many years, the station featured Classic Rock’s Top 500 Countdown over Labor Day Weekend. Listeners would help determine the list and rankings by voting for their favorite songs of all time. WYSP hosts would ask listeners to mail in a postcard ranking their top 3 songs of all time, from which various station employees would cull and order the ultimate top 500. In 1991, my senior year of high school, I mailed three such postcards to the station.

One ranked the following 3 songs: 1) Stairway to Heaven, Led Zeppelin; 2) Deacon Blues, Steely Dan; 3) Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd

The second listed these songs: 1) Sugar Magnolia, Grateful Dead; 2) A Day In The Life, The Beatles; 3) Scenes From an Italian Restaurant, Billy Joel

And the third listed these songs: 1) Funeral for a Friend, Elton John; 2) After the Goldrush, Neil Young; 3) Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan

I left for college that August, never getting to hear the countdown that year.

Tuesday after Labor Day I got a message in my dorm room from my father. I returned his call and he asked me if I was sitting down. I lied and said yes. He then asked if I happened to have sent any postcards to any radio stations before I left for school.

I wracked my brain, and told him I had. “Why?” I asked.

“You are amazing,” he informed me. “Remi [your cousin] called me first. She was pretty sure she heard your name announced on WYSP as the winner of their Labor Day 500 contest.”

My heart was in my throat and I got a little dizzy from excitement. It was already hot in my non-air conditioned dorm in early September North Carolina. I was sweating.

“Ok,” I managed to reply, hoping to urge my father to get to the point.

“Well they called the house and left a message today.  I called them back and sure enough, your postcard was drawn. You won.”

“Did they say what I won?” I asked, fairly sure I already knew the answer.

“Yup. Every song on the countdown, on compact disc, and a Yamaha rack system with five CD-changer and six speakers. Pretty serious prize. Just wanted to let you know the goings on back home and keep you up to date. I will let you know when and how they want you to claim the prize.”

“Me? Dad, I am in college 500 miles away. Can’t you pick it up? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Well I don’t know.  Your name was on the card. If they let me claim the prize, I will be happy to. Otherwise, maybe you can get it over Thanksgiving.”

“Holy shit.”

“Holy shit is right. Congratulations. This should make the transition to college a little better, no?”

“I am speechless. Thanks dad. I love you. Say hi to Mom and Mel.”

“Will do.”

My CD collection grew by 341 discs. The sponsoring music store even allowed me to exchange my doubles for anything in their store, even exchange. The new stereo was too big and expensive for the college experience, and thus did not make the trek to Durham. Sure, some of the songs overlapped on compilation and greatest hits albums. I even got a couple box sets. But the vast majority of songs came on unique, original albums with colorful and playful cover artwork.

I received every Beatles and Rolling Stones album ever released, as they were the two bands with the most songs on the top 500 list.

I still remember sampling the goods with my buddy Marc as he drove us to and from school a few times a year. The rest were unveiled at my own pace and became a significant part of the soundtrack of my collegiate years. Deep tracks on many of the discs yielded musical gems never played on stations like WYSP. I devoured them eagerly.

So thank you WYSP for playing the soundtrack of my formative years, and for providing that playlist to me in the form of an incredible prize, which allowed me to continue to revel in some of the best music ever created for years to come. I will always remember you as my favorite terrestrial radio station of all time and the left-most button (preset number 1) of every car I drove in the Philadelphia area.

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Generation Why?

Here is a source of frustration new to the digital age. My grandparents never dealt with a scenario like this – but then again, I never walked to and home from school each day, uphill both ways and in the snow:

Most people who work in an office setting have a company computer network they must log into and out of each day. So when we corporate cogs start work, we create a password. Every few months, our trusty system (or office IT professional) prompts us to create a new password for security reasons. Some networks force users to have a rotation of three, and even four different passwords because when prompted to create a new password, one parameter often states “please choose a new unique password, distinct from the password you used both most recently and during the period before that” (or some reasonable facsimile).

We sleepwalk into work on anymorning M-F, and we power up our workstations. A familiar prompt greets us, and those login fields beckon. Pure reflex takes over as we hunt and peck our password symbols into the correct field. Alas, we get a red error message. Maybe we misclicked an adjacent character on the keyboard. Perhaps CAPS LOCK was enabled, screwing up the entire process. Or, on occasion, we key in a password in our rotation that is not currently correct, forgetting that it recently changed.

This mental lapse is akin to writing the wrong date, on checks and homework assignments, for instance, for an indeterminate but prolonged period after New Years each year.

So we silently mutter a four letter word or two in our office/cubicle/hotel room/living room (depending on where we are working from this lovely morning). And we try again. This time, we make sure CAPS LOCK is off, and we wrack our brains to make sure we know which password we are currently using. We enter the characters and hit enter. Generally, we hit pay dirt and are able to exhale.

 

BUT…on rare occasion, we get an error message again.  This time, the red seems to leak into our already groggy and bloodshot eyes and our ringing ears. We audibly shout another four letter word or three. And we mentally prepare ourselves for the battle to come.  For we know, through trial and error, that our final attempt is upon us.  Fuck this up one more time and we are doomed to a visit from an IT tech or our office administrator, who would have to unlock our workstation.

Now we scour our desk drawers to find the little piece of paper we have our current password written – if we are even that organized.  Maybe it is in our phone. Hopefully it is somewhere. Cause if not, then we must endure every movie scene involving a bomb dismantling scene, where a ticking clock is speeding toward zero point zero zero in reverse and the protagonist‘s brow is teeming with beads of sweat, veins popping out of his or her forehead as he or she debates whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire.

Our hands become clammy. We put on our game-face and start to type, taking every precaution to only hit one key at a time, and in the correct order. We know we aren’t going to blow up the entire office with a mistake, but the frustration we feel this early in the morning, and our overarching desire not to have to waste more time this morning having to explain what happened and then waiting to have our computer unlocked throws some serious pressure onto our shoulders nonetheless.

As we key in the final character, we count the little dots in the password field. Hopefully there are exactly as many dots as characters in our password.  Hopefully we typed the correct password – our current password. Hopefully this never happens again.

While we hit enter, thoughts run through our heads – almost universally we imagine the scene in Office Space where Michael Bolton, Samir and Peter take a baseball bat, a la Casino, to their office fax machine. We visualize this scene even if, for some ridiculous reason, we live under a rock and have never seen Office Space.

We can barely watch the screen. Part of us wants to turn away. Another part forces us to endure the carnage of the train wreck that might unfold. And those next split seconds dictate our day to come.

If we have success and log on, we chalk up the frustration we just experienced as a lack of sleep, but are sufficiently psyched to have weathered the storm and come out on top. We will channel the momentum our ridiculous victory creates, and plow through our day.

However, if we fail on this all-important third attempt, and start our day off with what can only be described as a steaming pile of office shit, slathered onto the top of our desk and left to fester in our minds for hours to come, we know our day really couldn’t have started with any less promise.  It throws our whole morning off, invites unwanted negative energy into our heads and basically ensures we will be fighting an uphill battle to restore sanity and serenity into our day. If it is a Monday, this might border on the impossible.

Oh well. At least I can say this with a decent amount of certainty. My computer allows me to do more in one day at work than my grandparents were able to accomplish in weeks. And check Facebook, and read the news, and update my fantasy football lineups and buy a large assortment of products. So take that octogenarians.

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Reflections on a 20th High School Reunion

Then as it was, then again it will be
An’ though the course may change sometimes
Rivers always reach the sea
Blind stars of fortune, each have several rays
On the wings of maybe, down in birds of prey
Kind of makes me feel sometimes, didn’t have to grow
But as the eagle leaves the nest, it’s got so far to go

Changes fill my time, baby, that’s alright with me
In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be

-Led Zeppelin

LZ’s lyrics may or may not resonate with you, but they surely capture images and sentiments of remembering days past quite well. And to think, Robert Plant’s words described a mere ten year void.

But twenty years?  Our first reunion where the celebrants have lived more years after high school graduation than before it. And we celebrate this?  Or do we simply congregate to commiserate the fact that we all have aged precisely the same amount since sharing common classrooms, teachers, extracurricular activities and athletic fields for four years?

For most of us, it was nice to see our friends…the ones we still have today as well as those we once proudly roamed the halls with twenty years ago.  Some of us even have friends from high school that we are closer with today than back when acne and SATs were among our biggest fears.

It was also nice to see those we weren’t so friendly with back then.  Twenty years of maturity and experience certainly dulls whatever insecurities and emotional scars may remain from some people’s nightmare that was adolescence. So seeing the inevitable “Breakfast Club” of characters from our past became more intriguing than painful after two decades (and the free-flowing drinks certainly helped too).

Bottom line: I was glad I went.

Never again will I have the opportunity to attend my 20th High School Reunion.

Sure, I am lucky enough to still have a sizable group of friends from high school whom I see as frequently as our schedules, family commitments and geographical constraints allow.  But even with these friends that I hold nearest and dearest, it will never be like it was in high school, when I saw them all every weekday and most weekends for four years.

High School was a time and place for many important firsts in life (at least for the majority of us):

The first time we had a “security guard” on campus (thanks Charlie)

The first time we participated in a form of parliamentary government and elected our classmates (or they elected us) to office

The first time we had multiple principals and were unclear as to what roles they played

The first time we “borrowed” our parents’ (or sibling’s) car (without a license)

The first time we stupidly smoked a cigarette

The first time we read Shakespeare and Dickens

The first time we had a school wide pep rally

The first time we experienced the trauma of one of our classmates passing away

The first time we went to a rock or pop concert with our friends and no parents

The first time we got to third base with a member of the opposite sex

The first time we earned a varsity letter

The first time we studied for and took the SATs

The second time we studied for and took the SATs

The first time we went to a party where everyone was drinking

The first time the cops busted a party we attended

The first time we met with a guidance counselor

The first time we were told, based on test scores, we were best suited for a career in a field we had no interest in pursuing

The first time we applied for college

The first time we were told to apply to a safety school just in case by a man with one foot in the grave

The first time we threw a party when our parents were out of town

The first time we studied Physics, Calculus, Latin and “Typing”

The first time we drank too much and vomited

The first time we learned to drive and got our license

The first time we drove ourselves (and others) to school

The first time we tried marijuana

The first time we were devastated by a break-up

The first time we had any say as to the classes we took

The first time we had responsibilities other than homework or chores

The first time we (boys) spent serious money on a girl

The first time we researched and wrote a paper longer than 10 pages

The first time we attended a prom

The first time we grew facial hair (intentionally or unintentionally)

The first time we didn’t take art or music – unless we chose to

The first time we stood up for or even took action for a cause we believed in

The first time we had a serious relationship with a member of the opposite sex

The first time we got into a car accident

The first time we knew someone or even had a friend who was openly homosexual

The first time we could go outside when walking from class to class

The first time we got laid

and…

The first time we were accepted (and/or rejected) by a college or university

And everyone who attended (or eschewed) our 20th reunion played a pivotal or peripheral role in all of the above. They were there, finding their own way in the world, just like us. They were our support system, our confidantes, our best friends, our sworn enemies, our teammates, our co-stars, our band mates, our fellow staffers, our secret crushes, our exes, our competition, our heroes, our nightmares, our misunderstood, our former friends, our future friends, our academic equals, superiors and inferiors, our class clowns, our drug dealers, our designated drivers, our tutors, our class officers, our role models, our teachers’ pets, our most and least likely to succeed, our future captains of industry, our criminals, our bullies, our bullied, our outcasts, our boyfriends, our girlfriends, our prudes, our sluts, our most popular and least popular, our lunch buddies, our homeroom friends, our prom dates and our science lab partners.

It was great to see how all the aforementioned people look 20 years later. It was great to catch up.  It was great to reminisce, and to compare notes.  There were some surprises, and a few people I honestly never knew were in my high school class. I wondered where some of the no-shows were and what they were doing with their lives. I asked a few attendees if they still keep in touch with some of those who didn’t make it. I witnessed some flirting, and saw the gravitational pull of some high school cliques attempting to reemerge.

I wore a nametag with my senior yearbook picture on it.

I brought my wife, and introduced her to everyone.

I met others’ spouses and significant others.

I shared some laugh-out-loud moments and traded contact info with a select few.  There were some promises to keep in touch and some invitations to “call when you’re in town.”

I heard rumors of some shady shit going down in the parking lot.

I wished some of my favorite and most impactful teachers were there, but understand that they cannot be expected to attend multiple reunions a year for their entire lives.

And every group has the douche bag friend who is “too cool for school (reunions).”  You know the type: Couldn’t be bothered with such a “ridiculous event,” even though they still lived in the area and had no more important things going on that night. If you don’t know what I am talking about, it was probably you.

But overall, the event was well-attended and fun.

Thanks to those who organized it.

See you all in five, or ten, or thirty, Upper Dublin class of 1991 alumni.

Peace.

IDROS

 

 

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I’ll be back…

Too soon? I apologize if I offend any Maria sympathizers out there in my limited following, but I can’t help but immediately think of Ah-nold clad in leather and toting a gun whenever those three words come to mind.

Your fearless author will be off mooning his honey for a spell, but stay tuned.  Time away should refresh and revitalize, and my highly-anticipated return should serve to increase your enjoyment of my future posts – think of it like abstaining from sex for a little while (be it intentionally or, more likely, due to external forces outside of your control)…when you finally get back in the saddle, so to speak…well, you know where this is going.

Best,

IDROS

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Five for Fixing, Part Deux…..

1) Every gas station should be required to install and maintain Purell (or at least generic) hand sanitizer stations at their self-service pumps.  It is disgusting enough that we have to get gasoline residue and grime all over our hands every time we fill up AND pay ridiculously high prices for gas on top of that.  But those pump handles and the keypad buttons (both credit card and gas grade selection buttons) on the dispenser are touched every day by god-knows-who and are the most repulsive, nauseating things the average person is required to touch on a regular basis.  (Brief aside:  Writing that sentence reminded me of the scene in Trading Places where Penelope bails Winthorpe out of Jail, and on the jailhouse steps the following exchange takes place – and picture Penelope’s whiney, superior, upper-crust voice:

P:  Louis, you’re making a scene.

L: The good news is I’m innocent. I’ve never done anything resembling this.

P: Louis, you look awful.  I’m so ashamed.  Those clothes and those shoes and…you’ve been fighting….and you smell.

L: I smell?

P: Penelope, do you realize where I’ve been since yesterday?

Well that classic line where Penelope ridicules Louis’ wardrobe, bruised face and putrid stench and the amazingly horrified face she makes as she unleashed those lines on him illustrates exactly how anyone should feel when touching a gas pump at the average filling station.

I know, we should all take responsibility for our own hygiene and carry hand sanitizer in our cars and in our purses/brief cases.  And I don’t disagree.  But gas stations are cash cows. In the 1950s and 1960s they were well run establishments that prided themselves on service – and somehow, over time, our expectations of what a gas stations should be and the levels of cleanliness and sanitation that we are willing to accept has taken a nosedive.  Most of us spend more money at gas stations in a week than anywhere else but the grocery store.  And they all gauge us at the pump. It is an outrage…and we just bend over and let it happen. The least they can do is offer an opportunity for us to regain our sense of humanity after suffering the awful and often humiliating and raunchy experience of filling our gas tanks. And don’t get me started on their lavatories, god forbid you ever have an emergency on the highway.

 

2) Disclaimer: I realize homelessness is a worldwide epidemic, and that if there is really something to be fixed here, it is that no human being should have to be without shelter and sleep in the freezing cold, pouring rain and sweltering heat that so many are forced to endure each and every day. In writing a blog intended to entertain, at least on some level, it is sometimes difficult to maintain a modicum of reality, instead opting for a more surreal and humorous approach to a situation. So I ask my reader(s), please understand that this answer should read “to eliminate homelessness in the world.” That said, and as long as homelessness continues to exist, please also take your humble author’s recommendation below with the proper side order of sodium:

Homeless people should offer a receipt with a distinct logo or signature when you give them money so that you don’t have to feel guilty the next time that same exact homeless man or woman approaches your car at an exit ramp or as you walk by them on the street and do not give them anything.  There are certain routes that all of us take regularly, be it our walk to and from work or the subway, or our drive to and from work, etc.  If there are homeless people that have staked out a location on this route, you are bound to see them a few times a week, if not every day.  This receipt plan (or a reasonable facsimile) would ensure that you get the credit you deserve when making a selfless gesture (important to note: this assumes you actually do give money occasionally), and also allows you to drive/walk by the less fortunate at other times armed with validation that you care, and guilt free that you are not feeding their drug and alcohol habit on this particular day.

3) I think if you are homosexual and live in a state that does not have equal laws for homosexuals, including marriage laws, you should not be required to pay state taxes in that state.   I understand this would necessitate increased state spending in ensuring certain constituents do not take advantage of this law, but who cares?  If something is unfair for certain people, it should become a burden to everyone…raising taxes statewide may just provide the kick in the ass a majority would need to vote for change.

4) The rule in the NBA that allows a team to call a timeout and then advance the ball to their offensive end of the court is ridiculous and needs to be eliminated.  Imagine if you could do this in any other sport.  Call a timeout in football and advance the ball across midfield?  How about in golf?  Call a timeout and take a free drop on the apron of the green?  In hockey, call a timeout and get an offensive zone faceoff?  And what about in baseball?  Not even sure how you could do this, but imagine if you had an 0-2 count as a batter, and then could call a timeout and reset the count to 0-0.  That would pretty much be equivalent to the absurdity that takes place down the stretch in an NBA game.  And the most ludicrous wrinkle about this “rule” is that the rule does not exist in any other basketball league in America, from little league, to junior high, to high school to the NCAAs.  Basketball players in all other competitive leagues are required to bring the ball the full length of the court, each and every time down the floor, even after a time out.  So why are NBA athletes exempt?  Obviously this rule was myopically instituted to make the endings of games more competitive and exciting for the fan.  But the end of NBA games, 9 out of 10 times, are anything but exciting.  They feature seemingly endless clock stoppages due to intentional fouls and a limitless cache of timeouts.  The final two minutes of a closely contested NBA game can take 20-30 minutes in actual elapsed time.  Even lopsided games, in large part due to this timeout ball advancement rule, can take much longer to end than they should.  Bottom line, if a team dominates a game for 46 minutes, there shouldn’t be a loophole rule akin to something you would find in a game of Monopoly (you know,” go directly to jail,” or “pass go and collect $200”) that allows the trailing team to have a better chance to get back into the game.  Especially considering that rule doesn’t exist in NCAA basketball, which offers some of the most exciting, down-to-the-wire games every year in its conference and NCAA tournaments.

 

5) Stable, sober, presumably loving married couples are often unable to reproduce (due to age, infertility, genetic issues, etc.) while abusive, substance-abuse-riddled and poverty-stricken, unwed couples and one-night flings from broken homes reproduce like insects.  There is even a farcical youth movement sweeping our nation, which is glamorized, as most ridiculous fads tend to be, on MTV.  I am sure there are scads of couples and single women in their late 30s and 40s cursing as commercials for 16 and Pregnant taunt them from their television screens.  I do not have all the answers, but it would be great for everyone in the world if this was corrected.  Unfortunately, of the five items discussed here, this may be the most difficult problem to repair.

 

 

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