This week, the lost Lenore of the New York Sun is writing a column about how proms are becoming more like weddings in terms of the cost and hoopla involved as parents may pay "$600, $700 even $1000" for prom "fixin's", girls getting their makeup "done" etc. So, as a man who never went to any prom as I was too busy becoming an obese, society-shunning reclusive hermit in my adolescent years, I thought I would now offer my own perspective...
"Actually, I've heard tell of parents paying a heckuva lot more than $600-$1000 for prom and it's "fixin's" not to sound too much like the condiment section at the Burger King (for men, "fixin's" are raw onions, relish, and nacho cheese sauce). Nowadays, prom goers expect limonsines, and they're going to cost you several hundred right there; I've even heard tell of kids getting helicopter rides, and now you're into the thousands.
To answer your question, "do high school girls really need their make up 'done'", no, in fact, they don't NEED ANY of this stuff, but it's all part of the rite of passage from child to adult...of course, if you really want to instill this rite of passage into your teens, I'd suggest having them PAY for it as I've found a huge part of growing up is paying bills. Actually, maybe there's an idea there. Just like parents will have Christmas credit union accounts where they have money put away throughout the year to pay for their holiday gifts, parents can work with kids to have them do the same thing for prom. Year before, kid gets a summer job, save the money for prom. Maybe Mom and Dad, ala corporate 401ks, can offer a 50% match. Personally, I've always found that I've enjoyed things I worked for and truly earned than gifts that were just given to me. Ultimately, the kids may find they enjoy the prom alot more when they know they've earned the money to enjoy it. Of course, kids may say they've earned it through their grades, but again, reality check time. School work is to "real life work" the way climbing Mt. Everest in a video game is to ACTUALLY CLIMBING EVEREST. Just a wii bit of difference there. Pun intended."
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
summer memories
Dear friend Lenore has a wonderful column now online at the New York Sun regarding people's personal "summer memories"...including one of Yours Truly. Check it out at
http://www.nysun.com/opinion/as-salamanders-waddle/78628/
She had to edit, of course, so here's my submission regarding her "Everything I need to know I learned in summer" in its entirety:
How about a near death experience?
It was summertime, I was 7, and Clyde was eating a hot dog.
Clyde was the family English setter, a dog that had absolutely no business taking up residence in a little rowhouse in Baltimore City with a backyard about as long and wide as your typical comic strip (i.e. TINY). English setters live to RUN and so Clyde had turned our once quaint wee patch of urban green into Hiroshima after the bomb.
Anyway, about the hot dog.
Clyde was white with black spots and splotches, strategically placed on his furry face that, with the hot dog lodged in one side of his mouth, made him look like a canine Groucho Marx.
Being a budding journalist and writer, I instinctively spotted a photo opp, and dashed about seeking a camera with film in it to capture the Kodak moment.
When I could find none, I was left with nothing to do but to pat my pooch on the head and head in for the evening after a day's summer play.
Unfortunately, Clyde had other ideas.
Personally, I blame Lorne Greene, remember him? After Lorne got kicked off the Ponderosa, he found himself in sent to TV purgatory otherwise known as Alpo commercials.
"Ol' Rex here really knows a good meal when he sees it," Lorne would say, rubbing his gnarled hand over some German shepherd's head as the dog's face violated a heaping bowl of Alpo dog food.
Of course, we now know it is a BAD, BAD, BAD DOG idea to touch a dog, particularly around the head/mouth when it is EATING.
Clyde mistook my head pat as a attempt to steal away is ballpark frank and like a drunken, angry Yankee fan (granted that's all a redundancy), attacked me.
Clyde hit me with full force, knocking me against one of two metal poles where my mother would sometimes hang summer wash when she didn't feel like tackling the Manhatten Project which were the family washing and drying machines (that's another story).
I remember things went fuzzy, like looking through wax paper. Luckily for me, I was blessed with a big bulbous head which made a much more easily accessible target than did my throat, otherwise some other PR guy would be writing this response to your PROFNET.
Clyde gnawed my head for awhile until some neighbor interceded. When all was said and done, I received a free ambulance ride (I remember wondering why I didn't feel any pain...they told me in the ambo that I was in shock...and kept thinking to myself, "Thank God for shock, thank God for shock, I LIKE shock!) and 36 stitches in the back of my head (and these were the days before dissolvable stitches...docs sewed you up with good old fashioned CATGUT boyhowdy...which, I have to tell you, is a real JOY to have to have removed...NOT).
For sometime after, everytime I had a summertime haircut, my father would tell the barber, "Not too much off the back. The scars will show."
So, at the ripe old age of 7, I learned about spectre of DEATH and BETRAYAL. As a high school student, I would write an essay about this experience, wherein I attributed it as a major factor in what path my life would take in ensuing years. Up to the Clyde incident I was a pretty active kid and pretty much a B's and C's student. After Clyde, I stopped going outdoors nearly as much, began cultivating a rich inner life (and rich diet), becoming the fat kid-last-kid-picked-for-dodge-ball, an afterschool special starring Bert Convy and Gary Coleman. My grades went from B's and C's to mostly A's and my fate as a pseudointellectual writer instead of a construction worker were sealed.
So that's my summer memory.
Oh, as for Clyde? Story goes my Dad gave him away to man who trained hunting dogs. Personally, I think it was just a prison break. Clyde got out of his tiny suburban prison and likely spent his days running, running, running over hills and dales, like Snoopy was always urged to do, chasing rabbits...
http://www.nysun.com/opinion/as-salamanders-waddle/78628/
She had to edit, of course, so here's my submission regarding her "Everything I need to know I learned in summer" in its entirety:
How about a near death experience?
It was summertime, I was 7, and Clyde was eating a hot dog.
Clyde was the family English setter, a dog that had absolutely no business taking up residence in a little rowhouse in Baltimore City with a backyard about as long and wide as your typical comic strip (i.e. TINY). English setters live to RUN and so Clyde had turned our once quaint wee patch of urban green into Hiroshima after the bomb.
Anyway, about the hot dog.
Clyde was white with black spots and splotches, strategically placed on his furry face that, with the hot dog lodged in one side of his mouth, made him look like a canine Groucho Marx.
Being a budding journalist and writer, I instinctively spotted a photo opp, and dashed about seeking a camera with film in it to capture the Kodak moment.
When I could find none, I was left with nothing to do but to pat my pooch on the head and head in for the evening after a day's summer play.
Unfortunately, Clyde had other ideas.
Personally, I blame Lorne Greene, remember him? After Lorne got kicked off the Ponderosa, he found himself in sent to TV purgatory otherwise known as Alpo commercials.
"Ol' Rex here really knows a good meal when he sees it," Lorne would say, rubbing his gnarled hand over some German shepherd's head as the dog's face violated a heaping bowl of Alpo dog food.
Of course, we now know it is a BAD, BAD, BAD DOG idea to touch a dog, particularly around the head/mouth when it is EATING.
Clyde mistook my head pat as a attempt to steal away is ballpark frank and like a drunken, angry Yankee fan (granted that's all a redundancy), attacked me.
Clyde hit me with full force, knocking me against one of two metal poles where my mother would sometimes hang summer wash when she didn't feel like tackling the Manhatten Project which were the family washing and drying machines (that's another story).
I remember things went fuzzy, like looking through wax paper. Luckily for me, I was blessed with a big bulbous head which made a much more easily accessible target than did my throat, otherwise some other PR guy would be writing this response to your PROFNET.
Clyde gnawed my head for awhile until some neighbor interceded. When all was said and done, I received a free ambulance ride (I remember wondering why I didn't feel any pain...they told me in the ambo that I was in shock...and kept thinking to myself, "Thank God for shock, thank God for shock, I LIKE shock!) and 36 stitches in the back of my head (and these were the days before dissolvable stitches...docs sewed you up with good old fashioned CATGUT boyhowdy...which, I have to tell you, is a real JOY to have to have removed...NOT).
For sometime after, everytime I had a summertime haircut, my father would tell the barber, "Not too much off the back. The scars will show."
So, at the ripe old age of 7, I learned about spectre of DEATH and BETRAYAL. As a high school student, I would write an essay about this experience, wherein I attributed it as a major factor in what path my life would take in ensuing years. Up to the Clyde incident I was a pretty active kid and pretty much a B's and C's student. After Clyde, I stopped going outdoors nearly as much, began cultivating a rich inner life (and rich diet), becoming the fat kid-last-kid-picked-for-dodge-ball, an afterschool special starring Bert Convy and Gary Coleman. My grades went from B's and C's to mostly A's and my fate as a pseudointellectual writer instead of a construction worker were sealed.
So that's my summer memory.
Oh, as for Clyde? Story goes my Dad gave him away to man who trained hunting dogs. Personally, I think it was just a prison break. Clyde got out of his tiny suburban prison and likely spent his days running, running, running over hills and dales, like Snoopy was always urged to do, chasing rabbits...
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Beach Etiquette. Just DON'T.
A reporter from a major Delaware daily asks, "What are the do's and don'ts of sunbathing? How close is too close for towels and blankets? How loud should a radio be? If you're close to someone, do you drink? Smoke? What do you do with your trash? And, what about kids?"
My response:
Unless you're a supermodel (being one in your own mind doesn't count), there are no "Do's" when it comes to sunbathing. Just don'ts. As in PLEASE DON'T...Don't subject us to your tired and poor cellulite, your huddled masses of flab that have been yearning to breathe free after a long winter, the wretched refuse of your bursting sans-a-belts. And if you need to dress like Marlon Brando in THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU (muumuu, oversized panama hat, mercury oxide that looks like you've dusted yourself in Bisquick), also DON'T. Regarding distance between towels and blankets, it's not the towels and blankets that are at issue, it's the people lying ON the towels and blankets. Generally, if I can hear the guy next to me breathing, they're too close. Regarding radio loudness (and nowadays, let's add portable TVs and DVD players, cell phone ringtones), these devices should be like children from the 1920s--seen, but not heard. I'm trying to relax. I don't want to hear the primal screams of RED SOX NATION on the radio. Drinking, again, depends on who is next to me. If it's the guy listening to the Red Sux, chances are he's already too drunk out of his mind to care. Smoke? I thought they hung people now for public smoking. Trash? Isn't that what the ocean is for? Kidding, kidding, I'm as a green as the next man (provided the next man is a 1980s lobbyist for Big Oil). Kids? What kids go to the beach? Are there malls there? Personally, I've never understood the allure of the beach anyway. It's hot, the sand gets into everything, you burn your soles trying to walk on it, and sharks attack within two feet of water so forget that. Maybe that's the best advice when it comes to the beach. Just DON'T.
My response:
Unless you're a supermodel (being one in your own mind doesn't count), there are no "Do's" when it comes to sunbathing. Just don'ts. As in PLEASE DON'T...Don't subject us to your tired and poor cellulite, your huddled masses of flab that have been yearning to breathe free after a long winter, the wretched refuse of your bursting sans-a-belts. And if you need to dress like Marlon Brando in THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU (muumuu, oversized panama hat, mercury oxide that looks like you've dusted yourself in Bisquick), also DON'T. Regarding distance between towels and blankets, it's not the towels and blankets that are at issue, it's the people lying ON the towels and blankets. Generally, if I can hear the guy next to me breathing, they're too close. Regarding radio loudness (and nowadays, let's add portable TVs and DVD players, cell phone ringtones), these devices should be like children from the 1920s--seen, but not heard. I'm trying to relax. I don't want to hear the primal screams of RED SOX NATION on the radio. Drinking, again, depends on who is next to me. If it's the guy listening to the Red Sux, chances are he's already too drunk out of his mind to care. Smoke? I thought they hung people now for public smoking. Trash? Isn't that what the ocean is for? Kidding, kidding, I'm as a green as the next man (provided the next man is a 1980s lobbyist for Big Oil). Kids? What kids go to the beach? Are there malls there? Personally, I've never understood the allure of the beach anyway. It's hot, the sand gets into everything, you burn your soles trying to walk on it, and sharks attack within two feet of water so forget that. Maybe that's the best advice when it comes to the beach. Just DON'T.
Monday, May 5, 2008
AN IMPERFECT MOTHER'S DAY?
For Mother's Day, my friend New York Sun columnist Lenore is seeking "a day of no advice to mothers! You too? That's what I'm writing about today: the fact that moms are expected to do everything perfectly right, and there are tons of books and magazine articles telling us precisely how to do that. And, of course, there are things to buy to "help" too -- like a thermometer to make sure baby's water isn't too hot. Can't we just feel it? If it makes us scream -- adjust the temp! And then there was a magazine article I read the other day -- four pages on "Taking your child out for a day in the sun." (Not really a whole day, of course, because the sun's rays are far too damaging in the middle of the afternoon.) How did we get to this point where moms are buffeted by so much advice and castigated for not peeling the grapes and finding lots of "teachable moments"?"
So, here's my response:
Dear Lenore: Well, your question is but the tip of the cliched iceberg. It is not merely mothers, but all of us who are inundated with the things we should buy to be healthy, wealthy and wise, the books we should read for better, more balanced lives, the classes we should take for inner peace and moral understanding, the car we should drive that doesn't pollute the environment and drive up gas prices, the music we should listen to that will raise money for the starving children in Somalia or east Philly, and on and on and on. What you are witnessing is actually the work of PR pioneer Ed Bernays. The way to sell things is to connect them to some emotional need and moral cause. You want to be a better person, right? You want the planet to be evergreen, right? You want to be a wise, loving, caring, smart, top of the line model Mom, right? Then...buy this book. Buy this hybrid car. Listen to these CDs. Connecting a product with a cause and also with an important emotional response--a sense of well-being, of responsibility, what have you--is a great way to sell said product. It's horrible, yes, but without it, capitalism would have gone the way of communism a long time ago. If we purchased, each, according to our needs, we'd stop buying. I mean, no Mom really needs that CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE MOMMY'S SOUL 4-disk set you can listen to in your car. As you note, you don't really need that baby water thermometer. But you want to show that you're a good Mom and since Jayne Seymour is using one of these things in the cover story of this month's REDBOOK, why hell, you gotta go out and get one lest you be considered a modern day Medea. It all started in the 1920s with Bernays, that's how we got to this point. And no, you can't have an imperfect Mother's Day because that would drive down sales and as you know, the best way to boost our economy is to go take President Bush's tax rebate and buy yourself a baby thermometer, a copy of THE JOY OF COOKING and box of Russell Stover chocolates. Happy Mother's Day.
So, here's my response:
Dear Lenore: Well, your question is but the tip of the cliched iceberg. It is not merely mothers, but all of us who are inundated with the things we should buy to be healthy, wealthy and wise, the books we should read for better, more balanced lives, the classes we should take for inner peace and moral understanding, the car we should drive that doesn't pollute the environment and drive up gas prices, the music we should listen to that will raise money for the starving children in Somalia or east Philly, and on and on and on. What you are witnessing is actually the work of PR pioneer Ed Bernays. The way to sell things is to connect them to some emotional need and moral cause. You want to be a better person, right? You want the planet to be evergreen, right? You want to be a wise, loving, caring, smart, top of the line model Mom, right? Then...buy this book. Buy this hybrid car. Listen to these CDs. Connecting a product with a cause and also with an important emotional response--a sense of well-being, of responsibility, what have you--is a great way to sell said product. It's horrible, yes, but without it, capitalism would have gone the way of communism a long time ago. If we purchased, each, according to our needs, we'd stop buying. I mean, no Mom really needs that CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE MOMMY'S SOUL 4-disk set you can listen to in your car. As you note, you don't really need that baby water thermometer. But you want to show that you're a good Mom and since Jayne Seymour is using one of these things in the cover story of this month's REDBOOK, why hell, you gotta go out and get one lest you be considered a modern day Medea. It all started in the 1920s with Bernays, that's how we got to this point. And no, you can't have an imperfect Mother's Day because that would drive down sales and as you know, the best way to boost our economy is to go take President Bush's tax rebate and buy yourself a baby thermometer, a copy of THE JOY OF COOKING and box of Russell Stover chocolates. Happy Mother's Day.
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