The sardonic and sometimes sacrilegious humor that is Joe O’Neill’s. Nothing, seemingly, is sacred. Everything, apparently, is fair game.
First, the bad news.
Once again, major revisions in Florida’s archaic, revenue-raising formula are off the Tallahassee table. Too political for the loopholier than thou legislative set.
Now, the good news.
It looks really, really promising that this will be the year that bestiality will be banned.
No, you can’t make this stuff up.
Late last year the health-care debate was spiced up even more with a dicey legal question. Can the federal government require Americans to buy health insurance? Our own attorney general, Bill McCollum, is among the inquiring minds who want to know. Legal opinions are all over the board. Some say it’s a function of Congress’ authorized powers to regulate interstate commerce. Others say it’s a private decision; hardly a matter of “commerce.” The constitutional plot will continue to thicken.
But here’s a suggestion. Forget that there’s even a mandatory social security tax, for example. Just leave it at this: If you don’t want to be made to buy health insurance or pay a resultant fine, then simply sign a waiver. It would, in effect, say:
“I choose not to have health insurance. I’m young. I’m healthy. I’m invulnerable. I’m fine with other priorities. But if, by some unimaginably implausible happenstance, I should find myself in dire need of medical assistance and immediate transport to an emergency room, it’s OK to leave me unattended. It wouldn’t be fair to charge the taxpayer, given that I’ve opted out of helping others. That’s my individual right, and I’ll die for it, if necessary.”
If this spate of sub-freezing temperatures is the devilish, El Nino deal we made for no hurricanes, I’ll still take it. But no double-crossing.
Let us pray.
No, let us prey.
Let us prey on those who, in the good names of diversity and inclusiveness and acknowledgement of a higher power, continue to defend a practice that has now morphed into a meaningless, trivializing gimmick. That is the tradition of City Council — following the Pledge of (“…One Nation, under God…”) Allegiance — starting each meeting with an invocation delivered by a token invitee. Ostensibly generic and sort of secular, but inevitably an unholy alliance.
The invitees have generally been Christians (usually ministers), occasionally Jews (typically rabbis) and once, memorably, an atheist. But in a politically correct era, it’s only a matter of time before it becomes a pick-a-number experience with animists, agnostics, Buddhists, Confucians, Hindis, Muslims, et al queuing up for their share of nominal inclusiveness. And where do we draw the line? Santeria? Scientology?
What in Jesus’ name are we doing? Oops. See how hard it is to stay secular?
Anyway, I see where Alan Snel, the City Hall gadfly and diversity proponent who has weighed in on this issue, has been invited to deliver the invocation Jan. 15. Well, I would like to officially go on the record right now that if invited, I’d be pleased to deliver one myself. And although I acknowledge that I’m a George Carlin Catholic, I would promise to keep my invocation utterly generic and non-sectarian. In fact, here it is:
“Let us not be presumptuous enough to think that a deity — by whatever identity and one that not everyone agrees even exists — needs to be invoked in matters of liquor licenses, sewer repairs, local taxes and the like. Let’s simply focus on the reality that this Council has been elected to represent the best interests of Tampa. And remember that doing the right thing is not synonymous with doing the popular thing. And that what is good for the individual political careers of Council members is, candidly, not very important.
“Let us now take a brief moment of silence to reflect on this city’s priorities and what it meant to take that oath of office.”
To say the least, the National Hockey League doesn’t get everything right. Exhibit A is TV. It’s never been able to secure those lucrative network contracts that other professional sports have. Too often it doesn’t sufficiently showcase its marquee players. But one thing it does have: priorities at Christmas.
The NHL won’t schedule games on either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Classy move. And it impacts more than players and coaches. It also means that all personnel that are part of putting on NHL games are where they belong: with their families.
As for those other sports, well, nothing says “Merry Christmas” quite like the Los Angeles Clippers vs. the Phoenix Suns in prime time on Christmas Day.
First, the good news.
According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Florida ranks as the third “happiest” state in the country. Right after Louisiana and Hawaii and right before Tennessee and Arizona. New Jersey, Indiana, Michigan, Connecticut and New York were the bottom five and presumably not at all happy about it. The criteria that mattered most: climate, crime rates and air quality. Apparently, those residing in sunny, outdoorsy states are happiest.
Now, even better news. Florida is hardly maxed out. The Sunshine state can still get a whole lot happier. Just imagine how happy Floridians would be if construction and tourism weren’t down; the tax system broken, hurricane insurance dicey; the state budget in deficit and unemployment at 11.5 per cent?
Once again the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is preparing for more inductees. Once again controversy will be revisited. It’s the nature of halls of fame. Everybody is not equally worthy. Perhaps asterisks need to be affixed or shrine space reduced for the non-iconic. Otherwise you get, as with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, membership that will soon include, for example: Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Carl Perkins, Elvis Presley, Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Platters, the Drifters, the Temptations, the Rolling Stones and — Iggy Pop and the Stooges.
For the record, I’d also have a problem if Cooperstown, whose enshrinees include Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Henry Aaron, Sandy Koufax and Willie Mays, were to add Pat Burrell.
Some of you have been there. For others, it awaits. A class reunion. A rite of passage of later life.
Frankly, I never thought of myself as a “reunion” sort of guy. More of a that-was-then, this-is-not sort.
Until, that is, I received this letter from somebody I didn’t recognize informing me that a bunch of nostalgic multi-taskers had organized a 50th reunion of the 8th grade graduating class of my old Catholic grammar school, St. Timothy’s, in the Mayfair section of Northeast Philadelphia. It was an emotional blind-siding. Forget Medicare, Tampa’s next mayor’s race and the afterlife. Back to the future beckoned.
This meant a whole half century had passed since “Advise and Consent” was written, “La Dolce Vita” was filmed and “Mack The Knife” was recorded. Back when the Philadelphia Flyers were still a decade away from inception.
Fast forward to a recent fall Friday night reception at the Sheraton Four Points Hotel and following Saturday at the Rosewood Caterers in Northeast Philly. Who will I know? Who that I would know would I even recognize? Who will remember me?
As it turned out, there were plenty of us who remembered enough of us.
Hey, isn’t that Jim Williams? I mean “Brother Jim.” I mean “Toothpick.” Oops. Is it a sacrilege or something to refer to an Oblate (religious order) Brother as “Toothpick”? Same lanky build. Same warm, friendly manner. Probably the same jump shot too from his days as a sharp-shooting St. Tim’s forward and a former teammate. He asks about my brother Terry, who has known tough times. I appreciate it more than he knows.
“Joe, I had to come over and say ‘hi.’” It was Veronica “Ronnie” Stewart. Didn’t need to check her name tag. Still blond and cute. Still petite and sweet. Last time I saw her she was making out with Bobby Cirillo at a party.
Speaking of, Bobby C wasn’t here. Too bad. Every 8th grade should have its own Leo Gorcey.
Yo, “Ski.” As in Kozakowski. As in a major buddy. Great, Butch Wax crew cut. Had somehow morphed from Howie Long to Phil Donohue. Instant flashback. Ski and I were part of the Gang of Four that took the occasion of a St. Joseph Feast Day holiday to go to Bandstand under the high school radar. Along with George Shissler, who won the school spelling bee that year, and the late Jimmy “Flash” Gordon, the only guy I knew to make a truly seamless transition from Jitterbug to Mashed Potatoes to the Twist.
And, sure enough, that was Maureen Nulty. Still looks good in bangs. And, boy, could she throw a party. And what a singular venue. She was the daughter of an undertaker. The guys, to be sure, thought that was decidedly cool.
And could it be? The exotic-looking blonde was Eleanor Verdi. “What have you been up to the last half-century?” she deadpanned. Still quick with a quip, although that wasn’t her most notable trait back in the day. St. Tim’s most sultry Italian, if memory serves.
More increasingly familiar names to affix to evolved personas and 60-something bodies. The flamboyant Dan McCutcheon and brainiac Albert McGlynn. Mary Johnson, who was practically a girlfriend in the 5th grade. And Skip Weinacht, who perfected the not-nearly-as-salacious-as-it-sounds “Dirty Dig,” only to see a parish priest ban it at St. Tim’s dance.
Nice to see Dan Courtney, who didn’t seem to remember that fight we had in the schoolyard in 7th grade. The one he lost. The one within a collapsing circle surrounded by loud, blood-sport weenies. The one where we both kept looking for someone to break it up. Mayfair machismo.
A handful of St. Tim’s football teammates are on hand. Quarterback Bob Hojnacki still looks like the go-to guy on third down. And the sui generis Eddie McHugh at end. Eddie was always too cool for school. And still looked – hauntingly – the same. Like a Lord of Flatbush.
And sitting across from me at the reunion table was Dewey Tate, who is still quiet, polite and pleasant and now goes by the name “Bud.’ I would too.
And there are always those who you didn’t know – or didn’t know well enough. But after a reunion, you wished the intervening years had brought you in touch. Amazing how much Nancy O’Donnell now looked like her mom, the iconic crossing guard at the intersection of Levick and Hawthorne Streets.
But, no, the years have not been equally kind to the members of the class of 1959, and some, sadly, are no longer with us. But those of us who did gather to recall and to reflect and to cherry-pick Sister Mary Immaculate war stories were transported to another time.
To be barely adolescent again.
To experience that first crush. And that first spin of the bottle at a Maureen Nulty party. To practice dance moves in front of the TV when Bandstand was on. To grow out of the May Procession’s lockstep pageantry. To admit incredulity about “limbo.” To be less accepting of tuna on Fridays. To be called a “bold article” by any number of St. Joseph (religious order) nuns. To have no recourse about corporal punishment, because your parents approved. Rods, they reckoned, were not for sparing. To have somehow learned what needed to be learned despite outlandish teacher-to-student ratios.
And regardless of the divergent paths we have all taken since the last years of the Eisenhower Administration, we are reminded that we have this uniquely formative St. Tim’s experience in common. Maybe the “welfare to Mayfair” adage, however unfair but self-deprecatingly funny, provided — upon reflection — less-than-subtle motivation at home. To post-war parents, who typically came in pairs, accountability-work ethic-respect for elders was the 11th Commandment.
It was a time when trying hard and avoiding excuses was not an option; it was a mandate. When self-esteem wasn’t a curriculum; it was a byproduct — of actually accomplishing something. When no-nonsense nuns, hands-on discipline, rote memorization, burdensome homework, work-detail detention and uncool uniforms and school ties were seen as the norm — not a crucible.
And now here we were five decades later – celebrating a bond that was fashioned the year Hawaii became a state.
But lest I wax too serious for a fun event, I also recognize how applicable are the words of Prof. Irwin Cory: “Wherever you go, there you are.”
And there we were. Old school was back in session. Only this one had an open bar.
It’s now official. Starting late next month – and running through 2012 – the Gasparilla Pirate Fest will have a new title sponsor: Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. Hard Rock replaces Southwest Airlines.
Two points.
Signature parades are expensive undertakings and a title sponsor is a necessity. Hard Rock stepped up from “presenting sponsor” status when Southwest’s strategy called for it to reallocate funds to newer markets. It’s good for the parade, which could have been in a financial bind sans a title sponsor. And it’s good for the sponsor. High-profile events in front of local media and 400,000-plus spectators can reinforce any brand name.
Alas, given all the controversy about a parade of this magnitude that necessarily invades South Tampa neighborhoods with too much alcohol and too many out-of-control imbibers, it’s too bad a title sponsor with a, well, somewhat different connotation didn’t step up.
But Whole Foods, Patagonia and Newman’s Own reportedly weren’t interested.