Category: Sardonic Side

Call it another later-in-life rite of passage. This one even more visceral than a class reunion. Unsolicited mail where the envelope is brightly emblazoned with an enticing mortality reminder: “FREE Pre-Paid Cremation! Details Inside.”

Sure enough, the Neptune Society wants to memorialize me. Despite that feature I did 25 years ago for the Tampa Bay Business Journal. The one where I referenced the elderly, white-thatched, goateed, nautically-garbed founder as “Colonel Cinders.”

But will this direct-mail pitch spark any interest? Remains to be seen.

Some days doesn’t it seem that life really is a reality show? The Hogans. The Osbournes. The Gosselins. The Khardasians. The Hennes. The Salahis. The Palins.  

I’m not a “reunion” sort of guy. More of a that-was-then, this-is-not sort.

But then I get this letter in May from Marie Pellit Hebden informing me that the 8^th grade class of St. Timothy’s School was having a 50-year reunion. I felt emotionally blind-sided.

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.

Marie expressed it so well in one upper-case interjection. “YIKES!”

“Yikes,” indeed. From being children to having grandchildren.

Fast forward to Northeast Philadelphia. To a certain, recent October Friday night reception at the Sheraton Four Points and following Saturday at the Rosewood Caterers. Who will I know? Who that I would know will I 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 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 school should have its own Leo Gorcey.

“Yo, ‘Ski.” As in Kozakowski. As in Steve. A big time buddy. Classic crew cut. So easy going it was easy to forget Steve had a football game face. Made All Catholic at Father Judge and earned a scholarship to Colgate. We both played for St. Tim’s. We were also part of the Gang of Four that took the occasion of a St. Joseph’s Feast Day holiday to go to Bandstand under the high school radar. Along with George Shissler and the late Jimmy “Flash” Gordon, the only guy I knew to make a truly seamless transition from Jitterbug to the Mash Potatoes to the Twist.  

An added bonus: Steve’s wife Ann was with him. The personality still bubbly. The smile still a light-up-the-room beacon. She was the one spouse I figured to know. I remembered when she and Steve met in high school. They seemed the perfect couple from the get-go. E-Harmony couldn’t have done better.

And, sure enough, that was Maureen Nulty. 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 only sultry Italian, if memory serves.

More familiar names to affix to updated personas and profiles. The flamboyant Dan McCutcheon, a fellow classmate at La Salle High. Mary Johnson, who was practically a girlfriend in 6^th grade. Skip Weinacht, who perfected the “Dirty Dig” only to see Father Bednar ban it at the St. Tim’s dance. Albert McGlynn, who was only the smartest kid in all three 8th grade classes.

Nice to see Dan Courtney, who didn’t seem to remember that fight we had. The one within a schoolyard circle surrounded by loud, blood-sport weenies. The one where we both kept looking for someone to break it up. Mayfair machismo.

More members of the St. Tim’s football team. Quarterback Bob Hojnacki, who still looks like the guy you’d want on third and short. And the sui generis Eddie McHugh at end. Eddie was always too cool for school, and still looks — the same. Like a Lord of Flatbush. And Bobby Campbell and Jack Haley who played bigger than their size on the football field.

Sitting across from me at the Reunion table was Dewey Tate, who is still quiet and pleasant and now goes by the name “Bud.” I would too. I appreciated the opportunity to do some major breeze-shooting with Jimmy McGowan, Joe Perrello and John Quigley.

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. Regina Price and Roberta Lyons and Mary McDonald and Marie Pellit and Nancy O’Donnell, whose mom was the iconic Levick Street crossing guard. Plus Carolyn Fegeley, whose mom knew my mom from the old neighborhood. What classy ladies all.

Yes, the years have not been equally kind to the members of the class of ‘59, and some, sadly, are no longer with us. But those of us who did gather to remember and to reflect and to cherry-pick Sr. 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 begin to grow out of the May Procession’s lockstep pageantry. To be called a “bold article” by any number of nuns. To have no recourse about corporal punishment, because your parents approved. All too enthusiastically. 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 1959, we have this uniquely formative St. Tim’s experience in common. Maybe the “welfare to Mayfair” adage, however unfair but self-deprecatingly funny, provided less-than-subtle motivation at home. Recall that trying hard and avoiding excuses was not an option; it was a mandate. And in our own ways, we’ve collectively carried this old-school ethic forward these last 50 years. And the challenge, we are constantly reminded, remains formidable.

But lest we get entirely too serious for a fun event, let’s also remember how applicable are the words of Prof. Irwin Cory. “Wherever you go, there you are.”

And there we were. You gotta love it.

 

                                                                                                Joe O’Neill

                                                                Tampa, Fla.

“With all due respect.”

When, quite candidly, was the last time that phrase ever preceded anything remotely respectful? It’s a rhetorical staple on political talk shows – and a predictable press conference preface to a skewering query.

* “With all due respect, Mr. President, didn’t that Nobel Prize take you by surprise for good reason?”

* “With all due respect, Gov. Crist, if you had a core value other than smiley self-interest, do you really think we would be talking about Marco Rubio right now?”

* “With all due respect, Mayor Iorio, how can you countenance Tampa having a Signature Drunkfest? Proposed Gasparilla changes appear to be, with all due respect, bandaids. Why, with all due respect, should a 400,000-spectator parade be allowed to invade residential neighborhoods?”

WADR is one of those consummately annoying phrases. In this case, faux deference that is as transparently disingenuous as it is blatantly trite.

And there are, of course, many other such expressions that can strike discordant notes in all of us – ranging from the hackneyed to the redundant to the ungrammatical. They come at us from the workplace (“at the end of the day,” “it’s not rocket science”) the battlefield (“surgical strike”), sports (“take ‘em one at a time,” “back on their heels”), politics (“grass roots”, “ “faith-based,” “Joe Six Pack”) and popular culture (“24/7,” “Like, you know, …”).

In no particular order here more candidate words and phrases for phasing out. Some have political connotations. Some are just pop-culture verbal crutches. Some give cliché a bad name. Others are disrespectful, inaccurate, context-distorting — or just dumb.

*How about a sports-context moratorium on all references to “swagger,” “hero” and “warrior”? Whether by coaches, players or media types.

            Surely, the intent is not to speak approvingly of boorish, arrogant attitudes and antics. Nor can there be intent to show disrespect to real “heroes” and “warriors” – especially during a time of war – by ascribing qualities of real courage to those who merely play games. Surely.

            *And while we’re still in the sports arena, a couple more.

Don’t forget “blue collar.” It’s racial shorthand. To wit: “He (white athlete) is one of those ‘blue collar’ players. He won’t beat you with his athleticism, but he’s like a coach on the field. He gets the most out of his (melanin-challenged) ability.”

And then there’s “The Man Upstairs.” It has always seemed a little too colloquial for The Creator. Frequently invoked for really important games. As in: “I want to thank ‘The Man Upstairs’ for helping us win the championship. Couldn’t have done it without Him.” Needless to say, this sacrilegiously presumes skewed earthly priorities for The Deity. Also implies that opponent may have been infidels unworthy of heavenly intervention.

*“Walk the walk, talk the talk.” Bring back “talk is cheap” if you truly must traffic in the trite.

*“Star.” Ideally, for celestial references only. Entertainment celebs are not “stars,” although many do seemingly inhabit their own universe.

*“Rock star.” If we must, but can’t we at least confine this mischaracterization to rock ‘n rollers? Unless, of course, the popularity of a politician is, indeed, that superficial.

*“Sliced bread.” As in: “Best thing since…” Once worked as a successor to “the invention of the wheel.” The “weed whacker” or “casual Fridays” now more effective.

*“Toast.” Should be metaphorical “toast.”

*“Awesome.” This actually deserves stand-alone status. Remember when it referred to wonder (or literal ‘awe’) inspired by something sublime or maybe majestic? No more. Mundane rules (and possibly rocks). As in: “Hey, you just did two chin-ups. ‘Awesome!’” Or: “No way. You scored tickets for the 50-Cent concert! ‘Awesome.’”

*“Reality TV.” Even though everyone is well aware they are being filmed and there are working scripts, this really is reality. Only on TV.

*“Whatever.” Consummate slacker term of indifference, I guess. ‘Whatever.’

*“Bottom line.” Give it back to the CPAs. At the end of the day, if not sooner.

*“You guys.” Informal and non-sexist, it works in casual contexts. But not in this one: “Good evening and welcome to Jean Claude’s Bistro, home of romantic, Continental, fine dining. My name is Edward, and I’ll be your server. So, what can I start ‘you guys’ off with?

*“Rap artist.” Unless you actually intend it as an oxymoron example.

*“Role model.” Athletes shouldn’t count. Some, in fact, can’t.

*“Profiling.” As in: “I don’t care that it may be a function of common sense, national security and statistical relevance. Racial, ethnic or religious ‘profiling’ is always wrong. Period. OK, who’s next for a random search? Do you really need that wheel chair, ma’m?”

*“The will of God.” Mantra of the ultimate insider, however finite. Even God, presumably, would find this faith-based phrase presumptuous.

*“Been there, done that.” Still, alas, has linguistic shelf life. Wherever you’ve been, whatever you’ve done, no one cares. Even if you did get the T-shirt.

*“No problem.” Only problematic as a response to “thank you.” Proper response remains “you’re welcome.” Thank you.

*“Close proximity,” “very unique.” They’re redundant. Grammarians are in total agreement. Way beyond a “general consensus.”

*“Notoriety.” Related, reasonably enough, to notorious. Not a synonym for fame.

*“Near miss.” That would be a Mrs. Otherwise, it’s a collision.

*“Cancelled.” Call off this spelling, especially at airports, where flights are frequently “canceled.” Sometimes it’s due to pilots still nervous after a near collision.

*“Remains to be seen.” Doesn’t it always?

*“It is what it is.” Indeed.

*“Sucks.” Don’t get me started.

Former President George W. Bush is now a motivational speaker. Has he been misunderestimated all these years?

Whatever.

 

According to a Marist College poll, “WHATever” is the most annoying word to encounter in conversation. Nearly half of the 938 respondents cited the popular slacker term of indifference. Then came the Caroline Kennedy staple “you know,” followed by “it is what it is,” “anyway” and “at the end of the day.”

 

The margin of error was said to be 3.2 percent, which is like, awesome.

“Zero tolerance.”

 

It’s one of those refreshingly no-nonsense phrases that appeals to the unequivocating, moral-absolute side in all of us. It’s right or it’s wrong. There’s nothing in between.

 

The obvious problem: It’s a better slogan than policy. Whether as an anti-crime or anti-bullying edict. That’s because life can be nettlesomely nuanced. “Three strikes and you’re out” is baseball gospel for umpires – but can be sentence manacles for judges.

 

How about zero tolerance for policies that necessarily promise more than they can fairly deliver?

So, who can explain “genius”?  Or is it like the late Justice Potter Stewart describing obscenity: “I know it when I see it”?

 

Seemingly, this is what the MacArthur Foundation grapples with annually. Each year it names its national “genius” grant winners. Each of the 24 “geniuses” gets $500,000 over five years to recognize and underwrite their ingenuity.

 

And once again the recipients are eclectic, the criteria enigmatic.

 

For example, among this year’s “geniuses” are Lin He, a Berkeley molecular biologist who has been zeroing in on the role of microRNAs in cancer, and Theodore Zoli, a New York engineer working to protect transportation infrastructure in a disaster.

 

Also included: Mark Bradford, a Los Angeles artist who incorporates everyday items into abstract art, and Heather McHugh, a Seattle poet who works extensively on wordplay, notably incorporating puns and rhymes.

 

Cancer research, disaster prevention, abstract art, wordplay. Presumably MacArthur knows it when it sees it.

The news account of that recent robbery of the Hyde Park SunTrust bank – along with an accompanying photo of the identity-obscured robber – should finally prompt banks to get more serious about basic security precautions. As in really, really basic. As in, what’s wrong with taking a page out of the customer playbook of convenience stores? 

 

Maybe it’s not the right image, but “No shades, no hats — or no service” signage out front just makes good sense.

First the good news.

 

It’s not just the movie biz, certain cut-rate retailers, Sarah Palin Inc. and shoe-repair and pawn shops that are staying solvent during these economically turbulent times.  Indeed, there’s an industry that is realizing the unprecedented profits it has been confidently shooting for these last 10 months.

 

Now the bad news.

 

That industry is the ammunition business. The impetus: NRA ads that have portrayed President Elect — and now President — Barack Obama as anti-gun, if not the anti-Christ. In fact, so anti-gun that his anti-American, stealth agenda just might include the restriction of gun sales and gun ownership. And it’s no quantum leap, of course, to gun confiscation after that.

 

For those keeping count, it means nearly 10 billion American-made bullets will be produced this year. Last year it was about 7.5 billion. Sleep well.