The America's Cup Races just concluded with a stirring 9-8 victory for the American team versus the Kiwis. What made it even more dramatic was the fact that the Oracle team bankrolled by billionaire Larry Ellison came from way behind, won eight races in a row to pull it off, especially after being docked a two-race penalty at the beginning.
But an American victory? Yes, the bankroll was American and one member of the crew. The tactician was the five-time Gold Medal Olympian, Brit Ben Ainslie; the skipper was Jimmy Spithill, an Aussie; the rest of the crew included four Aussies, two Kiwis and, beside the lone Yank, an Italian, a Brit, a Dutchman and an Antiguan. I'm sure Larry Ellison had several Americans in the creation of the boat, but the composition of the team was decidedly international.
The whole international competition---never noted for frugality---has turned into a money sweepstakes, and the millions poured into the candidate boats this year is astronomical. The biggest spender of all, Larry Ellison, won out. In today's monied world where so many championships are bought, the word "amateur" is obsolete,replaced by billionaire sports enthusiasts buying success. But we love a winner, at any cost.
Maybe we should change the name from America's Cup to International Money Cup.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Friday, September 13, 2013
A DILEMMA
As most of us are, I am conflicted by the dilemma in Syria. I do hope the “Russian Proposal” (originated in an offhand remark initially by John Kerry) generates a diplomatic solution to this problem. A lot of hard slogging and negotiation will be needed to get this baby to fly. Already Assad is laying down ground rules of no American aid to the rebels (or “Terrorists” as he refers to them). Already we are rejecting such a proposal. And the Russians: aye, there’s the rub.
I find it difficult to swallow the image of Vladimir Putin as a moral reformer, referencing God, disputing American “exceptionalism” and lecturing us on morality. The hypocrisy is overpowering. Here is this former K.G.B. chief telling us how to act, this same tyrant who punishes, imprisons and clamps down on any kind of dissident opinions within his country. The op-ed piece in the NY Times was a master stroke of presumption, smugness, arrogance and just plain bullshit. He wanted to strike while the iron was hot in an effort to stir the pot even more in this country. And can you believe the image of Mother Russia as the Great Negotiator and Statesman who, out of one side of her mouth, preaches morality and fairness to us, all the while she is supplying arms and all kinds of aid to special friend, Bashar al-Assad.? Will the Russians agree not to supply Syria aid if we do not supply such to the rebel forces?
Obviously, the weight of public opinion is heavily against Mr. Obama and any kind of U.S. military involvement. We are all fed to the teeth of fighting in regional wars, gaining nothing in terms of regional democratic success and only achieving loss of American and native blood. Our president is privately kicking himself for the famous “red line” remark, I’m sure, and is looking for an honorable way out. I pity the President who has ultimately to seek a solution. I’m glad I don’t have his job. It will not be easy to be extricated from this dismal swamp, but perhaps diplomatic work and world opinion can pull off a rescue. It certainly will not be due to the “morality” of Vladimir Putin.
I find it difficult to swallow the image of Vladimir Putin as a moral reformer, referencing God, disputing American “exceptionalism” and lecturing us on morality. The hypocrisy is overpowering. Here is this former K.G.B. chief telling us how to act, this same tyrant who punishes, imprisons and clamps down on any kind of dissident opinions within his country. The op-ed piece in the NY Times was a master stroke of presumption, smugness, arrogance and just plain bullshit. He wanted to strike while the iron was hot in an effort to stir the pot even more in this country. And can you believe the image of Mother Russia as the Great Negotiator and Statesman who, out of one side of her mouth, preaches morality and fairness to us, all the while she is supplying arms and all kinds of aid to special friend, Bashar al-Assad.? Will the Russians agree not to supply Syria aid if we do not supply such to the rebel forces?
Obviously, the weight of public opinion is heavily against Mr. Obama and any kind of U.S. military involvement. We are all fed to the teeth of fighting in regional wars, gaining nothing in terms of regional democratic success and only achieving loss of American and native blood. Our president is privately kicking himself for the famous “red line” remark, I’m sure, and is looking for an honorable way out. I pity the President who has ultimately to seek a solution. I’m glad I don’t have his job. It will not be easy to be extricated from this dismal swamp, but perhaps diplomatic work and world opinion can pull off a rescue. It certainly will not be due to the “morality” of Vladimir Putin.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
THE FORCE OF WILL
I am exhausted after fifteen days of watching the U.S. Open Tennis Championship held at Flushing Meadows NY, which ended Monday night. The tension of those fifteen days was palpable but especially in the last days as the cream of tennis talent rose to the top: numbers one and two, both men and women, vying for the crown. Both finals were gladiatorial in nature.
First, Sunday afternoon, Serena Williams (1) faced Victoria Azarenka (2). Both these ladies had incredible records this year. Azarenka had lost only one hard court match this year and had beaten Serena twice on hard courts. She also won in January the Australian championship, the first of the grand slams. Serena had an equally amazing year, having won the French Open, beating Azarenka in this second grand slam event. She had a bad day at Wimbledon, the third grand slam, and dropped out early, as did Azarenka. Then the fun began. Serena won every event thereafter until in late August on a hard court in Cincinnati, she lost a close one to---you guessed it---Azarenka. So, there’s the scenario.
It was a windy day with sharp gusts disturbing the ladies’ dresses and the toss of the ball, which is a tennis player’s worst nightmare. Serena was more erratic and flustered by the wind than her opponent, yet they were even at 5-5. Then Serena bore down and won the next two games to take the set. In the second set she started fast, built up a big lead, 4-1---and then lightning struck as Victoria rallied to send the match into a tiebreaker with power ground strokes and serving. The tiebreaker went back and forth with Serena holding match point at 6-5, only to have Victoria rally and take the tiebreaker 8-6. So there we are, one set apiece, final set to be the decider. It is then that Serena Williams summoned up all her experience and power. She has the potency of a volcano ready to erupt, and erupt she did to blast Azarenka off the court, 6-1, and win the title. Serena was unstoppable, a force of nature sweeping everything before it. She willed that championship, her fifth U.S. title and seventeenth grand slam (only one behind Chris Evert and Martina Navritolova). She is almost thirty-two and playing better than she did ten years ago. How many more will she win?
Now the men. Novak Djokovic, number one, the reigning Australian Champion, had lost the French finals to Nadal in a five-set match that lasted almost six hours and then lost Wimbledon in the finals to Andy Murray, the inspired Brit, who brought that title back to England after seventy-seven years of drought. He had lost the final of the previous U.S. Open to Murray. A model of consistent play, the best returner of serves in the game, he seemed ready for another crown. But Rafael Nadal, seeded second, stood in the way. Nadal had started the year on the injured list with knee problems that kept him out of the Australian Open. He had not played tennis for seven months when he made his return in the spring in a tournament in South America, which he lost in the finals. He then proceeded to win nine titles in a row, including the French Open, before losing in the Canadian Open in early August. Nadal then won Cincinnati on hard courts prior to the U.S. Open.
The Open final was filled with the hardest hitting I have ever witnessed. Nadal was constantly on the defensive as the Djoker, as he is known, pushed him around the court, but somehow Nadal clung on. Then suddenly, in the middle of the first set at 3-3, Nadal caught fire and won the set 6-3 with a series of bullets down the line and increased serving power. In the second set, Djokovic returned to his bullying ways and punished Nadal. I didn’t think it was possible to hit harder than he did in the first set, but somehow he amped it up and took the set 6-4. The third set was incredible. The whole match was filled with rallies of twenty times or more across the net; in this set, Djokovic won a rally that lasted fifty-four strokes. Then the magic moment of the match came with the score tied 4-4. Djoker was serving with a 40-love leave to win the fifth game when Nadal, another force of nature, suddenly roared down the mountain, broke Djokovic’s serve, held his own serve and won the set 6-4. The final fourth set was pure unadulterated Nadal. He floated around the court, making impossible returns and winning shots. The air went out of Djokovic, and he collapsed and was beaten 6-2.
Nadal is twenty-seven. After suffering serious knee problems, he has learned the importance of taking time off, plus he has added power to his serve and volleying to make the points shorter to spare his knees (except against Djokovic, who is a human back board). Nadal has won thirteen grand slams; he has a winning record against any player of note today; he is the toughest competitor I have ever seen. I agree with John McEnroe: if he stays healthy, he will shatter Roger Federer’s record of seventeen grand slam titles and be rated the best tennis player of all times.
Serena and Rafa: two forces of nature, who will their ways to victory. We are privileged to see this kind of talent in our time. Enjoy it while we can.
First, Sunday afternoon, Serena Williams (1) faced Victoria Azarenka (2). Both these ladies had incredible records this year. Azarenka had lost only one hard court match this year and had beaten Serena twice on hard courts. She also won in January the Australian championship, the first of the grand slams. Serena had an equally amazing year, having won the French Open, beating Azarenka in this second grand slam event. She had a bad day at Wimbledon, the third grand slam, and dropped out early, as did Azarenka. Then the fun began. Serena won every event thereafter until in late August on a hard court in Cincinnati, she lost a close one to---you guessed it---Azarenka. So, there’s the scenario.
It was a windy day with sharp gusts disturbing the ladies’ dresses and the toss of the ball, which is a tennis player’s worst nightmare. Serena was more erratic and flustered by the wind than her opponent, yet they were even at 5-5. Then Serena bore down and won the next two games to take the set. In the second set she started fast, built up a big lead, 4-1---and then lightning struck as Victoria rallied to send the match into a tiebreaker with power ground strokes and serving. The tiebreaker went back and forth with Serena holding match point at 6-5, only to have Victoria rally and take the tiebreaker 8-6. So there we are, one set apiece, final set to be the decider. It is then that Serena Williams summoned up all her experience and power. She has the potency of a volcano ready to erupt, and erupt she did to blast Azarenka off the court, 6-1, and win the title. Serena was unstoppable, a force of nature sweeping everything before it. She willed that championship, her fifth U.S. title and seventeenth grand slam (only one behind Chris Evert and Martina Navritolova). She is almost thirty-two and playing better than she did ten years ago. How many more will she win?
Now the men. Novak Djokovic, number one, the reigning Australian Champion, had lost the French finals to Nadal in a five-set match that lasted almost six hours and then lost Wimbledon in the finals to Andy Murray, the inspired Brit, who brought that title back to England after seventy-seven years of drought. He had lost the final of the previous U.S. Open to Murray. A model of consistent play, the best returner of serves in the game, he seemed ready for another crown. But Rafael Nadal, seeded second, stood in the way. Nadal had started the year on the injured list with knee problems that kept him out of the Australian Open. He had not played tennis for seven months when he made his return in the spring in a tournament in South America, which he lost in the finals. He then proceeded to win nine titles in a row, including the French Open, before losing in the Canadian Open in early August. Nadal then won Cincinnati on hard courts prior to the U.S. Open.
The Open final was filled with the hardest hitting I have ever witnessed. Nadal was constantly on the defensive as the Djoker, as he is known, pushed him around the court, but somehow Nadal clung on. Then suddenly, in the middle of the first set at 3-3, Nadal caught fire and won the set 6-3 with a series of bullets down the line and increased serving power. In the second set, Djokovic returned to his bullying ways and punished Nadal. I didn’t think it was possible to hit harder than he did in the first set, but somehow he amped it up and took the set 6-4. The third set was incredible. The whole match was filled with rallies of twenty times or more across the net; in this set, Djokovic won a rally that lasted fifty-four strokes. Then the magic moment of the match came with the score tied 4-4. Djoker was serving with a 40-love leave to win the fifth game when Nadal, another force of nature, suddenly roared down the mountain, broke Djokovic’s serve, held his own serve and won the set 6-4. The final fourth set was pure unadulterated Nadal. He floated around the court, making impossible returns and winning shots. The air went out of Djokovic, and he collapsed and was beaten 6-2.
Nadal is twenty-seven. After suffering serious knee problems, he has learned the importance of taking time off, plus he has added power to his serve and volleying to make the points shorter to spare his knees (except against Djokovic, who is a human back board). Nadal has won thirteen grand slams; he has a winning record against any player of note today; he is the toughest competitor I have ever seen. I agree with John McEnroe: if he stays healthy, he will shatter Roger Federer’s record of seventeen grand slam titles and be rated the best tennis player of all times.
Serena and Rafa: two forces of nature, who will their ways to victory. We are privileged to see this kind of talent in our time. Enjoy it while we can.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
LESSONS LEARNED
It is hard to believe that it has been fifty years since that March on Washington and Martin Luther King Jr.’s timeless speech. I was in my mid-thirties at the time living through a pivotal moment in history, although, at that time, I did not realize how momentous an occasion it was. I think most of us whites were holding our collective breath, hoping that it would not turn into a race riot.
When I grew up in the thirties and forties, prejudice was a fact of life and woven into our pattern of existence. We had black servants and had a warm if paternalistic relationship with them. They were part of the family but at hands’ length. My mother was southern, from Kentucky. Her grandfather had slaves, although he freed them before the end of the Civil War. In fact, our cook had been born a slave on her grandfather’s land, and she had stayed with my mother and her family, emigrating to Ohio with my mother and grandmother. My mother had a warm relationship with Rachel the cook and other black servants but always with that patronizing “we-must-take-care-of-them-because-they-are-only-good-as-servants” inherent attitude. I never heard my mother use the n-word; “darkie” was the milder perjorative used or, more often, colored.
Growing up in Ohio I went to school with blacks, played sports with them. In fact, our cook’s grandson was a friend, and I often invited him to come to my house where we had lots of land, twenty-four acres, to play baseball or touch football. He often came in the house after sports for a refreshing drink, but always in the kitchen where his grandmother held sway. My early days in public school were integrated, and white and black kids played together on the playground. Since only about three percent of the population was black, such could hardly be called integration-at-work. When I went away to private school in the nineteen-forties, I had no black students as classmates. It was only in college in the east that I had black classmates and, proportionately, only a handful at most. I remember we voted my only black classmate as President of our class in my senior year at Hamilton College in upstate New York. We thought we were quite “liberal” and daring in 1950 to vote for this Negro, as we called them then.
My journey through civil rights started with this kind of background, which in many ways was typical of northern American attitudes toward blacks and other minorities. Don’t let anyone kid you into believing that de facto segregation did not exist in the north: this same cook’s son in 1946 in our small town in Ohio led a sit-in at the lunch counter in the Greyhound Bus Terminal where blacks were frowned upon and opened it up for interracial dining. We didn’t have Jim Crow, but his shadow was upon us.
Somewhere in my slow maturation, the truth about discrimination and its shameful existence as part of the fabric of our lives began to seep into me. College certainly kick-started the process and opened my mind to greater understanding. I remember living in New York in my young batchelorhood and early years of marriage. I was a salesman of men's and boy's apparel and covered Manhattan by foot, rolling my sample case over large tracts of that island. Harlem was part of my territory, and I never ran into any racial problems there, except on occasions when the NAACP would have a protest day and young blacks would lock arms and walk down 125th street, daring anyone to get in their way. I would carefully move my sample case and stand in the gutter as they passed by, and they never bothered me.
But it took the Civil Rights movement to bring the elephant in the room into real focus. The March on Washington and the freedom demonstrations in Selma and Birmingham finally grabbed some of Whitey’s attention and, at least to some of us, we began to understand how shameful our complicity and averting our eyes from reality were on us. I remember how awed I was by the courage of both blacks and whites in those traumatic times and wondered if I would have had the courage to participate in those demonstrations with the physical abuse and cruelty of the police of Birmingham and Selma.
Looking back, I realize I was not much different from many of my generation in the north: we paid lip service to the concept of equal rights but did little to make it happen until our noses were shoved in it. We are usually products of our environment and shaped by the circumstances in which we live. It takes those with real moral insight and plain guts to stand up and say that this was wrong, and we needed to do something about it. Those demonstrators one hot August day in Washington in 1963 spoke the truth by their actions. We all should have learned a lesson that day, but look what happened within a year---the death of JFK and MLKJr. We have come a long way since then, but we still have a long journey to understanding and total reconciliation.
We are all interdependent in this world of today but are still riven. I hope in the short time I have left to see America live up to its democratic principles and speed up the laborious process of understanding each other and learning to live together with tolerance. If an old man like I can try, then a helluva lot of younger people should make that effort to live together in racial and economic harmony.
It is the key to a better life for all, not to mention survival.
When I grew up in the thirties and forties, prejudice was a fact of life and woven into our pattern of existence. We had black servants and had a warm if paternalistic relationship with them. They were part of the family but at hands’ length. My mother was southern, from Kentucky. Her grandfather had slaves, although he freed them before the end of the Civil War. In fact, our cook had been born a slave on her grandfather’s land, and she had stayed with my mother and her family, emigrating to Ohio with my mother and grandmother. My mother had a warm relationship with Rachel the cook and other black servants but always with that patronizing “we-must-take-care-of-them-because-they-are-only-good-as-servants” inherent attitude. I never heard my mother use the n-word; “darkie” was the milder perjorative used or, more often, colored.
Growing up in Ohio I went to school with blacks, played sports with them. In fact, our cook’s grandson was a friend, and I often invited him to come to my house where we had lots of land, twenty-four acres, to play baseball or touch football. He often came in the house after sports for a refreshing drink, but always in the kitchen where his grandmother held sway. My early days in public school were integrated, and white and black kids played together on the playground. Since only about three percent of the population was black, such could hardly be called integration-at-work. When I went away to private school in the nineteen-forties, I had no black students as classmates. It was only in college in the east that I had black classmates and, proportionately, only a handful at most. I remember we voted my only black classmate as President of our class in my senior year at Hamilton College in upstate New York. We thought we were quite “liberal” and daring in 1950 to vote for this Negro, as we called them then.
My journey through civil rights started with this kind of background, which in many ways was typical of northern American attitudes toward blacks and other minorities. Don’t let anyone kid you into believing that de facto segregation did not exist in the north: this same cook’s son in 1946 in our small town in Ohio led a sit-in at the lunch counter in the Greyhound Bus Terminal where blacks were frowned upon and opened it up for interracial dining. We didn’t have Jim Crow, but his shadow was upon us.
Somewhere in my slow maturation, the truth about discrimination and its shameful existence as part of the fabric of our lives began to seep into me. College certainly kick-started the process and opened my mind to greater understanding. I remember living in New York in my young batchelorhood and early years of marriage. I was a salesman of men's and boy's apparel and covered Manhattan by foot, rolling my sample case over large tracts of that island. Harlem was part of my territory, and I never ran into any racial problems there, except on occasions when the NAACP would have a protest day and young blacks would lock arms and walk down 125th street, daring anyone to get in their way. I would carefully move my sample case and stand in the gutter as they passed by, and they never bothered me.
But it took the Civil Rights movement to bring the elephant in the room into real focus. The March on Washington and the freedom demonstrations in Selma and Birmingham finally grabbed some of Whitey’s attention and, at least to some of us, we began to understand how shameful our complicity and averting our eyes from reality were on us. I remember how awed I was by the courage of both blacks and whites in those traumatic times and wondered if I would have had the courage to participate in those demonstrations with the physical abuse and cruelty of the police of Birmingham and Selma.
Looking back, I realize I was not much different from many of my generation in the north: we paid lip service to the concept of equal rights but did little to make it happen until our noses were shoved in it. We are usually products of our environment and shaped by the circumstances in which we live. It takes those with real moral insight and plain guts to stand up and say that this was wrong, and we needed to do something about it. Those demonstrators one hot August day in Washington in 1963 spoke the truth by their actions. We all should have learned a lesson that day, but look what happened within a year---the death of JFK and MLKJr. We have come a long way since then, but we still have a long journey to understanding and total reconciliation.
We are all interdependent in this world of today but are still riven. I hope in the short time I have left to see America live up to its democratic principles and speed up the laborious process of understanding each other and learning to live together with tolerance. If an old man like I can try, then a helluva lot of younger people should make that effort to live together in racial and economic harmony.
It is the key to a better life for all, not to mention survival.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME...
My wife and I are in Ohio visiting my eldest daughter and family. Her two daughters, who live in Myrtle Beach, have both come home separately, so we have been able to enjoy time with them.
I arranged with my sister, Linda, who is a baseball fanatic like I, to procure tickets to my beloved Cincinnati Reds who were playing a day game last Wednesday against the Oakland A's. Linda outdid herself and had wonderful seats in The Great American Ballpark about ten rows up behind the catcher. Linda rented a van and took her daughter Lisa and husband John, a girlfriend of Lisa. my son Alex and me from Dayton to the ballpark. She even had a handicapped hanger so that my worn-out knees would be spared, as we parked in the stadium, just below where our seats were located:---a few steps up, an elevator ride and, voila, right by our section and a few easy steps down.
The best part of the actual game was seeing Aroldis Chapman, the Cuban-born fireballing closer for the Reds, who came on in the ninth to protect a one-run lead. Two pitches and two soft fly outs. Then the crowd rose to their feet and started to roar. Three fastballs later, the last of which I couldn't see, the game was history.
But the real best part was seeing this wonderful spacious ballpark, now ten years old, and the family crowd there on a Wednesday afternoon. It was old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool, pure Americana, seeing so many families enjoying the game and enthusing together in a happy comradely atmosphere. You just felt good sitting there!
As if this were not enough, I then got a tour of the Reds Hall of Fame and Museum, a cathedral dedicated to all things Reds. I relived my baseball history, and more, in that fabulous museum. You can even look out a window and see a bed of red flowers with a white patch of flowers in the center, memorializing the spot where Pete Rose lined his record-breaking single on June 11, 1985.
Yes, I was kid again---and loved every moment. You can take me out to the ball game anytime---and include a brat with the best spicy mustard ever. Thanks, Linda!
I arranged with my sister, Linda, who is a baseball fanatic like I, to procure tickets to my beloved Cincinnati Reds who were playing a day game last Wednesday against the Oakland A's. Linda outdid herself and had wonderful seats in The Great American Ballpark about ten rows up behind the catcher. Linda rented a van and took her daughter Lisa and husband John, a girlfriend of Lisa. my son Alex and me from Dayton to the ballpark. She even had a handicapped hanger so that my worn-out knees would be spared, as we parked in the stadium, just below where our seats were located:---a few steps up, an elevator ride and, voila, right by our section and a few easy steps down.
The best part of the actual game was seeing Aroldis Chapman, the Cuban-born fireballing closer for the Reds, who came on in the ninth to protect a one-run lead. Two pitches and two soft fly outs. Then the crowd rose to their feet and started to roar. Three fastballs later, the last of which I couldn't see, the game was history.
But the real best part was seeing this wonderful spacious ballpark, now ten years old, and the family crowd there on a Wednesday afternoon. It was old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool, pure Americana, seeing so many families enjoying the game and enthusing together in a happy comradely atmosphere. You just felt good sitting there!
As if this were not enough, I then got a tour of the Reds Hall of Fame and Museum, a cathedral dedicated to all things Reds. I relived my baseball history, and more, in that fabulous museum. You can even look out a window and see a bed of red flowers with a white patch of flowers in the center, memorializing the spot where Pete Rose lined his record-breaking single on June 11, 1985.
Yes, I was kid again---and loved every moment. You can take me out to the ball game anytime---and include a brat with the best spicy mustard ever. Thanks, Linda!
Friday, July 26, 2013
THE WEINER WEENIE
The Greeks have the word for it---hubris---overweening pride. And that’s the problem with Anthony Weiner, former congressman and candidate for Mayor of New York: he’s got an overweening weenie, his pride and joy. He just loves to display it on the internet and sextexts under the name of Carlos Danger. He obviously gets his jollies this way.
He loves to compare himself with Bill Clinton as a morally damaged man in high (or hopes to be) office. He thinks by this comparison some of the Clinton magic will rub off on him, and he will be impervious to criticism and can win the Mayor’s race. Again, that’s hubris, because what kind of record of achievement does he have compared to Bill Clinton?
His long-suffering wife continues to stand by her man through this incessant scandal. I’m wondering if she is into self-masochism and just thrives on pain and martyrdom.
Anthony, put your weenie away for another day and don’t inflict this travesty on the voters of New York. Until the most recent revelations, he was the leading candidate, which is either a commentary on the paucity of qualified candidates or the moral code of the average voter.
Just go in the bathroom, Anthony, lock the door and have fun. But before you do that, please drop out of the race. We are sick to death of Weiner’s weenie.
He loves to compare himself with Bill Clinton as a morally damaged man in high (or hopes to be) office. He thinks by this comparison some of the Clinton magic will rub off on him, and he will be impervious to criticism and can win the Mayor’s race. Again, that’s hubris, because what kind of record of achievement does he have compared to Bill Clinton?
His long-suffering wife continues to stand by her man through this incessant scandal. I’m wondering if she is into self-masochism and just thrives on pain and martyrdom.
Anthony, put your weenie away for another day and don’t inflict this travesty on the voters of New York. Until the most recent revelations, he was the leading candidate, which is either a commentary on the paucity of qualified candidates or the moral code of the average voter.
Just go in the bathroom, Anthony, lock the door and have fun. But before you do that, please drop out of the race. We are sick to death of Weiner’s weenie.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
AND THEY NEVER EVEN TOLD ME...
What can I say? I was taken totally by surprise! They never even tipped me off that this was coming. I guess there was enough hooplah going on at the time of the royal birth that they were preoccupied with escaping the paparazzi and staying as low key as possible. I didn't need to be consulted, but I'm surprised they didn't tip me off in advance.
I am referring to the choice of names for the new Prince of Cambridge. It is an honor to have him named for my grandfather, George Alexander and then, totally a shock, to add my father's middle name, Louis. You never know what surprises these royals have up their sleeves.
In any case, I'm thrilled!
I am referring to the choice of names for the new Prince of Cambridge. It is an honor to have him named for my grandfather, George Alexander and then, totally a shock, to add my father's middle name, Louis. You never know what surprises these royals have up their sleeves.
In any case, I'm thrilled!
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