Dateline Miami.
Nevin Shapiro, a University of Miami booster, came forward this week alleging he paid thousands, and thousands, of dollars to Miami Hurricane jocks for the past eight years. 72 athletes are named as recipients of Shapiro's alleged largess.
What's not "alleged" is that Shapiro is squealing from the federal pen, where he is serving a 20-year sentence for running a billion dollar ponzi scheme. He's got an ax to grind since all of his newly bought friends bailed on him when he was sent away.
Shapiro says he paid cash to jocks, took them on his yacht, gave them NBA tickets and threw wild parties with women who weren't brownie scouts.
Yada yada yada.
One of the athletes named is former Cane and current Chicago Bear Devin Hester, who when initally asked about Shapiro said he never met him, then when shown pictures of him and Shapiro frollicking around town clammed up faster than a frog in a bee hive.
The NCAA can't touch Hester, or any other athletes no longer in school. But it's serious stuff, especially if coaches were in the know.
It's not the first time Miami has been in the penalty box. In the 80s Miami Hurricanes footballers were brash, dominant and well paid.
They won three national champinships.
Which is what struck me most about the Shapiro story.
Boosters waving cash is here to stay, but the money tossed around in this scandal went to bad teams. The Canes were mediocre in the years Shapiro alleges he paid players, which means either he continued with bad investments or other schools were paying more.
It's not the worlds oldest profession, but using money to buy influence is nothing new. The roll call of busted schools this year alone is extensive: Ohio State, USC, LSU, Georgia Tech.
And probably Miami.
I'm proposing yet another bowl game. The Lawyers.com Probation Bowl will pair the two ineligible teams with the highest year end rankings. Pay per view of course, with the money going directly towards sports cars for the winners.
Tickets are available, but only on street corners from men in dark shades and rain coats.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Camp Getmeottahere
There are three "young child activities" every adult should witness at least once:
1. Watching a child eat an ice cream cone
2. Watching a child dance
3. Watching a child head off to summer camp
I have experienced all three in the past month through the eyes of my 4 year old daughter.
We signed her up for summer camp three days a week.
Could have done five days, or seven, or ten. The kid has not had a moment of separation anxiety since birth. I am confident if we dropped her off in Paris for a week we would return to find her in a beret sipping cafe au lait, surrounded by her new native friends.
On the first day of camp it's hard to tell who is more excited, the kids or the newly sprung parents, who suddenly has time to sip coffee without dodging toys and vomit.
But you get used to it.
It has been a few years since my older kids started summer camp. Now it's as routine for them as waking up in time for lunch. In fact, I'm planning to found "Camp Wanderteen" next year, where the sole activity will be aimlessly roaming parks while plugged in to an ipod.
The camp experience has me thinking, what would happen if adults were loaded up on buses, with backpacks and baseball hats, for four weeks of summer fun?
Here are a few activities for "Camp Getmeottahere:"
"Sweet Dreams" - Campers sit in circle time and hear stories about strenuous exercise and evenings that end after 9pm. Those who fall asleep the fastest get a special prize.
"Organ recital" - Campers line up to discuss their various ailments, with points awarded based on degree of acceptance. Bald spots and pouches get top billing.
"Connect me not" - Campers troll the mall with a blackberry connecting all day while ignoring those in their immediate presence.
"Remote duel" - Campers sit in front of flat screens and are timed to see how many shows they can fully recall over a single hour of channel hopping. Sporting events excluded, and women are given a five show lead.
How have your camp experiences been? I invite you to comment and would enjoy hearing from you.
1. Watching a child eat an ice cream cone
2. Watching a child dance
3. Watching a child head off to summer camp
I have experienced all three in the past month through the eyes of my 4 year old daughter.
We signed her up for summer camp three days a week.
Could have done five days, or seven, or ten. The kid has not had a moment of separation anxiety since birth. I am confident if we dropped her off in Paris for a week we would return to find her in a beret sipping cafe au lait, surrounded by her new native friends.
On the first day of camp it's hard to tell who is more excited, the kids or the newly sprung parents, who suddenly has time to sip coffee without dodging toys and vomit.
But you get used to it.
It has been a few years since my older kids started summer camp. Now it's as routine for them as waking up in time for lunch. In fact, I'm planning to found "Camp Wanderteen" next year, where the sole activity will be aimlessly roaming parks while plugged in to an ipod.
The camp experience has me thinking, what would happen if adults were loaded up on buses, with backpacks and baseball hats, for four weeks of summer fun?
Here are a few activities for "Camp Getmeottahere:"
"Sweet Dreams" - Campers sit in circle time and hear stories about strenuous exercise and evenings that end after 9pm. Those who fall asleep the fastest get a special prize.
"Organ recital" - Campers line up to discuss their various ailments, with points awarded based on degree of acceptance. Bald spots and pouches get top billing.
"Connect me not" - Campers troll the mall with a blackberry connecting all day while ignoring those in their immediate presence.
"Remote duel" - Campers sit in front of flat screens and are timed to see how many shows they can fully recall over a single hour of channel hopping. Sporting events excluded, and women are given a five show lead.
How have your camp experiences been? I invite you to comment and would enjoy hearing from you.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Men are Weiners
I was sorry to see TNT's "Men of A Certain Age" canceled after two seasons.
The show had a great cast and was smartly written, so naturally it drew a few more viewers than a public access zoning hearing. I suppose without "very special episodes," DNA tests or brawling hillbillies it was doomed.
"Men" focused on the lives of three middle aged guys played by Andre Braugher, Ray Romano and a third guy I had never heard of (Scott Bakula, who was good).
One memorable episode had the boys heading off to Palm Springs for colonoscopies in celebration of Terry's (Bakula) 50th birthday.
As an aside, if my wife is reading this, I would prefer a tie or golf balls.
When the boys weren't playing candid camera they ate at a diner and hiked a mountain.
Sound boring? It wasn't.
Every time I watched I thought "these writers get it." To paraphrase Bruno Kirby in When Harry Met Sally, it "spoke to me."
More importantly, it was television's most honest portrayal of middle aged men in recent memory.
Let's face it, most guys can't honestly portray themselves.
I was also struck by the timing of "Men's" cancellation on the heels of the Anthony Weiner scandal.
For those of us trying to forget, Weiner is a now former member of Congress forced to resign after taking pictures, not of his colon but just about everything else. He sent the pictures to women he had never met throughout the country. After 10 days or so of denial, he finally admitted the pictures were of him, by him.
Then I came across an interesting article about men and the Weiner scandal:
http://family.lifegoesstrong.com/outraged-women-whats-wrong-men
My two takeaways:
1. Women are upset with mopes like Weiner who can't seem to control themselves as they bathe in the raw sewage of power.
2. A psychologist (Michael Bader) suggests that we "look with curiosity and compassion and see these (powerful) men as complex human beings, full of feelings of longing, anxiety, and guilt."
So because men are complex it excuses their behavior?
I, for one, hope if Weiner's wife was given the explanation, "I'm complex, misunderstood, needy or some combination thereof," her initial reaction was "Boo hoo" and that there were no sharp objects in the room.
Yes, men are complex. So are women. The difference is that most men aren't willing to examine their complexities, preferring to slog along through life holding the proverbial wooden club over their shoulder.
They're out of touch. With themselves.
As a result, women do back flips for a man who is even remotely emotionally available. I think women tuned in to "Men of A Certain Age" for a glimpse of men as they want to experience them.
It's sad when a show like "Men of A Certain Age," with its honest examination of men's complexities, is bagged for a lack of viewers.
And men metaphorically canceled.
When men expose complexities it isn't very welcome, even in a fictional setting.
The show had a great cast and was smartly written, so naturally it drew a few more viewers than a public access zoning hearing. I suppose without "very special episodes," DNA tests or brawling hillbillies it was doomed.
"Men" focused on the lives of three middle aged guys played by Andre Braugher, Ray Romano and a third guy I had never heard of (Scott Bakula, who was good).
One memorable episode had the boys heading off to Palm Springs for colonoscopies in celebration of Terry's (Bakula) 50th birthday.
As an aside, if my wife is reading this, I would prefer a tie or golf balls.
When the boys weren't playing candid camera they ate at a diner and hiked a mountain.
Sound boring? It wasn't.
Every time I watched I thought "these writers get it." To paraphrase Bruno Kirby in When Harry Met Sally, it "spoke to me."
More importantly, it was television's most honest portrayal of middle aged men in recent memory.
Let's face it, most guys can't honestly portray themselves.
I was also struck by the timing of "Men's" cancellation on the heels of the Anthony Weiner scandal.
For those of us trying to forget, Weiner is a now former member of Congress forced to resign after taking pictures, not of his colon but just about everything else. He sent the pictures to women he had never met throughout the country. After 10 days or so of denial, he finally admitted the pictures were of him, by him.
Then I came across an interesting article about men and the Weiner scandal:
http://family.lifegoesstrong.com/outraged-women-whats-wrong-men
My two takeaways:
1. Women are upset with mopes like Weiner who can't seem to control themselves as they bathe in the raw sewage of power.
2. A psychologist (Michael Bader) suggests that we "look with curiosity and compassion and see these (powerful) men as complex human beings, full of feelings of longing, anxiety, and guilt."
So because men are complex it excuses their behavior?
I, for one, hope if Weiner's wife was given the explanation, "I'm complex, misunderstood, needy or some combination thereof," her initial reaction was "Boo hoo" and that there were no sharp objects in the room.
Yes, men are complex. So are women. The difference is that most men aren't willing to examine their complexities, preferring to slog along through life holding the proverbial wooden club over their shoulder.
They're out of touch. With themselves.
As a result, women do back flips for a man who is even remotely emotionally available. I think women tuned in to "Men of A Certain Age" for a glimpse of men as they want to experience them.
It's sad when a show like "Men of A Certain Age," with its honest examination of men's complexities, is bagged for a lack of viewers.
And men metaphorically canceled.
When men expose complexities it isn't very welcome, even in a fictional setting.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Oh (No) Starry Night
There was big "hoo ha" over this year's major league baseball All-Star game.
And not because the National League won 5-1.
It seems that nobody watched, with ratings hitting a record low. Baseball meets C-Span.
A few years ago Commissioner Bud Selig made the idiotic decision to give home field advantage in the World Series to the winner of the All-Star game, thinking it would make the game more competitive.
Not so much. Players barely care about the game. They certainly don't identify with their league. I doubt the Cubs Starlin Castro will gush with pride, knowing he contributed to NL home field advantage, as he watches the World Series from his couch.
"See Kids," I can picture Grandpa Castro saying one day to his little ones, "My league won a practice game, which is why the other 162 games mean bubkes."
One player is required from each team, another silly rule. Did Chicagoans tune in solely to watch the White Sox Ray Durham in 1998? I can't tell you the first thing about Florida's Gabby Sanchez (this Marlins lone All-Star this year), and I suspect most of south Florida wouldn't recognize him if they shared a cab.
I like the MLB All-Star game because it's mid season, players wear their real uniforms and it is fun to see guys like Josh Hamilton and David Ortiz on the same team. The home run derby is cool.
As an aside, when did we start playing baseball in glorified water parks? Watching a fan dive into the center field swimming pool during this year's home run contest reminded me of an inflatable gorilla on top of a car dealership. Anything for attention, deficit.
The All-Star game is getting out of hand. This year over 82 players were "selected" for the game, a new record. In 1980 only 60 players were named.
Think about it. 82 players from 30 teams. The American League had 19 pitchers. Are you telling me with a straight face that nearly 40 pitchers are worthy of being an All-Star?
Here's the rub - rosters have exploded because the reaction of many players to being selected is "non moi" (not me).
Players are voted in by fans or named by managers and opt out. In the case of Yankees pitcher C.C. Sabathia, he declined faster than he could drop a dime to his agent. So did Derek Jeter, fresh off becoming the newest member of the 3000 hit club.
Jeter claimed injury and exhaustion, while Sabathia pitched the Sunday prior.
It's lame. Growing up, at least players acted like they wanted to play. And since when did "not playing" mean "gone fishing?" Can't an injured player show up and tip his hat to the fans who fund his Robin Leach lifestyle?
Some ideas to revive the Midsummer Classic:
Since players have contracts with bonuses for making the All-Star team (some up to $250,000), how about they only get the bonus for appearing at the game?
How about deducting $5 from the ticket price for each player who "opts out"?
What happened to Old Timers Games? New rule - when an All-Star declines to play, we will replace him with a player from the "Senior Tour." No Derek Jeter? Ernie Banks is ready. If C.C. Sabathia won't pitch, let's give Nolan Ryan a chance to lay some chin music on Prince Fielder.
If he misses, I'd pay to see the aftermath.
And not because the National League won 5-1.
It seems that nobody watched, with ratings hitting a record low. Baseball meets C-Span.
A few years ago Commissioner Bud Selig made the idiotic decision to give home field advantage in the World Series to the winner of the All-Star game, thinking it would make the game more competitive.
Not so much. Players barely care about the game. They certainly don't identify with their league. I doubt the Cubs Starlin Castro will gush with pride, knowing he contributed to NL home field advantage, as he watches the World Series from his couch.
"See Kids," I can picture Grandpa Castro saying one day to his little ones, "My league won a practice game, which is why the other 162 games mean bubkes."
One player is required from each team, another silly rule. Did Chicagoans tune in solely to watch the White Sox Ray Durham in 1998? I can't tell you the first thing about Florida's Gabby Sanchez (this Marlins lone All-Star this year), and I suspect most of south Florida wouldn't recognize him if they shared a cab.
I like the MLB All-Star game because it's mid season, players wear their real uniforms and it is fun to see guys like Josh Hamilton and David Ortiz on the same team. The home run derby is cool.
As an aside, when did we start playing baseball in glorified water parks? Watching a fan dive into the center field swimming pool during this year's home run contest reminded me of an inflatable gorilla on top of a car dealership. Anything for attention, deficit.
The All-Star game is getting out of hand. This year over 82 players were "selected" for the game, a new record. In 1980 only 60 players were named.
Think about it. 82 players from 30 teams. The American League had 19 pitchers. Are you telling me with a straight face that nearly 40 pitchers are worthy of being an All-Star?
Here's the rub - rosters have exploded because the reaction of many players to being selected is "non moi" (not me).
Players are voted in by fans or named by managers and opt out. In the case of Yankees pitcher C.C. Sabathia, he declined faster than he could drop a dime to his agent. So did Derek Jeter, fresh off becoming the newest member of the 3000 hit club.
Jeter claimed injury and exhaustion, while Sabathia pitched the Sunday prior.
It's lame. Growing up, at least players acted like they wanted to play. And since when did "not playing" mean "gone fishing?" Can't an injured player show up and tip his hat to the fans who fund his Robin Leach lifestyle?
Some ideas to revive the Midsummer Classic:
Since players have contracts with bonuses for making the All-Star team (some up to $250,000), how about they only get the bonus for appearing at the game?
How about deducting $5 from the ticket price for each player who "opts out"?
What happened to Old Timers Games? New rule - when an All-Star declines to play, we will replace him with a player from the "Senior Tour." No Derek Jeter? Ernie Banks is ready. If C.C. Sabathia won't pitch, let's give Nolan Ryan a chance to lay some chin music on Prince Fielder.
If he misses, I'd pay to see the aftermath.
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Social (Media) Reunion
Last weekend I attended my 25th high school reunion.
The Facebook reunion.
Everything took place virtually, from the planning to the invites, until the event itself, which made it somewhat surreal.
Ever meet up with hundreds of your "friends" at once in a shotgun chat room?
Don't get me wrong. I had a great time. But there were two big differences from reunions of yore.
First, I am guessing when my parents attend reunions people whip out photos of the kids, grand kids, or a Super 8 Motel with an AARP discount.
No pictures for us. Not needed.
Who needs pictures when you can whip out a smart phone and learn all about little Taylor's first trip to the dentist. Better yet, you can pose for a reunion picture and post it to a Facebook page, so classmates who weren't able to travel (or locals who had more important things to do, like watch a Law and Order marathon) can instantly feel the love.
Events aren't "real" until they show up on Facebook, right?
The other big difference is the way a lot of us "knew" each other.
Let's face it. Social media is an eavesdropping tool. You drop in, anonymously, then drop out. A cyber one night stand.
Facebook is like a museum, sans the noisy field trippers and ludicrous parking fees. You can tour the galleries at will without detection, or consequence.
If relationships are ultimately about boundaries, then Facebook is the open border.
One classmate said attending reunions requires "real confidence," which I suppose is true. But what distinguishes a 25th reunion from a 10th reunion is the lack of posturing.
By the time you hit middle age the pretenses are gone. We are who we are, whether fat, thin, bald, married, single or on work release. The women looked sharp, while a lot of guys dressed like they had just cleaned out the garage.
Reunions, like high school, are ultimately viewed from our own prism. We sit in classes (most of them) for four years with rows of students who's experience might be completely different than our own. Reminiscing is a contact sport, and it's not for everyone.
Unless it's online.
The Facebook reunion.
Everything took place virtually, from the planning to the invites, until the event itself, which made it somewhat surreal.
Ever meet up with hundreds of your "friends" at once in a shotgun chat room?
Don't get me wrong. I had a great time. But there were two big differences from reunions of yore.
First, I am guessing when my parents attend reunions people whip out photos of the kids, grand kids, or a Super 8 Motel with an AARP discount.
No pictures for us. Not needed.
Who needs pictures when you can whip out a smart phone and learn all about little Taylor's first trip to the dentist. Better yet, you can pose for a reunion picture and post it to a Facebook page, so classmates who weren't able to travel (or locals who had more important things to do, like watch a Law and Order marathon) can instantly feel the love.
Events aren't "real" until they show up on Facebook, right?
The other big difference is the way a lot of us "knew" each other.
Let's face it. Social media is an eavesdropping tool. You drop in, anonymously, then drop out. A cyber one night stand.
Facebook is like a museum, sans the noisy field trippers and ludicrous parking fees. You can tour the galleries at will without detection, or consequence.
If relationships are ultimately about boundaries, then Facebook is the open border.
One classmate said attending reunions requires "real confidence," which I suppose is true. But what distinguishes a 25th reunion from a 10th reunion is the lack of posturing.
By the time you hit middle age the pretenses are gone. We are who we are, whether fat, thin, bald, married, single or on work release. The women looked sharp, while a lot of guys dressed like they had just cleaned out the garage.
Reunions, like high school, are ultimately viewed from our own prism. We sit in classes (most of them) for four years with rows of students who's experience might be completely different than our own. Reminiscing is a contact sport, and it's not for everyone.
Unless it's online.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
To Steve With Love
My father-in law passed away the other day after a brief illness.
Steve Richard was a man of faith, in a better place after minimal suffering.
A native of Haiti, Steve was a retired surgeon. A warm, proud and intensely private man.
He was also a striking, stylish man. Always impeccably dressed. Cuff links, pressed pants, not a hair out of place. If he owned a pair of jeans it must have been a gag. And when Tania jokes about wearing patent leather shoes to the park, I believe her.
The first time we met he sat in the corner with a digital camera (he loved his gadgets) taking snapshots, which Tania promised was a good sign, not part of an elaborate background check.
I kept thinking here I am, a divorced father of two, with my own paparazzi.
A week later one of the pictures arrived in the mail in a makeshift paper frame.
I was in.
More importantly, my kids were in also. He embraced them as his own. In our family, the only "steps" lead to a different floor.
He started watching golf, a sport as foreign to him as skateboarding until he learned about my love of the game. At family gatherings he would look my way and in his thick Haitian accent ask me about "Taaaguh Woooods" or what it meant to "score ze birdie" or if it was good to "score ze paaar."
He always offered me a wide grin and a firm handshake, and would playfully walk up behind Tania and pinch the back of her neck.
Tania and her Dad were close, and shared a love of film. He was proud of her artistic success and loved seeing her perform.
And the man could dance.
I had heard the stories for some time. As children Tania and her two older sisters would gather in the living room and her parents would dance for them before heading out on the town. A beautiful, graceful couple.
Leading up to our wedding, he was coy on the subject, acting like a "first dance" with Tania was not in the cards.
Fat chance.
As he approached the dance floor, I stood in awe. The room stood still, in awe. He took my bride in his arms and floated about to the theme from "To Sir with Love." Sidney Poitier meets Fred Astaire. He had a look of utter contentment, full of joy, at peace.
A photo sequence of the moment, which I treasure, hangs in our home.
I have a lot to live up to. Godspeed my friend.
Steve Richard was a man of faith, in a better place after minimal suffering.
A native of Haiti, Steve was a retired surgeon. A warm, proud and intensely private man.
He was also a striking, stylish man. Always impeccably dressed. Cuff links, pressed pants, not a hair out of place. If he owned a pair of jeans it must have been a gag. And when Tania jokes about wearing patent leather shoes to the park, I believe her.
The first time we met he sat in the corner with a digital camera (he loved his gadgets) taking snapshots, which Tania promised was a good sign, not part of an elaborate background check.
I kept thinking here I am, a divorced father of two, with my own paparazzi.
A week later one of the pictures arrived in the mail in a makeshift paper frame.
I was in.
More importantly, my kids were in also. He embraced them as his own. In our family, the only "steps" lead to a different floor.
He started watching golf, a sport as foreign to him as skateboarding until he learned about my love of the game. At family gatherings he would look my way and in his thick Haitian accent ask me about "Taaaguh Woooods" or what it meant to "score ze birdie" or if it was good to "score ze paaar."
He always offered me a wide grin and a firm handshake, and would playfully walk up behind Tania and pinch the back of her neck.
Tania and her Dad were close, and shared a love of film. He was proud of her artistic success and loved seeing her perform.
And the man could dance.
I had heard the stories for some time. As children Tania and her two older sisters would gather in the living room and her parents would dance for them before heading out on the town. A beautiful, graceful couple.
Leading up to our wedding, he was coy on the subject, acting like a "first dance" with Tania was not in the cards.
Fat chance.
As he approached the dance floor, I stood in awe. The room stood still, in awe. He took my bride in his arms and floated about to the theme from "To Sir with Love." Sidney Poitier meets Fred Astaire. He had a look of utter contentment, full of joy, at peace.
A photo sequence of the moment, which I treasure, hangs in our home.
I have a lot to live up to. Godspeed my friend.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Facebook With My News? Unlike!
I caught the Republican debate last night on CNN. Yeah, that's right, I'm the guy who watched. Me and the canidates' parents.
The debate was fine, rather pedestrian in terms of questions and answers. Not unexpected this early, where the last thing anyone wants to do is implode before voters even have a chance to google you.
What struck me, however, was a news item about the debate and social media:
http://www.mediabistro.com/tvnewser/cnn-uses-feedback-loop-of-social-media-for-debate_b71036
Seems CNN decided to set up a large screen and feed Facebook posts throughout the debate for the audience, moderator and candidates to see.
Am I alone on Twitter island, or is there something truly odd about this?
Why on earth is it necessary to have a rambling, one way conversation scrolling on a screen during a debate? Isn't the point (at least tradition) of political debate that it takes place IN PERSON??
I found myself waiting for Ron Paul to scream "Higher taxes? LOL!" or Mitt Romney to blurt out "Don't ask don't tell? TMI!" Or for any of them to beg voters to poke them (insert Anthony Weiner joke) or hit their "like" button.
What's shorthand for, "Have we lost our collective minds?" HWLOCM?
And it's not just the debate. Somehow I can't turn anywhere without references to Facebook pages.
Everyone from T.V. news outlets to columnists are in the act, going to their "pages" to share comments about their stories during the stories.
That's the difference. Unlike the old days when people wrote letters to the editor or segments were devoted to viewer comment, now "comments" are woven in.
Why is news now on a level with sports radio? Do we really need to tee up Barry from Bollingbrook for his view on the G-7 summit?
To me, Facebook comments are like writing on a bathroom wall. Or listening to messages on random answering machines.
Maybe I'm missing something, but I have always picked up a paper to read news, and trusted that those reporting the news are a wee bit more in the know than an anonymous computer hack.
Can you picture Edward R. Morrow saying, "Good night and good tweeting" or Walter Cronkite closing with, "That's the way it is, isn't it Facebook peeps?"
I also see the irony, banging away on my laptop, part of the "new age" media. But come on, at least people choose to read this (at least some do) and it is strictly my opinion.
And hopefully more compelling than my answering machine.
The debate was fine, rather pedestrian in terms of questions and answers. Not unexpected this early, where the last thing anyone wants to do is implode before voters even have a chance to google you.
What struck me, however, was a news item about the debate and social media:
http://www.mediabistro.com/tvnewser/cnn-uses-feedback-loop-of-social-media-for-debate_b71036
Seems CNN decided to set up a large screen and feed Facebook posts throughout the debate for the audience, moderator and candidates to see.
Am I alone on Twitter island, or is there something truly odd about this?
Why on earth is it necessary to have a rambling, one way conversation scrolling on a screen during a debate? Isn't the point (at least tradition) of political debate that it takes place IN PERSON??
I found myself waiting for Ron Paul to scream "Higher taxes? LOL!" or Mitt Romney to blurt out "Don't ask don't tell? TMI!" Or for any of them to beg voters to poke them (insert Anthony Weiner joke) or hit their "like" button.
What's shorthand for, "Have we lost our collective minds?" HWLOCM?
And it's not just the debate. Somehow I can't turn anywhere without references to Facebook pages.
Everyone from T.V. news outlets to columnists are in the act, going to their "pages" to share comments about their stories during the stories.
That's the difference. Unlike the old days when people wrote letters to the editor or segments were devoted to viewer comment, now "comments" are woven in.
Why is news now on a level with sports radio? Do we really need to tee up Barry from Bollingbrook for his view on the G-7 summit?
To me, Facebook comments are like writing on a bathroom wall. Or listening to messages on random answering machines.
Maybe I'm missing something, but I have always picked up a paper to read news, and trusted that those reporting the news are a wee bit more in the know than an anonymous computer hack.
Can you picture Edward R. Morrow saying, "Good night and good tweeting" or Walter Cronkite closing with, "That's the way it is, isn't it Facebook peeps?"
I also see the irony, banging away on my laptop, part of the "new age" media. But come on, at least people choose to read this (at least some do) and it is strictly my opinion.
And hopefully more compelling than my answering machine.
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