Baseball pitchers are cowards. All of them.

Last night Red Sox pitcher Ryan Dempster threw four consecutive pitches at Alex Rodriguez. The first nearly hit him in the legs. The next two were tight inside. The fourth finally hit him in the elbow and ribs.

These pitches were intentional. No one debates this. Obviously Dempster is not pleased with Rodriguez’s use of performance enhancing drugs. Even as a Yankees fan, I am not pleased. I’d prefer that Rodriquez be banned from baseball permanently, and I’d like to see every other PHD user banned for life, Yankees included/

I’m also not so naïve as to forget that beloved Red Sox slugger David Ortiz was also busted for steroid not that long ago.

But here’s the thing about last night’s incident and incidents similar to it:

Baseball pitchers are cowards. All of them. Even my beloved Yankees.

Long ago, it became acceptable for a pitcher to throw a ball at an opposing batter for any number of ridiculous reasons. Sometimes it’s in retaliation for a previously plunked batter, even if the previous incident was clearly accidental. Sometimes pitchers hit batters because they don’t like the way the batter trotted around the bases after a homerun or the length of time a batter spent admiring a homerun ball. Sometimes pitchers are upset because the batter stole a base when his team was leading by four runs or the batter hit too many homeruns in a single game or the batter said something unacceptable to the media.

Pitchers stand 60 feet away from their nearly defenseless victims and throw a rock-hard ball 80-90 miles per hour at their legs, backs, elbows and shoulders. Sometimes their aim is not true and they hit a head.

Like a said: They are all a bunch of cowards.

Can you imagine if this happened outside a baseball game?

My neighbor is offended by something I say or do, and in retaliation, he throws a rock at my knees from behind his backyard fence.

Or my colleague is displeased with the way I’m boasting about a recent performance review, so in retaliation, he throws a shoe at me from across the room.

These things don’t happen in the real world, not only because these actions would seem stupid, childish and possibly criminal, but because the real world is not populated with nearly as many cowards as you can find in a major league bullpen.

Is there anything less honorable than throwing a ball at a man who is forced to stand in a small, chalk-outlined box and wait for it to happen?

And then if the batter retaliates by charging the mound to fight the coward who just threw a ball at him, the batter is thrown from the game and possibly fined for his actions.

In baseball, you’re punished for acting like a man and attempting to at least fight fair.

Last night Alex Rodriguez got the last laugh by hitting the game-winning homerun. There’s no better revenge than winning, and sadly, there is no other revenge available to Rodriguez, since he is not a pitcher.

Leave it to the Red Sox to make Alex Rodriguez, the most hated man in baseball (and justifiably so), appear sympathetic, at least for a moment.

Hate the parents

Hopefully, this is one of the most disgustingly gratuitous bar mitzvah entrances of all time. Right?

Please tell me that it doesn’t get much worse than this. I can’t even begin to imagine what worse than this would look like.

I have a theory on the golf course that if play is slow, you should hate the group ahead of you, even if you know that there is a group ahead of them who is creating the problem.

It’s much more fun to hate the players you can see rather than a group of  theoretical players somewhere ahead on the course.

I’m going to violate my “hate the one you can see” rule in regards to this video. While I’m fairly certain that I wouldn’t like the boy featured in the clip if I knew him in real life (it’s hard to imagine liking anyone involved in a display of narcissistic opulence such as this), I’m going to choose to hate the unseen parents rather than the boy for allowing this spectacle to take place and then thinking it wise to post it online. 

Maybe not hate them. That might be too harsh. Blame them. Blame them for allowing this gaudy display of wealth and self-centeredness to take place.

No. I take that back. I was right the first the time. Hate was right. 

Susan Cain is right about most things, but she is wrong about death

Author Susan Cain posted this in response to her reading from the Book of Ecclesiastes:

I don’t know why everyone talks about the fear of death. I love life, but I don’t fear death. What I fear is the deaths of the people I love best — because I fear the pain of having to live without them. And I fear my own death only insofar as it would cause my loved ones this same terrible pain.

She also posted this image:

Longtime readers of this blog will not be surprised to hear that I do not agree with Susan. It is often said that death is hardest on those left behind, but I disagree. I have always felt that death is hardest on the dead.

Consider my mother.

Mom died in 2007 at the age of 57. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her and miss her terribly. The loss of a mother represents an inexorable disconnection to your past and a fundamental shift in a your position in the universe that can only be understood by those who have suffered this terrible loss.

It is a tragic thing to lose one’s mother. One of the most tragic things.    

Since my mother’s death, I have become the father of two children and a published author. The fact that my mother will never meet my children, nor will she ever read one of my books, breaks my heart again and again. It breaks my heart everyday. Two of the most important aspects of my life will never be known by my mother. It saddens me beyond measure.

But who has it worse? Me or my mother?

It’s not even close. I would argue that my mother has it worse by a hundred  fold. A thousand fold. My mother has only been dead for six years, but the number of moments that she has already missed is astounding.

I play with my children every day. I kiss them and hug them and laugh with them constantly. I live alongside a woman who I love and who loves me in return. I reap the daily and oftentimes surprising rewards of a published author. I play golf and poker with my friends and take the stage to tell stories and listen to music and read new books and teach my students about Shakespeare and triangles and eat Egg McMuffins and ice cream.

I am saddened almost daily by the loss of my mother. Her loss stings me again and again and again. There are times when it makes life hard. But my mother will never hear the laugh of a child ever again. She will never read another book or listen to another song or eat another cone of ice cream. She will never know what her children or grandchildren have become, nor will she feel the sweetness of their kisses or the warmth of their embraces. My mother suffers losses on an almost minute-by-minute basis. The world moves on. Wonders never cease. Beauty is created and destroyed. She misses it all. Every second of every day.     

The mounting losses that my mother suffers are immeasurable. The idea that she has been stung by death just once is ludicrous. Simply because she is not here to complain about her losses or even experience them firsthand does not make them any less tragic.

I wish the idea that death is hardest on the living would go away. I find this sentiment shortsighted at best. It represents the idea that the continued unraveling of time is irrelevant and meaningless to anyone no longer here. It allows the living to focus solely on the here and the now and leave those who have died firmly in the past. It permits the grieving to encapsulate and codify a life in its moment of existence and never imagine what could or should have been. It affords us the opportunity to erase all lost and possible futures for our deceased loved ones. It’s a focus on the self and the present that I find narcissistic and a little cruel.

Yes, the loss of a loved one is hard. It is incredibly hard. But the absence of a loved one and the cessation of their existence does not mean that their losses are any less terrible.  

Death is hardest on the dead, because the living move on. The grieving have friend and family, books and music, ice cream and Egg McMuffins to comfort them. They remain a part of the story. They get to see what comes next. Opportunity and hope remain integral parts of their lives.

I miss my mother every day. Her loss makes life harder. More bitter. Less joyous. But she has it far worse. Do not pity the living, because we still possess life, the most precious of all commodities.

Pity the dead for all that they have have lost and will continue to lose forever more.

Elaborate prom proposals are happening. Promposals, they call them. They are stupid.

I am the veteran of the prom season. In my youth, I attended a total of seven proms.

I attended both my junior and senior proms with my high school girlfriend, Laura.

Laura was a year younger than me, so I also attended her junior and senior proms as well.

Laura and I also attended the prom of friends Eric and Lisa in a neighboring town. I was Lisa’s date (I would eventually date Lisa later on) and Laura was Eric’s date.

When I was eighteen and managing a McDonald’s in Milford, Massachusetts, I attended the prom of an incredibly shy employee who needed a date and asked to me to go with her by handing me a slip of paper as her shift ended. It was a unique prom experience that went remarkably well and then didn’t.

A story for another day.

When I was 22, I attended the prom of another McDonald’s employee while I was managing a restaurant in Brockton, Massachusetts. She and I had survived an armed robbery of our restaurant, and her mother asked me to escort her to the prom, feeling like she would be safe in my company.

All of this is to say I have some prom experience.

A recent trend in the prom circuit is prom proposals or “promposals.” Rather than simply asking a person to the prom (or handing over a slip of paper), high school students are now proposing to their would-be dates using extravagant and digitally-shared proposals which, as far as I can tell, almost always serve to demonstrate how creative, clever and romantic the boy is and have almost nothing to do with the actual girl.

I’ve watched a bunch of these promposals, and while the production values differ considerably, the general theme of these proposals is the same:

Look at me. Watch me propose to a girl, but don’t look at the girl. Look at me. Look at how talented and clever I am. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

And what are these prom proposers going to do when it comes time to propose marriage someday? Some of these stunts are so elaborate that topping them will be nearly impossible.

Of course, by that time, no woman in her right mind would want to be proposed to in the way that these kids are proposing to their prom dates.

Simply search on “promposal” on YouTube and you will see what I’m taking about. This one is especially egregious. 

I’m sure that the young man in the video is a delightful and respectful individual., but I suspect there will come a day when he regrets this moment in his life and the video may disappear from YouTube forever. The idea of a promposal is bad enough, but the degree of narcissism and self-promotion on display here is astounding.

The most baffling part of the video for me, however, is how indulged this boy appears to be. Not only does he have an emcee, a band, a local news crew present to interview the happy couple after the proposal and the implicit support of the school administrators, but he has multiple, professional-grade video cameras operating throughout the stunt and a throng of enthusiastic classmates.

It’s his classmates that surprise me the most.

Who are these kids? Where is the adolescent apathy that characterizes so many of the high school students I know? Where is the intense disinterest? The purposeful listlessness and focused indifference that I have come to expect (and love) from teenagers? 

What is wrong with these people?

I use the word “bigot” instead of “homophobic.” You should, too. Here’s why.

A reader noted my tendency to use the words bigot and bigotry in lieu of homophobia or homophobic when describing an idiot who is prejudiced against or hates homosexuals. Observant reader. This is actually a purposeful choice.

A phobia is “an extreme or irrational fear or aversion to something.” When attached to another word or word segment, the fear or aversion is made clear.

Hydrophobia is the fear of water.

Claustrophobia is the fear of enclosed spaces.

Arachnophobia is the fear of spiders.

I have always rejected the use of the word homophobic to indicate an individual who hates homosexuality because it’s inaccurate and in some ways lets those individuals off the hook for their hatred. It implies that their feelings about homosexuals are based more in fear than stupidity and cruelty, and it’s easier to understand or even forgive fear.

I can’t accept this. There is no understanding (and certainly no forgiveness) of a person who hates another based upon their sexual preference.

Also note that none of the other words used to describe hatred make use of the word phobia.

A person who is prejudiced against or hates someone of a different race is a racist. Not a racaphobe.

A person who is prejudiced against or hates a person of the opposite sex is a sexist. Not a sexophobe.

A person who is prejudiced against or hates a Jewish person is an anti-Semite. Not a Jewophobe.

Therefore, a person who is prejudiced against or hates homosexuals should not be a homophobe. And since the word homoist does not exist, I opt for the more universal bigot instead.

It’s a mean word. I like that.

In truth, there is no real word for a person who hates homosexuals, and I think that says a lot about the struggle that homosexuals have faced in attempting to gain political and cultural acceptance over time.

Even Webster’s fails miserably in its definition. The definition of homophobia is “irrational fear of, aversion to, or discrimination against homosexuality or homosexuals.”

Note that fear and aversion are listed first in the definition, ahead of discrimination (which still does not imply hatred or even dislike), and the word hatred or even a suggestion to hatred does not appear at all in the definition.

Compare this to the definition of racism:

a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race.

One definition describes a person who is possibly afraid of or dislikes homosexuals or treats them unfairly.

The other describes Hitler and the basis of the Nazi party.

Can you see why the word homophobic just doesn’t cut it for me?

Texting while doing what?

According to the 2013 Mobile Consumer Habits study conducted by Harris Interactive, 9% of Americans admit to using their phone to send text messages during sex.

Among the 18-34 age group, that figure stands at 20%.

I’m going on the record as not believing the results of this study.

Until researchers can verify the results of this study with verifiable, observable data, I’m going to choose to believe that sex is the last bastion of phone-free existence that we have, not because I believe that human beings aren’t capable of such stupidity, but because I believe in sex.

Please, say in ain’t so.

Dress codes almost always suck.

Last week, a group of seventeen boys marched up and down Cardiff, Wales’s Whitchurch High School’s hallways chanting, “We want to wear shorts."

They did so while wearing skirts.

In the midst of a heat wave in the United Kingdom, 15-year-old Tyrone Evelyn and his friends took drastic measures to feel more comfortable in school. Whitchurch High School’s dress-code strictly enforces that male students wear pants, regardless of the weather, and shorts are firmly not allowed -- the school's dress code reads, "Trousers are compulsory for boys and optional for girls. These must be full length and plain black."

This is not the first time that boys have worn skirts in order to express opposition to an overly restrictive school dress code, and every time it happens, I find myself with newfound hope for the world.

Dress codes suck. They almost always suck.

Even worse, they are often illogical, uncomfortable and discriminatory, especially when applied differently to men and women.

Girls can wear skirts but boys can’t wear shorts?

Boys are required to wear a tie but girls are not?

Men are required to wear a sports jacket to dinner but women are not?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Dress codes are often imposed by authorities who believe that physical appearance will change the way individuals think or behave. They are almost always imposed as an artificial means of promoting conformity or authority in a population.

It’s nonsense.

Dress codes are akin to the idea that the use of titles like mister or doctor in schools or the workplace establishes a certain level of respect for authority figures. It’s an idea typically supported by employers, managers, administrators and teachers who have difficulty earning respect through authentic means and believe that titles and dress codes will assist them in this endeavor.

They don’t. 

If I ever need the title mister or need to force my male students to wear long pants in order to earn their respect, send me out to pasture.

The idea that something as complex as respect could be earned, even a little bit, through a title or an article of clothing is ludicrous, and yet people continue to buy into it all the time.    

I love those skirt-clad boys. They are my latest band of superheroes. They began their protest more than a week ago, and as of today, it continues.

Good for them. I hope they don’t stop wearing skirts until the rule is changed or until they are handed their diploma while wearing a skirt.

Who do you respect me?

The boy wearing the prescribed trousers and adhering to the school’s dress code or the boy protesting the nonsensical dress code by wearing a skirt? 

Men are having butt enhancement surgery in order to increase the size of their backsides. I am hesitant to refer to them as men.

The New York Times reports that there are men who are having butt enhancement surgery in an effort to increase the size of their derriere.

This is not fiction. It’s an actually a thing. 

Apparently these men are dissatisfied with the size of their buttocks and want a larger and more shapely backside.

Here’s the thing:

In my entire life, I have never known a single man who would ever consider this kind of plastic surgery. If I was required to name the man who I know or have known who is most likely to have butt enhancement surgery, as unlikely as that may be, I would still be unable to answer the question.

I’m probably say my friend, Tom, just to be mean.

Honestly, what kind of man does this?

According to the New York Times, a man like John Vickers.

Not long ago, Jeff Vickers, who owns a construction company, had surgery to address something that had, fittingly, been the butt of jokes.

“I’d wear jogging pants to work and the guys used to joke that, ‘You could drop a plumb bob from the back of your head and the string wouldn’t hit anything before it hit the ground,’ ” he said, referring to the weight on a string used for surveying.

A couple things.

1. Does Jeff Vickers really believe that having butt enhancement surgery (and publicizing it in the New York Times) is going to bring an end to the jokes?

Which is worse?

Having a flat butt or having fat injected from your stomach into your butt in an effort to change its shape?

I am fairly certain that Mr. Vickers has only increased the amount of teasing he receives from his employees.

I kind of want to visit his construction site next week to crack some jokes myself. The possibilities for humor are almost limitless.

2. What kind of construction workers spend their days making jokes about the size of their boss’s ass? Are there really men in the world (and construction workers, no less) who are taking notice of the size of their coworkers’ butts and commenting on them?

Again, in the course of my entire life, I don’t think I have ever met such a man. 

Nor do I want to.

Only cowards take covert photographs of people in order to mock them on social media

Best story of the day:

An iPad-wielding Australian man has been banned from his local gym after he covertly captured photos of patrons working out and posted them to Facebook to mock them.

The unidentified jerk from Queensland, the second-largest state in Australia, was kicked out after 4chan and Reddit users posted screen grabs of the man’s Facebook activity.

I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed this story.

As critical and curmudgeonly as I may be at times, I have always believed that there are few things more cowardly and disgusting than taking covert photographs of people and posting them to social media in order to mock them.

Yet I see cowards engage in this behavior all the time. 

The post partum tummy is not a taboo in Actual Town, USA.

Tom Sykes of The Daily Beast reports on Kate Middleton’s busting of what he refers to as one of the last taboos of pregnancy:

Kate Middleton stood up for new mums everywhere when she walked out of hospital yesterday, completely unembarrassed by her post-partum tummy.

This thoroughly modern royal was apparently determined to lend a helping hand to women everywhere who have just given birth, and shatter one of the last taboos of pregnancy: the post-baby belly.

I’m sorry, Tom, but this is not a taboo. It never was a taboo.

Two days after giving birth, the only people who expect a woman’s baby belly to be gone are lunatic celebrities and former reality show contestants who follow up their deliveries with plastic surgery and stylist consultations.

Skyes claims that even though it takes at least two to three weeks for the uterus to return to anything like its pre-pregnancy shape after giving birth, “this fact is little acknowledged in modern Western society.”

What modern Western society is Sykes talking about?

Does he think that the city limits of Hollywood, California qualify as a modern Western society?

In Actual Town, USA, this fact is acknowledged by all. My four year-old would acknowledge this fact is asked. My dog would acknowledge it if she could speak.

No one expects a woman’s baby belly to be gone when she walks out of the hospital.

No mother expects her baby belly to be gone when she walks out of the hospital. 

If she does, she should turn around, walk right back into the hospital and admit herself  into the psyche ward.

Perhaps it’s because I don’t read celebrity gossip magazines or watch nonsense news shows that report on celebrity births as if they were real news, but I have yet to meet a single woman who has expected her baby belly to be gone 48 hours after giving birth. Nor have a met a woman who has attempted to conceal her baby belly in any way.

Skyes goes on to lament:

Sadly too many celebrities often have ultra fast tummy tucks or strap themselves down to emerge in tiny size 6 jeans, leaving everyone else feeling inadequate.

While it might be true that celebrities follow their deliveries with plastic surgery (let’s call it what it is), I hardly think that “everyone else” is “feeling inadequate” as a result of this inhumane, unrealistic, artificial, unnecessary, self-obsessed response to pregnancy.

When a woman sees a celebrity walk out of the hospital wearing size 6 jeans, does she think, “That self confident, highly motivated actress probably did about a nine thousand sit-ups and spent the last 14 hours doing bikram yoga in order to look that good.”

Or does she think, “That narcissistic, image-obsessed megalomaniac probably spent more time under the plastic surgeon’s knife than she did with her new baby.”

I know which one I think.

I suspect that most people living in an actual modern Western society think the same.

Quarter-Life Crisis?

Is she for real?

No one gets to claim a quarter-life crisis. There’s no such thing. The self absorption required to complain that your twenties aren’t what you envisioned them to be is astounding.

When did this vision even take take place? After the prom? During freshman bio class? Did she really expect her teenage visions of her twenties to hold up?

And enough about the marriage/house/children nonsense. No one should get married before they’re thirty. The incessant need to match your friend’s marital, occupational and parental status generates more unhappiness in the world than can possibly be imagined.

Who gives a damn if your sister was married and owned a house when she was 25? Are you an individual or a sheep? Live your own freakin’ life.

Here is a brief, chronological summation of my twenties:

• Employed as a McDonald’s manager
• Arrested for a crime I did not commit
• Fired from my job as McDonald’s manager
• Homeless
• Taken in by a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses
• Employed as bank teller and McDonald’s manager
• Worked 90 hours a week for two years to pay attorney
• Robbed, tortured and beaten at gunpoint
• Post traumatic stress disorder that lasts 15 years
• Tried and acquitted for a crime I did not commit
• Moved to Connecticut
• Employed as a legal copy services delivery boy
• Employed as a bank teller
• Married my future ex-wife
• Employed as McDonald’s manager
• Attended Manchester Community College while working full time
• Attended Trinity College while working more than fulltime
• Graduated 
• Hired as an elementary school teacher

Not exactly what I envisioned, either. Certainly not ideal. But I suspect that a lot of people would have lists like this.

Perhaps not as fraught for violence and legal challenges, but an interesting list nonetheless.

But at no point did I wonder if I was suffering from a quarter-life crisis.

Watch this instead. Please. You’ll be so happy that you did.

I took a lot of flack (and quite a bit of praise) for my position on the attention given to the royal baby.

My position is essentially this:

Shut up. It’s a freakin’ prince in a twenty-first century monarchy that shouldn’t exist. Thanks to this child’s genetic background and his ancestors’ ability to maintain power through military force, he has been born into greater unearned privilege than anyone could possibly imagine. Look away, damn it. Give your attention over to something more meaningful. Something earned.

It’s not exactly a nuanced position.

It also opens me up to attack in terms of some of my own interests and hobbies. I readily accept those criticisms, acknowledge the potential ludicrousness of some of my interests, and most important, have not responded to these attacks as if someone has eaten my firstborn child while giving me wedgie, as many have responded to me.

There are differences between supporting the National Football League and supporting the British royal family, and I don’t believe they are entirely comparable, but I won’t get into that now. 

But for those of you who have argued that the birth of the prince has been a means of escaping some of the more unfortunate news of the day and has afforded you the opportunity to revel in something slightly more joyous (the most common refrain to my position), I offer you this:  

While I’m sure the future king is cute as a button, here are some equally adorable children who are doing amazing things with a bit less privilege than the future king will enjoy.

This is something truly worth your attention: 

Which of these 6 things would you change about your spouse?

Carolyn Bucior writes about a newly released 60 Minutes/Vanity Fair telephone poll of 1,186 U.S. adults that identifies temper is the primary trait many American women would like to change about their spouse or significant other.

When women in the 60 Minutes/Vanity Fair poll were given a choice of six things to change about their man, 29 percent picked his temper, beating out changing his friends (11 percent), his mother (9 percent), his sense of humor (8 percent), his physique (7 percent), and his hygiene (2 percent).

I was surprised by this result. I can’t remember the last time I saw a man lose his temper around his family, but then again, these things probably happen behind closed doors.

I’m not sure what Elysha would choose to change about me if she could. I’d like to think that she would change nothing, but that seems a little unrealistic.

I’m not exactly perfect. 

But I also suspect that she wouldn't choose anything off this list. I have many shortcomings (22 at last count), but none of these, I think.

Perhaps she’d change my belief that dishes dry just as well in the cupboard as they do in the drying rack.  

Bucior goes on to say:

Amazingly, 30 percent said they would not change any of those things. As this was a telephone poll, I imagine these women were standing beside their husbands when they answered.

I thought this was cynical at best and at worst a a rotten and naïve thing to say. Is it so hard to believe that there are women (or men) who are more than happy with their spouse when it comes to the six categories listed in the survey?

I know I am.

Bucior’s statement is probably more of a reflection of her unfunny, unhygienic, nonathletic husband and his pack of loser friends than anything else.

I saw evil at the newsstand.

I saw someone reach over and take a copy of The National Enquirer off the newsstand today. She thumbed through the pages, stopped to read a headline or two and then added it to her pile of groceries.

On a theoretical level, I know that people must be purchasing this tabloid in order for it to stay in business, but I don’t think I ever truly believed that anyone read it until today.

With so much in the world to read, and thanks to libraries and the Internet, with so much of it free of charge, why would anyone ever spend money or time on something like this?

For a fraction of a second, I looked into the eyes of a woman who will be sitting on her sofa later, reading stories about alien abductions, alleged Hollywood affairs, celebrity diets and Scientology scandals, and I saw evil, my friends.

Gossip-driven, mind-numbing, time-wasting, culturally deprived evil.

Don’t like that woman’s skirt? Think that man looks ridiculous in shorts? Say something.

It’s fine. Truly.

The person whose clothing you are criticizing probably assembled that particular ensemble because they liked the way they looked while wearing it. There’s a good chance that they feel good about themselves in that outfit. 

But it ’s fine. Insult them. Demean them. Laugh behind their back. Comment about their appearance and style on social media like the coward that you are.

What does it matter if they feel good about the way they look? Who cares if they feel confident or are seeking to evoke a style all their own? It’s your opinion that matters. It’s your idealized sense of style that we should all be striving to achieve.  

And heaven forbid they don’t care that much about clothing and are opting for comfort over style. How dare they not embrace your aesthetic. In that case, go right ahead and belittle these choices as well. After all, you surely know better than them.  

Just please understand that if you comment negatively on another person’s choice of clothing, you should:

1. Be ashamed of yourself.
2. Be aware that for whatever reason, you have failed to evolve beyond the mentality and decorum of an average high school bully.
3. Be apprised that you are likely suffering from a negative self image.
4. Be mindful that your comments are revealing you to be a petty, small and mean spirited jerk-face to the rest of the world.

But it’s fine. Truly. Make your comments.

So many other small, meaningless, disgusting people do it everyday.

We’ve learned to live with your kind. We haven’t managed to rid ourselves of cockroaches yet, so it’s unlikely that we’ll be getting rid of your kind anytime soon as well. 

Self-loathing and the cronut

I was vaguely aware that a pastry known as the cronut existed.

This morning I heard the NPR story that described the lines for cronuts in New York City. Apparently people are willing to wait more than three hours on the street for this croissant-like pastry shaped like a donut.

As expected, one of the customers defended the hours she spent waiting by claiming that it was “an experience.”

Consumer experts know better.

Irma Zandl is president of the consumer trends company Zandl Group. "There are parts of the brain that become super active when a fad idea is heard, and people want to pass it on."

"One of the things that we've seen with the advent of all these blogs and social media is that people's desire to be tapped in and to be perceived to be somebody who is in the know is much greater."

I can’t begin to imagine the degree of self-loathing and required in order to waste hours of your life standing in line for a $5 pastry so that you can be perceived as someone in the know.

One person interviewed by NPR takes a bite of her cronut after waiting in line for two hours and declares, “Totally worth it.”

But the bite wasn’t what made the two hour investment worth it. Not was it “the experience” of waiting in line.

It was the ability to tell her friends about the bite, the chance to tweet about the bite and the photograph that she will post on Facebook of the bite that made it worth the wait.

It’s not about eating the cronut.

It’s about being a person who has eaten a cronut.

How sad it must be to be that person.

“In The Night Kitchen” relies on the penis for its success and notoriety.

This reading of In the Night Kitchen got a lot of attention on the Internet last week with the passing of James Gandolfini.

And Gandolfini delivers a spectacular reading of this Maurice Sendak classic, but let me go on the record as saying that I do not like this book at all.

Perhaps it’s because I first read the book when I was 40 years-old and therefore lacked the childhood nostalgia that can occasionally prop up lesser works of art, but I find the story to be strange, creepy, frightening, unnecessarily graphic and most important lacking a cohesive and compelling narrative.

Frankly, I think that had Sendak not included the little boy’s penis in the illustrations, this book would have disappeared into obscurity.

I think the inclusion of the penis gained the book its initial notoriety and has continued to allow it to stand out as something different and unusual.

But not very good.

In the wake of the Supreme Court’s DOMA ruling, I can’t help but accentuate the negative

I think it says a lot about me that as happy as I am about the Supreme Court’s ruling striking down the Defense of Marriage Act, I take infinitely more pleasure in imagining how outraged, surprised, angry and defeated the bigots in this country must feel right now.

I should feel elation for my gay friends and the equality they so deserve. They should be people in the forefront of my mind on this historic day.

Instead I find myself focused on the image of some probably old, probably white bigot somewhere probably south of me, sitting in a rocking chair on his front porch, pained as he watches the America he once loved rapidly transform into an America that we can all love.  

I’ve always been a fan of schadenfreude. This is the one instance when it feels not only good but somehow righteous as well.

Second place sucks. I am a jerk.

I came in second place on Monday night at a Moth StorySLAM in New York City. I was in first place after four stories but gave up the lead to the eighth storyteller, who told an amusing and revealing story about her battle with herpes.

Last week I finished second at a Moth StorySLAM in Boston. I went first and held the lead until the ninth storyteller took the stage and told a fabulous story about her father.

Back in April I came in second place at a Moth StorySLAM in New York City. I was in first place after five storytellers but lost to the ninth storyteller, who told a story that I have since forgotten.

I also won a StorySLAM in Boston last month, but that victory does not fit into the narrative of this post. More notably, it doesn’t make any of those second place finishes feel any better.

There are many problems with finishing in second place in a competition.

Research shows that Olympic silver medalists feel worse after their Olympic performance than bronze medalists, because silver medalists know how close they came to winning.

I understand this sentiment precisely.

Jerry Seinfeld is famous for saying that second place is the first loser.

I understand this sentiment, too.

I am the King of Second Place. Throughout my life, I have constantly found myself in second place, the runner-up position and as one of a handful of disappointed finalists.

Rarely do I find my way to victory.

I’ve competed in 14 Moth StorySLAMs over the past two years. I’ve been fortunate enough to win 4 of them and finished in second place 6 times. I’ve also finished in second place in 2 Moth GrandSLAMs.

See the problem?

I’ve been exceptionally lucky over the past two years. I should be grateful for my record at The Moth. I should be grateful simply for the opportunity to take the stage and tell a story about my life.

I have absolutely no right to complain.

Except all those second place finishes KILL ME. They hurt my heart. They linger in my mind, serving as constant reminders about how close I came to winning again and again,

Sadly, tragically, and pathetically, I remember the second place finishes better than the first place finishes.

But no one wants to hear this. Complain about second place to someone who has finished fifth and you feel like a jerk. Complain about second place to someone who didn’t even have the chance to compete and you feel like an even bigger jerk.

Complain about second place in almost any context you’re a jerk.

I was recently complaining about a second place finish to a fellow storyteller, lamenting about the fact that I had lost despite posting scores of 9.8, 9.5 and 9.4.

The storyteller glared at me and told me that he was still waiting for his first score in the 9 range.

I felt like such a jerk. I still do. That moment may have irrevocably confirmed my jerk status forever.

But am I supposed to feel gratitude about a second place finish?

Should I rejoice in my excellent, albeit not entirely winning, performance?

Should I just smile and keep my mouth shut?

The latter is probably the best advice, but it is also advice that I have never been able to follow.

I should be happy with all those second place finishes. I should be thrilled with my overall record. I have stumbled upon something I do well and something I unexpectedly love. Two years ago storytelling wasn’t even on my radar. Today it’s an enormous part of my life.

This should be enough.

But it’s not because second place sucks. And I am a jerk for thinking so.

Taking a stand against not taking a stand to avoid offending someone

Last week I posted a list of things that I had never done that caused me to feel pride.

I receive quite a bit of pushback on this post. Specifically, readers felt that the list was an indictment of anyone engaging in these behaviors.

I want to address this concern in two ways.

First, I pointed out to my critics that the pride I feel in not doing something does not automatically impugn the behavior or character of someone who does.

The example I used most often was my vegan friends. I know several ethical vegans who take pride in the fact that they do eat meat and do not contribute to the unnecessary death of animals. I understand this sentiment and can appreciate it, but I do not assume that the pride they feel about their diet implies that meat eaters like myself are bad people or that they think less of me.

Even if this was the implication (and it might well be), what the hell do I care if a vegan thinks that eating a cheeseburger makes me bad?

The pride I feel in never having watched a show like The Bachelor should not cause you any angst if you watch the show. If it does, I would suggest that you probably already feel bad about watching the show, and my list is only serving to highlight a feeling that already resides within you.

What the hell do you care what I think if you are doing something that you believe is right?

But here is a more important point:

It would've been easy for me to limit my list to less potentially offensive items. I knew that placing things like popular reality television shows, lottery ticket and selfies on the list would risk offending some readers.

But there comes a time when a person has to stand behind unpopular opinions because he or she believes that they are right. While the inclusion of the selfie on the list was admittedly more tongue-in-cheek than the rest, it’s true that I have never taken one nor spoken that word aloud.

But when it comes to The Jersey Shore, The Kardashian people and The Bachelor/Bachelorette, I think these programs are crap and only serve to feed our celebrity-driven, image-obsessed, shallow-end-of-the-pool culture. Many, many people watch these programs and enjoy them, but I wish they wouldn’t. I think they are at best a waste of time and at worst a damaging aspect of our culture.

I feel the same way about lottery tickets, cigarettes and illegal drugs. The fact that I have never purchased or used any of these items admittedly places me in an extreme minority, but I think all three items are to be avoided if at all possible.

I’m taking a stand.

Do I think you should be offended if you buy a Powerball ticket once a week or watch The Bachelor with friends on Monday nights?

No. It’s just one man’s opinion.

I think the idea that a list like this is mean-spirited, snobbish, self serving or divisive is nonsense. We’re too damn careful in today’s world. Too nervous about offending.

It’s stupid to smoke. It’s potentially dangerous and unnecessary to use illegal drugs. It’s economically unsound to purchase lottery tickets. And it only serves to perpetuate and enhance this celebrity-obsessed culture by turning on The Bachelor or The Jersey Shore.

This is how I feel.

I also believe that the National Football League probably contributes to violence in our culture and is permanently damaging the bodies and brains of its players. It’s clearly the the stupidest of the major sports in terms of safety and its contribution to our culture. Yet I am a season ticket holder and an enormous fan of the game.

Am I angry at myself for impugning my own behavior?

Of course not.

Am I a bad person for continuing to support this questionable sport.

No.

But I think doing so is at least a little stupid.

I am fine if you think the same.

This is how I feel about the items of my list. I think it is probably at least a little stupid to engage in them, and with some of them, I think it’s profoundly stupid. But we all engage in stupid behavior. My list simply highlights the ones that I have managed to avoid so far.

If I want to be proud of myself for having avoided cigarettes, lottery tickets, swearing in the presence of my mother and The Jersey Shore, this should not bother you. If it does, make your own damn list. I’m sure you have plenty to be proud of, and perhaps some of the items on your list are things that I do every day.  

Maybe that will make you feel better.