There’s a thing about being a ‘cradle’ Catholic: a cradle Catholic will be one ‘til the day he/she dies. It defines your every move. You can fall out with the Church Universal, but it never lets go of you. If someone asks you while you’re in this unforgiven state what your religion is, you’ll say, “I’m a non-practicing Catholic.” Notice it’s not, “I’m a Christian,” or “I’m Protestant,” or I’m an atheist.” No, Catholicism defines you – and all you can ever be is either practicing or non-practicing.

My Mum, the non-practicing Jew, once asked my non-practicing Catholic Dad if, in the event of his being on his death bed would he want her to call a priest and he said, “Damn straight!” She knew that, as she was “born a Jew, die a Jew,” his Catholicism would grab him by the jugular as his spirit departed this earthly toil.

Since I went to Catholic schools, I am living proof of the Jesuit’s maxim,”Give me the child, and I’ll give you the man.” No matter what my frustration with the church might be at any given time (there is always something to be frustrated with the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church about) I could never consider myself anything but Roman Catholic. Thus is the curse of the cradle Catholic. (more…)

There are some people in the public sphere that I just can’t abide. I can’t even stand to look at their mugs. Charles Krauthammer is one of them. I could rant and rave, but where’s the fun in that?

I mean look at Charlie. Was there ever a more supercilious, self-important, smug asshole? Okay, you’re right, Robert Novak is right up there in the obnoxious department. What amazes me is that Krauthammer would allow this picture to accompany his column in the Washington Post. The most amazing thing is that the pisk* doesn’t lie: he writes like he looks.

So, instead of fussing and fuming, I don’t read his column anymore. Unfortunately, since I subscribe to the Post; his punum** catches my eye every once in a while. So, how to make sure that he will garner laughs and not bile? Put that pompous noggin on something silly.

I learned this from a mate at university. She was a concert pianist who, in order to get over her nerves before a performance, would imagine the conductor taking a dump. I always thought that this was a tad over the top. But, the alternative of imagining people naked (another ploy) can elicit rather illicit thoughts. So, I give them a body of the other gender and have a little fun with it.

So, you just try to get me upset Chuck. It won’t work! And you’re not far behind Novak. Go ahead, try it on someone you can’t stand. You’ll feel the tension fade away. Why the ball? Just ‘cause I felt like it. So there!

*mouth
**face

My apologies to Nikki St. Phaille, who sculpted the fabulous statue.

The other morning one of the ‘agony aunt’ columns had a letter that made me laugh. Seems the letter writer has a relative who fancies herself well-educated. As such, this relative thought that it was her duty to correct pronunciation of everyone in the family. “What to do?” asked the writer.

I can’t remember what Abby/Ann/Carolyn said, I was laughing too hard. It was the image of this person going around correcting people and they weren’t knocking her lights out. Then, the memories came rushing back: I had an aunt who did that all the time. She had a couple of years of community college, a Penguin Classics of Plato’s ‘Republic,’ and thought that gave her superior knowledge about everything.

One word I remember that she’d always correct me on was, ‘surprise.’ I would say ‘suh-prise’, dropping the ‘r.’ that particular transgression stuck in her craw. She would always correct me. Since I was only a child, it never stuck. So, she was continually correcting me on my mispronunciations and spoonerisms. The most lasting thing she ever did was to threaten to turn me into the police for picking my nose. (more…)

I went to 13 schools. We moved a lot, and fast. And, I need to confess that I did manage to kill my first “pets,” a pail full of tadpoles. We had been given them at school to take home over the summer so we could see the miracle of life. I looked forward to seeing all those little frogs. I kept them on the balcony and refreshed their water and fed them daily. Eventually I forgot about the tadpoles and one day found their dried up little bodies at the bottom of the pail. They had just morphed little legs. I stood there on the balcony in the hot afternoon sun weeping. I was a killer. I poked them a little with my finger, but they were stuck to the bottom of the pail. I sat down and thought about what to do. I was wracked with guilt. I did the only thing I could think of: I washed out the pail, put it under the sink and went outside to play. So, now that you know that I was less than an angel, I can tell you how my mum, either physically or metephorically, killed the rest of my pets. (more…)

Yes, I was an only child. I am also left-handed, very important that. My Mum was a Jew, my dad was Catholic. I was sent to Catholic schools because my Mum was afraid that Hitler wasn’t really dead and the Nazis would rise again.** All that and the fact that the nuns would keep me until 5 pm when she got off work. She was also very firm that I would never be made to write right-handed as she had been.

A deal was struck with Sister Elizabeth at St. Francis School. My Mum would drop me off early on her way to work and they would keep me until she came back. Mum insisted that I was not to be “indoctrinated.” She was very firm about that. Sister said okay, but there was just one sticking point: in order to go to St. Francis, I had to be baptised. Obviously, Mum had never heard about, “give me the child and I’ll give you the man.” So, I was baptised at the age of 2 and started my Catholic education. (more…)

Family is an interesting concept. There is the nuclear family, the extended family, all sorts of family. Then, there is the family from hell. We all have family of one sort or another. Some of us even feel that we have the family from hell. Shall we define just one of things that constitute being in a family from hell?

“Hefty bagging,” is a sure sign of being in the family from hell. “What is ‘hefty bagging’?” you ask. Well, I’m here to let you in on this sure sign of Hade-ious behaviour.

You may call them garbage bags, or bin liners or Hefty Bags; but they’re all for holding garbage. However, when you turn them into verbs they’re insidious manipulative devices that work best if the ‘Bagger’ is a close relative. Also,to ‘Hefty Bag’ someone you have to hold on to every grievance you perceive that person has perpetrated against you.

Here’s how it works: say sis forgot your birthday once 15 years ago. You make a note to yourself in perpetual ink (it’s made of blood and lasts far longer than permanent ink) and slip it into the Hefty Bag. On every occasion that seems appropriate (Dad’s birthday, Mother’s Day, New Year’s Eve, Arbour Day) you reach into your Hefty Bag and pull out an old gem. “I can still feel the pain when you forgot my birthday in 1980.” Usually, it’s done in a passive/aggressive way (I see you always remember Bro’s birthday, not like you forgot mine in 1990.”). But, after a bit of alcohol, you can really let it rip (You bitch, you always hated me. You turned Mum against me!”).

Hefty Bagging is usually a solitary avocation and there’s a good reason why. Remember that you’re filling that bag up with garbage. It’s your garbage, but it’s still garbage. After a while, 2 things happen: it gets real heavy, and it starts to stink.

So, because it’s heavy the ‘Bagger’ wants help carrying the bag. Occasionally you can dupe someone into helping, but the closer the ‘dupee’ gets to the bag the more he/she notices the stink.

The ‘Bagger’ will go through serial friendships/relationships. You know the type: you run into them a few years later and you don’t recognise anyone in their lives. They go through friends like other people go through toilet paper. Yes, that is an apt comparison.

So, here’s to letting go. Drop the bag. Walk away from it. ‘Cause the bag gets heavy and it stinks.

.In the study of American Politics there is an unspoken maxim: everything that exists can be measured, and that which can’t be measured doesn’t exist.

First of all, you have to understand that ‘American’ Politics is a culture-centric name. Do you think that in France they have a field called, French Politics? How about Italian Politics? No, ‘American’ Politics is just an excuse to institutionalize the concept of America and her politics as exceptional. As if the U.S. had a special status amongst the respresentative republics in the developed world. As we can see by just our most recent failures, we aren’t exceptional, just lucky. And our luck can run out at any time.

The formula is an example of predictive statistical analysis.

Y(t) = the impact on graduate student’s ability to find an academic position within
his/her lifetime

Sigma = the sum of the following computation:

15 = the # of quarters in a 5-year graduate program study program (according to
the Regents)

c = the # of quarters the graduate student can actually remember by the end of
his/her graduate career

x = the amount of debt accrued during studies

y = the job market when the dissertation is finished

This is why it doesn’t pay to go to graduate school