Monday, March 31, 2014

Musings from a Sunday Morning

I really love the Sunday newspaper. I get it delivered to the door or at least within a fifty meter radius from my door. Some mornings I'm reminded of Tony Soprano as I march down my driveway in my bathrobe to pick up the paper. It's almost always worth the trip, though.

Even though the Sunday paper is nowhere near as big as it once was, it's still worth the price. Not only do you have the news and sports from Saturday but you've got expanded sections about business, arts & entertainment, opinions, editorials and did I mention the comics. Yeah, the Sunday funnies aren't what they used to be. I miss The Phantom and Mandrake the Magician and, come on, everyone who can remember has a soft spot for Lil' Abner, right?

A great Sunday morning means a good pot of coffee and a couple of free hours to browse through the contents of the paper. I hope we never go completely digital because I like the feel of the newsprint spread out before me as I jump from story to story. It won't be the same just sliding my finger across my tablet. I'm sure the cat would miss walking through every article I happen to be reading, too.

I read a lot. I read much more than I write, you lucky bastards! Sundays I like reading a lot of the columnists. And, since everyone knows I'm the lefty liberal socialist commie that I am, I read the Sunday Boston Globe. There is a writer in the regional section that I happen to read a lot. Beverly Beckham is more of a lifestyle columnist. She touches on a lot of everyday stuff, a lot of it concerning being a mother and a grandmother. Mostly, she writes about life's little occurrences and how she perceives them. Hey, I happen to like it. What can I say.

Last Sunday, she wrote about another mother and author who happens to have a book coming out. This author, I'm not even remembering her name, started out as a blogger. She, too, wrote of the joys and foibles of motherhood. Her blog wasn't followed so much until she started inserting a few colorful words. Then, as the story goes, her blog took off. Now, I'm not a prude. I use raw language, a great deal actually. A lot of people do. One just needs to smash one's finger with a sledge hammer to find a suitable use for such language. However, this author started invoking these colorful words in describing her kids. Apparently, people loved it and she quickly had many hundreds of followers for her blog. Which brings us to her book, still unpublished it has a 5 rating on Amazon. Someone's gotta tell me how that works. Anyway, her book's title is I Heart My Little A--holes and, yes, she's talking about her kids.

Now, I'm not a parent but over the years as a real uncle and an honorary uncle, I've seen kids try to pull a lot of shit. The little urchins will try to get away with whatever they can. Have I screamed, "You little shit!" at a tot or two? Yeah, no doubt. However, I think compiling moments like that in book length form might be a little much. And, to come out and refer to your children as "My Little A--holes" has got to be crossing some sort of line. Yet, what does it say about readers who gobble this stuff up?

I think Beverly Beckham was making at least a couple of points in her column. She wondered why many readers may be drawn to the type of analogy that labels young children with pretty rough profanity. Maybe because it hits home more than we think, I guess. I certainly hope the swearing is laced with many more hugs and I love you's than you little a--hole. But, she also admonished the author for her lazy writing. She thought the author should have strived to be more creative about the relationship with her kids.

Beckham might be right. It may not be a great thing to put down in print what you're really thinking about the little brats. But, you know, if I found a way to make money writing about bitching at people, that would be tempting. I mean, maybe not like real little kids except that Honey Boo Boo bitch, but as they get older. That would be okay, I think, especially if we're talking like good money. Then, Beverly could write about how lazy she thinks I am and I'd be okay with that.