Yearly Archives: 2023

We all have two whether we like it or not.

Some are good, some bad; some responsible, others not so much.

Recently, 14-year-old Adriana Kuch, a former student at Regional Center High School in Berkeley Township, New Jersey, took her own life after a video was posted online that showed the teen being brutally assaulted by a thuggish group of teenage girls in the hallway of the school on February 1, 2023.

Two days later Adriana killed herself. While we will never know the precise reason why she took her own life, it is more than reasonable to assume that the beating by the school hallway terrorists and its posting online contributed to that decision.

Who is responsible for this child’s death?

Certainly some school officials are, and they should be criminally prosecuted. They knew bullying was a problem at the school and did nothing about it. That makes them co-conspirators in the official negligence that led to Adriana’s untimely death.

And all the culprits who were involved in the actual assault and others who had prior knowledge of the conspiracy to assault Adriana should be prosecuted and sent to a juvenile detention facility until they reach age 18. Send them to a place where bullying is a fine art.

But it is the parents of the attackers who bear the greatest responsibility for the acts of their bullying children. By giving these children the breath of life, they assumed a responsibility to provide them with decent, responsible lessons of behavior.

And these parents knew by the time their children reached ten or twelve years of age that they were problems; that they liked to hurt, ridicule, and hate others outside their little social orbits. And, like the school officials, the parents did nothing, or very little, to correct their children’s cruel, irresponsible behavior, much less try to prevent it.

In a Washington Post opinion piece today, Kate Woodsome said American teens are “unwell” because “American society is unwell.”

Woodsome observed that “solutions” to making teens well “start with compassionate, radical honesty: American kids are unwell because American society is unwell. The systems and social media making teenagers sad, angry and afraid today were shaped in part by adults who grew up sad, angry and afraid themselves.”

Those “adults” Woodsome referred to are primarily the parents, and the fact that they may have had a “sad, angry and afraid” upbringing is no excuse for allowing their children to become school hallway terrorists.

Parents have a responsibility as long as their children are under their household to monitor their behavior and correct their mean, self-centered behavior.

The problem is that most of the school hallway terrorists got their training from mean-spirited, often racist, and socially disgruntled parents who see life through a prism of self-interest, grievance blaming, and enough prejudices to fill the Grand Canyon.

Hopefully, there will be some serious accountability for all those who contributed to Adriana’s death.

Probably not, though. The school hallway terrorists may get a few hours of “good behavior” training at the local mall and 30 minutes of restriction from social media.

And their parents will curse and blame Adriana.

Bad experiences.

We all have them at one time or another. They generally tell us how flawed we are or how absurd people around us are.

I had one of those bad experiences yesterday.

I accompanied my wife to a gynecologist’s office.  She was there to have an in office procedure done for a “female problem.” I’ve learned over time, especially as we’ve aged, not to explore much beyond that definition.

The doctor’s office had a small waiting room with three chairs, and a 2021 edition of Vogue Magazine. Of course, silly me, I picked the magazine up to thumb through it. I’ve never met a Vogue in my entire life although I’ve known my fair share of Rogues.

Anyway, I did not recognize the name of a single person in the magazine—and the people I saw seemed to be rather pretentious in both dress and personal manner. I certainly would not be seen in public with some of the clothes those folks had on. I was embarrassed for them.

And, worse yet, those ads. I did not recognize, much less be able to pronounce, any of the products (from jewelry to perfume) featured in the magazine. Take that back, there was one Geico ad, but even it did not feature the Lizard.

Somehow, boredom forced me to turn each page from cover to cover as I fought down the urge to scratch (or pick) my nose begging for hand relief.

And then there were those women—all of whom had “female problems,” some of which were either caused by or contributed to by men—with their furrowed brow looks and uncomfortable body language. I had to fight down the almost irresistible impulse to stand and shout:

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry I’m a fucking man but whatever “female problem” my wife was NOT caused by me. Forgive me if I must stand to pee while you are forced to sit to pee. Take that grievance up with someone with more power than me. Okay, okay, just please forgive me for being a man and not being here for a ‘procedure.’”

And one lady came in wearing yellow tennis shoes no less. I didn’t hold that against her. I stood up and gave her my chair and pointed to that goddamn 2021 Vogue Magazine.

And then it happened.

Tummy started acting like a real beast. Each morning I feed the little sonuvabitch a banana, a whole glass of chocolate milk, and a vitamin B-12 tablet. That will generally pacify the little demon until 11:00 a.m. when I am more generous with the calorie intake.

But the wife’s appointment was for 11:15. I figured Tummy could relax until the procedure was over and we could stop at the local Wendy’s for a burger, those good Wendy fries, and a large coke before heading home. That would satisfy Tummy until we got home where a 30-minute afternoon nap awaited us.

But no that little monster was having nothing to do with those well thought out plans. Between 11:30 and quarter of twelve, Tummy started its growling routine—sort of low pleading at first around 11:30 but thoroughly pissed off full-throttle growling shortly before noon.

And, yes, the stares from those three women, especially the yellow tennis shoes lady, became more penetrating, refusing to conceal their collective disgust. Not only was I a man on sacred turf, the only damn “male problem” I had was a fucking Tummy in open rebellion. Those damn stares and body twitching in the chairs almost made me wish I was back in prison.

And then there she was, walking out of the back area where they do all those “female procedures” into the waiting room. I wanted to just rush up, pick her up, and shout above those hostile glares, “thank God, thank God – we’re free to go. The feeling was almost as sensational as walking out of prison.”

I once again fought down an irresistible impulse to say before leaving the lobby area, “fuck y’all … it’s my Tummy and it will growl if it wants to.”

But I was civilized – I just took a cowardly, hasty retreat out the door.”

And we did not stop at Wendy’s to get those damn fries. I told wife:

“Home, Jane … I will eat that leftover shrimp fried in the fridge. Fucking little Tummy ain’t gonna get those fries today,”

Now, that is what you call a “bad experience.”