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Abstract

d over the phone like I was?</p><p id="da3a" type="7">How about this: Try to picture Ivanka, the object of her creepy father’s even creepier lust, punching a time clock! That will happen around the same time I start flying jets.</p><p id="709d">Maybe I’m being overly sensitive. I mean, if I could make my own sea salt while basking under the Mediterranean sun, wouldn’t I bleat about it later? Shit, no. I would not.</p><p id="1c29">So you know, the column’s focus was on scent and how it evokes particular memories. Here is the passage that set me off:</p><p id="d741"><i>When I was in Spain this summer, we sun-dried our own sea salt in Majorca, then went to a little shop near where we ate dinner to buy flor de sal harvested from the same Ses Salines salt flats. When I popped open the can — later back at home, my kids shouted, “it smells like Majorca!”</i></p><p id="c3f4">“Gee, kids! How cool is that? Know what? Get outta here”</p><p id="d35c">For those of us who don’t vacation in Majora, <i>flor de sal</i> means Salt Flower. Now, is it me, or is this type of self-important strutting gag-worthy?</p><p id="0c73">I’m not so offended by the message as much as I am by the way it was conveyed. As if the messenger had no clue of the disparity around her and the reality that people are struggling to make ends meet, for God’s sake. Struggling to feed themselves and their families. Working for minimum wage.</p><p id="051d">I get that this magazine is about beauty, not our country’s economy but all I can say is, the salaries must be pretty damned good.</p><p id="22b4">We, as writers, understand that words are powerful and the <i>way</i> in which we say things is as important, or maybe more so, as <i>what</i> we’re putting out into the world. I’ve learned this particular lesson the hard way. More than once.</p><p id="d5bd">Admittedly, I’m particularly sensitive in that I haven’t received an actual paycheck in almost two years. And I’m better than that. Much better, yet I can’t seem to catch a break. So, where someone else might read the editorial and think of it as “aspirational,” I think, “WTF?” Just as I do when I see TV commercials touting luxury automobiles as holiday gifts. What world are we living in?</p><p id="8d58">This is what doesn’t compute: While the editor raves about her kids raving about Majorca, there are other, less privileged children starving in this country. Their parents would love to afford a bus ticket, let alone a first-class airline ticket to Spain.</p><p id="f2ee">A little empathy for others, folks. That’s all I’m asking.</p><p id="184a">According to <i>nokidhungry.org</i>, in the United States, one in seven children lives with hungry. The bigger picture: According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), more than eleven hundred children in our country live in “food insecure homes,” which means the family members don’t get enough to eat in order to live in a manner that’s deemed “healthy.”</p><p id="7845">Maybe the editor should set her cannister of DIY sea salt aside and chew on these stats:</p><p id="1300"><b>Over 4.5 million U.S. kids live in food deserts and lack access to grocery stores with fresh fruits and vegetables.</b></p><p id="742e"><b>On average, children in rural areas are more likely to experience food insecurity and lack access to quality health services.</b></p><p id="7f6a"><b>Close to 1 in 3 American children are overweight or obese, and obesity in children has more than tripled over the past 35 years, putting children at higher risk for serious, even life-threatening health problems.</b></p><p id="a02e"><b>In communities where Save the Children works, an average of 59 percent of children do not have access to fresh, healthy foods; in some areas, it’s as much as 98 percent.</b></p><p id="bc2d">Here’s more self-satisfied bunk from the editorial:</p><p id="c1b6"><i>In (country), last summer, my daughter and I treated ourselves one afternoon to tea at the (uber-luxe) hotel. Now, the scent of not only jasmine tea but also jasmine fragrances brings me half a world away to that fancy dining room, nibbling on tiny sandwiches

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and cakes.</i></p><p id="0408">Again, maybe I’m being unfair and bristly. But the manner in which this was written is offensive, in my humble opinion. Plus, the older I get, the less idiocy I can tolerate.</p><p id="712b">Maybe if she’d included some type of giveaway to the first fifty readers who wrote back via email, describing their favorite scents and what they evoked for them. Jasmine fragrance oil could be the giveaway. I don’t know.</p><p id="7d81">Perhaps this editor should stick to writing about lip conditioners and designer perfumes and the wonders of glycolic acid. Meanwhile, if the craving for a “tiny cake” should come upon her, she could always shove a Twinkie up her bum.</p><p id="444c">I’d like to thank <a href="undefined">Helen Cassidy Page</a> for her input here. She gave me the virtual slap upside the head that I needed. But, sweetly.</p><p id="6d7e"><i>Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.</i></p><p id="2284">As always, I appreciate your reading. If you’re up for more:</p><div id="974d" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/haiku-how-to-51d0685c1ad6"> <div> <div> <h2>Haiku How-To</h2> <div><h3>A primer for the sexually inquisitive.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*yQwyx3SGkE3-oZlWW1dC9g.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="654f" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/did-i-fail-my-mother-3323d4907780"> <div> <div> <h2>Did I Fail My Mother?</h2> <div><h3>All the things I should have said, and didn’t.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*IBboE8lKu9O0Q4Ga0aEGhQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="9067" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-hot-women-of-medium-c66515ba6bbe"> <div> <div> <h2>The Hot Women of Medium</h2> <div><h3>Smart, funny, gutsy and SMOKIN’!</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*sUDy3LYDjjZKQqXsMfyptQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="1a63" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/ive-never-received-1k-claps-b1dd0d9c56b9"> <div> <div> <h2>I’ve Never Received 1K Claps</h2> <div><h3>Wounded…and wondering.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*zAfXUminR_ELCNKW8Ppsgw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="11fc" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/its-official-i-m-an-a-hole-347624d73cd7"> <div> <div> <h2>It’s Official: I’m an A-Hole</h2> <div><h3>“Medium Madness” has me by the throat.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*r4v7h4lCPyj7liblwp-GNQ.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

A Reform Is Needed

The most orthodox elements of many religions are not the most unchanged elements. The truly orthodox, the strict adherents to a cause, are most often members of a reform movement. The Amish, for example, are a reform movement among Mennonites, who themselves are Anabaptists. Likewise the Trappists are a reform of the Cistercians, who are a reform movement of the Benedictines. Hasidim is a relatively recent phenomenon, given the grand history of Judaism, and I have no doubt that the conservatism of the Islamic State owes more to the 21st century than it does to the seventh.

Reform Is Good

Everyone likes a good reform now and again. There is an argument going on right now about which America we want to have “back”. The idea is that somehow we have lost our way. I agree, but I’m looking for a reform back to the idealized, previously non-existent America that I like… not the one that THEY want. Whatever it is the Trump and his followers pine for, I’m not interested.

I don’t trust Trump’s vision of the perfect past. Why? Well, to start with, Trump is the worst dressed Fascist in history. Stephen Colbert does a better job of wearing an American “sack” suit than Donald Trump. I’m all for turning back the sartorial clock, but Trump ain’t the one to get us there.

Turning back the clock might not be a bad idea, though. In response to globalization, a stalled economy, Islamic extremism, political dysfunction, and nothing new or exciting from McDonald’s for the past six months, we might benefit from some ascetic loin girding. A little bit of muscular Americanism to counteract the cloud of fascism that threatens to envelope our country.

So, where do we turn? What part of the American experience may help us in our time of need? The answer is baseball. Forged during the Civil War, baseball got us through a Depression and two World Wars. It’s the game we were dedicated to the last time we defeated Fascism. Who won World War II? Ballplayers, that’s who. You could look it up.

And that’s not all. Baseball is like a tincture for dictatorship. After we ripped apart the Empire of Japan we injected baseball into their culture and look what it did for them! Japan has been dictator free since they embraced baseball. Causality schmalzality. Correlation is good enough for Medium posts.

A Baseball Reformation

Baseball is religion and, like Jazz, is endemic to America. It’s our game. We should reform it. I’m not talking about fixing Major League Baseball. MLB is apostate. Donald Trump and the people screwing up the country are all fans of Major League Baseball. Pro baseball is a sewer. In Christian parlance, Major League Baseball is “The whore of Babylon.” Its current incarnation is salt that has lost its flavor. Can you make it salty again? No. It has to be put aside and trampled under foot.

The baseball I am talking about is the pastoral, non-contact game of failure. The slow moving, cerebral, stats-heavy contest of slowly developing “situations”, arcane unwritten rules, and overweight players.

For the record, I want to turn back the clock, but not too far. We don’t want to go back to segregated baseball. Black people have always played baseball. Black people made professional and Major League Baseball better.

The hope is that our reform movement will be the first to actually capture the promise of baseball. So, how do we do it?

Start With the Outside

One nice thing about reform movements is they get the symbols right. You start with what you wear and what you eat. When Francis started the Franciscans he gave the brothers those spanky brown robes to wear. The Amish “no button” policy puts their plainness in your face. The baseball reform begins with what the players wear and what the fans can eat.

In our reformed league, players will wear regular uniforms made out of wool or cotton. No names on the back. No extra pads can be worn. No elbow or shin guards, batting gloves, or sunglasses. The players will wear their socks pulled up over the calves and have their stirrups showing.

Fans will be able to eat peanuts, popcorn, Cracker Jacks, sausages, soda and beer. That’s it. No nachos. No pizza. No Bar-B-Que. I’m not being Nativist. I said “sausages”, not “hot dogs”. You want chorizo? You can have chorizo (remember: that’s not just dinner, that’s a biopsy). If you’d prefer linguiça, blutwurst, or Xiang chang, go ahead. The important point is that you are going to the park to watch baseball, not to eat. If you want to eat, go to a restaurant. If you get hungry while watching baseball, have some lips and assholes or fill up on peanuts.

Only Ten Teams

Our league, hereafter called the BOSO (Baseball Order of Strict Observance), would have one team in each of the ten largest cities by population. For those of you without an almanac, that would be: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Philadelphia, Phoenix, San Antonio, San Diego, Dallas, and San Jose. Sorry, Boston. If you want a team you have to start being nice to immigrants. Sorry, Detroit. Really. We all feel sick about it.

Financially, teams would be run like a whaling ship. After expenses, the profit of a season would be split as shares among the members of the roster based on the number of innings played plus some other complicated statistical formula that baseball nerds would love to devise and argue about in online forums. Since the games would not be televised, there would be no television revenue. Just gate receipts. Stars could make their big money by endorsing products outside of the game. You know, like Jackie Robinson’s cigarette ads.

The Venue

To enjoy a BOSO game you have to either go to the stadium or listen to it on the radio. Statistics would only be available in the next day’s newspaper. No live stats. No strike counts on the pager. Remember, the MLB blasphemers are about “sports entertainment”. BOSO is not entertainment. It is baseball. Therefore, no amplified noise in the stadium other than the organ. No electronic scoreboard. No fan contests between innings. No giveaways. No mascots. No Jumbotron. No wave (it’s a football thing). If you need something to do when the teams are changing sides, score the game.

The Canon

Steroid use has destroyed the statistical integrity of Major League Baseball, so we’re not going to accept all the seasons. We have to get someone with medical knowledge to tell us when steroids came into being, and then drop the statistics after that. We could publish the non-canonical statistics it in the BOSO pseudopygrapha… you know, like the story of Daniel in the Lion Den. I’m not sure when the cutoff date would be. Some time after Hank Aaron and Before Mark McGuire.

The Rules

Others have a lot more to say than I do on this. No DH. Raise the mound. Enforce the strike zone. Etc., Etc. This is the boring stuff. You know, like those five hour Amish church services. I mean, it’s not all about the hats. It’s about Them vs. Us.

The point is that eventually everyone will say “look at those freaks watching that moldy old game.” We won’t care. They are baseball blasphemers… fans who have traded the great, rural, democratic game for “sports entertainment.” Blessed are you when people tell you that you watch a boring game. Verily, verily, I say unto you, just keep watching and maybe a situation will develop.