I just suffered through the world premiere of Steve Rodham Corbett’s polka song, “Let’s name the baby kielbasa.”
I didn’t think it even remotely possible beforehand, but I am embarrassed for him. The poor bastard, the professional pot washer that never was.
Please don’t encourage him.
Speaking of the radio station currently suffering from the enfeebling malaise that is a complete lack of competition, Kevin and Nancy really crack me up. When a Democrat is embroiled in a swirling controversy, as is Barack Obama with his half-crazed, racist pastor, according to them, that’s a distraction from the real issues that Americans care most about.
Oh, but when a Republican has a controversy whirling all around them…well, you know the predictable deal. That’s not a distraction, that’s important and it needs to be fully investigated, and then fully investigated all over again. And then a grand jury needs to be convened. And a special prosecutor needs to be empowered. Er, a card-carrying Democrat flack needs to be empowered as a special prosecutor, that is.
Nope, nothing hopelessly partisan going on there.
My Aunt Rosemary passed away a couple of weeks ago in Woodbridge, Virginia. As was her wish, she was cremated. And come next Saturday morning, she is coming on home to Wilkes-Barre and she will be forever laid to rest within inches of her mother and her sister…her sister which would be my mother.
In this far-flung family now horribly short on matriarchal leadership, Aunt Rosemary was long-reputed to be the one and only rich person that somehow made it out of here. I’m not sure how rich her and Uncle Mike actually were. She once invited me to use her beach house on Virginia Beach. And at the time, when I had two kids in diapers, and a third one recently removed from the diaper scene, that sure sounded pretty rich to me. If only, right?
Thing is, other than her parents, I can’t recall anyone that my Mom loved more than her big sister…Rosemary. She loved Aunt Claire--her first-cousin--who died so long ago, I can barely remember her face. And she endlessly panged for another encounter with my sister Rebecca, who died so long ago, my only memory of her is the picture I still have of her in her smallish casket. But above all else and the miles that separated them throughout the entirety of their adult lives, I know that Aunt Rosemary always held a special place in her heart.
All I know is, when I was a kid, Aunt Rosemary was always nice to me. Always. No matter what. And no matter what horrible things I did to her daughter…my cousin. And I appreciated her for that. Maybe I even loved her for that. Not sure. And after being transplanted here from Connecticut, that was not the norm. I was the kid who was supposed to be the problem child. The kid who wouldn’t shut up no matter what. The kid that didn’t know his place. The kid with the chip on his shoulder. The kid who railed against all that he had been through, but who continually railed against the wrong people. And the kid that did not cower in fear, as did his cousins as if by rote.
All of my numerous aunts and uncles were always viewing me with this perpetually skeptical and sometimes overly judgmental eye, but not Aunt Rosemary. Looking back, I’m not sure why that was, except to speculate that through her ongoing conversations with my mother over the many years, she understood. I think she knew I was high maintenance, and I think she thought it was perfectly understandable why I was the way I was. And I think she thought I’d eventually get over it, grow out of it. And I did. Somewhat. But it took a decade or so longer than even she would have believed possible.
Putting all of that aside, and based on my experiences, if my Mom loved her unconditionally, then she was someone definitely worthy of being loved.
As an adult, I rarely saw her excepting for funerals she flew in for. And strangely, I now find myself missing her terribly. I’ll see what remains of her next Saturday. But I’ll always remember her for being so much more than that.
Rosemary Lovullo…my Mom’s sister.
The following e-mails--the following three, in fact--were generated in direct response to my The deep do-do do-gooder post from 4/27/2008.
Dude, I did warn many of you about this guy’s many insecurities. He has to be the center of attention at all costs. He has to be the center of attention no matter what. And he’s a user of people. Make no mistake about it, he’s a user. If you can help him be the center of attention today, he’s your biggest supporter. And if you refuse to sign on for his most recent self-aggrandizement tour, you are not worthy of his vacuous love and affection.
Another thing. Despite all of his hollow “free speech” bluster, if you do not completely agree with him at all times, you are someone in need of serious correction. Or, as he likes to say to people not of a similar ideology, “You’ll grow out of it.”
Gee, if the end-all result of growing out of it is ending up remotely like “Dojo” Rodham Corbett, I pray to his newly-adopted phony God that I never, ever grow out of it. Mental retardation, or Corbett? Irreversible mental retardation, or Corbett? Uh, please, take that sizable chunk out of my diseased cerebral cortex and let’s call it far beyond even. Please, anything but that.
As for the election night ambush, if Sue hasn’t apologized to you, she sure needs to and soon. If I invited you to come on over here to the modest adobe and physically assaulted you, you’d be pissed beyond belief. And if I invited you to come on over here to the modest adobe and then verbally assaulted you, you’d be pissed beyond belief. Fact is, you were invited here, and you were not assaulted any which way, despite the fact that you and I rarely see eye-to-eye on much of anything of note. But, you were invited to participate on WILK, and you were unfairly assaulted by none other than WILK’s resident Neanderthal, Steve Rodham Corbett. Not that it matters much to him, being patently unfair to an unsuspecting invitee. For him, every passing day is yet another pathetic vehicle by which he can feed his enormous, yet completely undeserved ego. For a guy that comes off sounding like a do-gooder chick, he sure has some set of balls.
He provides a warm, inviting mouth for the local politicians he interviews, a prehensile target by which they can further their mostly unproductive careers. Oh, when some lowlife blogger who covers local politics as well as he does calls in, well, then, his mouth becomes far, far, far less than inviting.
If there was anyone he should have welcomed with open arms and without any preconditions, it should have been you. Simply because, the two of you want basically the same things and aspire to cover the same things. But, being that he’s a former “journalist” who’s obvious superiority complex flares to the level of a record-setting solar flare when he’s confronted by those who dare to be journalists on the internet, you were a moving target in a target-starved environment on election night. In my mind, you should have seen it coming.
So, when Sue invites you next year, tell her to go pound sand unless she divorces her insecure radio assassin, who wouldn’t dare ask a tough question of a single local politician other than Tom Leighton. Or as he said to me via the e-mail inbox, something about “the proper time and place.” Truth is, while Rodham Corbett talks all tough on local politicians, he saves the tough talk for the competition…the bloggers.
By the way, can somebody tell that barely literate asshole that “athlete” has all of two syllables, not three?
Ath-a-lete? This is what has become of my local talk radio station? Ath-a-lete?
Why did Nancy put an asshole on my radio?
(Editor’s note: The following e-mail has nothing to do with Steve Rodham Corbett.)
Dude, other countries do mass transit. Some “developing” nations do bicycles and rickshaws. Some nations utilize what god gave them--their feet. And still other nations worry about transportation only when their horribly emaciated children need to be rushed off to a refugee camp still in possession of the highly sought after substandard foodstuffs we would rather die than eat.
I know we’re used to an expected high standard of living as if it‘s a birthright, but I’m wondering if we’re steadfastly denying the inevitable. I’m wondering if we’re ignoring the writing on the wall. I’m wondering if what could only be called excesses are sustainable in the long term. What if…what if…OPEC called for an oil embargo as early as tomorrow? What would we do? Would we change anything we do? Or would we suddenly reverse course and cheer on a president who launched into a war for oil?
I’m thinking that, all of a freaking sudden, a war for oil would be not only be preferable to emulating what others on this troubled globe of ours do on a daily basis, I’m thinking that it would generate very favorable polling numbers for the commander-in-chief, whoever they might happen to be.
Tell me I’m wrong.
Whatever. I didn’t mean to sound like I’m lecturing you. It’s just getting a bit old listening to the richest people in the world complaining about how tough they have it.
Trust me, I dunno.
I’ll be out and about in a Wilkes-Barre police car tomorrow night. This will be my third ride-along. And these police ride-along events always make me feel somewhat contradicted going in. A big part of me would just love to find myself in the middle of some really, really hair-raising stuff. Tazers. Fisticuffs. Gunshots. You name it. If it’s adrenaline-fueled craziness, I’m there.
And then the other part of me wants what most police officers want: A quiet shift sure to deliver me back to those I know and love.
We shall see.