Shame on Me

There is a backstory here that influenced my decision to post this. That story, as important as it is, is not part of this story. - Ed.


I'm finding an increase, most notably on my Facebook news feed, of links to posts and articles and blogs by individuals (mostly women) taking a stand against body shaming. As you can guess, these women are/were overweight. There's been a revolution at hand: outcry toward a fashion industry that for years set a body standard to which the world should conform; condemnation about models having their appearance digitally altered to perpetuate that conformity; getting public acceptance for having your hips wider than your shoulders; redefining what beauty is.

The authors by and large talk about the personal pressures they faced growing up, struggles they had to overcome in a world obsessed with diets and fitness and achieving the perfect size to weight ratio to obtain a socially acceptable body form. These blogs and such are part of their process of peeling off those uncomfortable layers. Some of these people peeled off enough layers to expose themselves photographically as part of that process. I read these articles for perspective, for my own personal enlightenment. I know people who struggle, have struggled, or fear eventually struggling again with weight issues. The articles don't change how I care about these people. They don't spur me into an intervention. They help me understand and allow me to contribute where I can if I'm needed.

But every now and then I read an article that comes across with what I see as an inconsistent message. One such article was written by a woman named Emily Nolan. You can read her post and see her photos here (Ed. note: her photos are nude, but not pornographic).

Now, to be fair, this isn't the only article of its kind. I'm not picking on Emily. I only use her article as an example because reading it and looking at her photos - taken as part of a professional photo shoot for a book - made me start to think (and thinking is the Devil's tool). I wouldn't describe what she presented as insincere, but she did make a point of promoting the publishing of her photographs as what she called "courage to share the truth." And I sort of took exception to that.

First, I must commend Emily for putting herself out there, in both pictures and print. She has a mission to be inspirational to others who have weight problems and eating disorders. Her message promotes seeking comfort and confidence in who you are, as you are. It's a message that comes in contrast to the combat mentality I've encountered directed toward social shaming of body sizes coming from all points. Her story wasn't awe inspiring. I read it as a therapeutic vehicle for her, a way for her to reinforce in herself what she's accomplished, and to help her share these experiences in order to help others. It's a way for her to be, as she puts it, a "catalyst for positive change."

But, as noted, I took exception. To me, the pictures didn't match the tone of the words.

Emily said that doing the photo shoot wasn't easy and made her feel vulnerable. She said the decision to publish the photos was a difficult one. But I questioned how difficult. She's a model. Her career is based on a relationship between being in front of a camera, having confidence in the photographer making her look good, and a safety net of her appearance being enhanced by lighting, hair styling and make-up. Emily isn't, say, a 40-year-old, overweight mother of three whose cosmetic splurge comes once or twice a year with an Ulta gift card. She isn't a woman whose photographs are, with few exceptions, a secretly embarrassing collection of cropped, waist-up shots downloaded from someone's iPhone. Emily also runs self-confidence workshops that tour the world. With that, I will make the assumption that a person in her current incarnation doesn't have too far to go to overcome the obstacle of putting herself in front of a camera or the masses.

Even dismissing critics who without substantiation called her out for her pictures being Photoshopped or air brushed (she denies this), there is a noticeable quality to the photos that I couldn't ignore. I'm sorry, but a person can't go through the processes of preparing for a photo shoot with professional support in a controlled environment and present it as what they actually look like. Take a picture without make-up in shorts and a t-shirt in natural light. Take a post-exercise picture wearing gym clothes with your sweaty hair tied back. Post a picture at any point in the day that you believe you would be unprepared to face public scrutiny. THAT is the courage to share the truth.

THIS is the courage to share the truth...

Now when you're all done having fun with this, go

get your camera. Strip down (but be modest). Take your

 picture. Look at it. Not difficult for you yet? Then put 
it up for public viewing and see how difficult clicking the

"send" button is. Then click the "send" button and see 

how difficult it is not having second thoughts, or 

the ability to take it back.

I am insecure about my body. Less so now than I was fifteen or twenty years ago, and without a doubt less than I was before this blog post. There are parts of me that I feel are best exposed in a darkened room, if not hidden entirely by a bass guitar. While some people will comment that I look good or that I'm in decent shape, it doesn't change how I feel about who I am. Granted, I am not fat, but I am overweight by medical standards. My weight and body shape change with the seasons. I have a ten pound tolerance for myself, and as I write this I'm at the upper limit. I don't take the prep time my wife does, but I always check myself before I go out. It's not that I care so much what other people think of me (other than my wife), it's that I care how I think of me.

I would never have thought I'd put myself out in the public arena exposed like I am here. This is me daring to "share the truth," as Emily Nolan puts it. This is my breakthrough. I will agree with her that making the decision to do this was not easy. But it would hardly be fair of me to expose my criticism of her without exposing criticism of myself. So here I am, exposed. No lights. No photographer. I combed my own hair. It is real. And I will expect that the understanding of my friends and family - and their laughter - will be real, just as they expect that of me towards them.

We all have personal insecurities, obstacles or traumas to overcome - weight, big ears, small breasts, any number of fears. If you've found a way to move forward and are going to promote a personal message designed to be a catalyst for others to help change or become more accepting of themselves (or educate others), then be true to the message. If your message is about being comfortable and accepting of being in your own skin, as in this instance, be in your own skin without replacing that layer of clothes with layers of light and make-up.

To present ourselves as being real, part of that presentation is to step away from the photo shoots we tend to hide behind and just be real.

We're Back! (Just in time for the happy holidays!)

I'll explain where we've been on another post. For now, let's start shoveling some seasons griefings...

You read it politically correctly. Happy Holidays.

Not Merry Christmas. Happy. Holidays. Because on this blog, we say Happy Holidays until December 25th, which is Christmas Day. THAT's the day you're supposed to be merry. The rest of the time, you should just be happy.

But you're not happy, are you. Why? Is it because "Happy Holidays" is just another part of that anti-Christian conspiracy that's taken God out of everything from the Pledge of Allegiance to a bless you when you sneeze? Or perhaps you hearing anything other than "Merry Christmas" is more abusive to the spirit of the season than kicking a manger goat? Or maybe because you believe your Christmas is the only real one to celebrate and it shouldn't be bundled with all other forms of "Christmas" like they're insurance policies or cable service?

Whatever the reason, it's traumatic. Apparently so much so that it compels people to log onto their facebook accounts and post their Christmas vs. Holiday rant before Thanksgiving, like this one I saw on November 21st:

Seriously, man...you haven't even pushed your
fat ass away from the Thanksgiving table yet!

Want to know what kills my Christmas spirit? November 1st, the date when I start seeing everyone take down the fake Halloween spider webs decorating their homes and replace them with fake icicles. When I go shopping and have to listen to that nauseating endless loop of Christmas carols that continues in my head on the drive home. When I have to avoid eye contact with all the bell ringers posted up at the doors of every store. When I see the yard decor competitions that can get so intense it's a wonder to me that somebody hasn't mistakenly rushed themselves into putting their blow-up doll out with all of the other inflatables. "Uh, no kids, that's just one of Santa's helpers. Those? Those are Christmas stockings." Six weeks of this shit is a long time to be merry. Then add dealing with the Christmas hangover week, plus that asshole who'll inevitably tell everyone on January 2nd how many more shopping days there are until next Christmas. It seems like it'll never end.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays...even Season's Greetings. Who cares? If it's your choice to say Merry Christmas instead of Happy Holidays, just say it. If the person you're saying it to responds with Merry Christmas...congratulations, you just found another member of the club. But why get your shorts in a twist if that pharmacy clerk says Happy Holidays? Two words from a person you have no relationship with beyond them ringing up your rash cream? Two words from someone who you wouldn't give a second thought to on the sidewalk unless they said "Happy Holidays" in passing? Those two words are all it takes to kill your Christmas spirit? Does your plate really have room for engaging in such inconsequential bullshit? (Ed. note: For those of you thinking I'm being hypocritical, this blog is not my plate. It's my side dish.)

I was of the understanding that this was a time of year for tolerance, for spreading good cheer, for loving thy neighbor. Instead people fly into social media rages at each other or lobby to boycott retailers daring to acknowledge a seasonal reference over a specific day. People get wound up because they can only have holiday parties at work, not Christmas parties. Or worse, NO party at work. Oh, my God goodness! Blasphemers! It's okay to have a party at work instead of doing work, as long as it's not a Christmas party! Of course, I have no desire to invite any of these pricks to my house for eggnog and a gift exchange, but that's beside the point, God dammit!

Happy Holidays refers to the holiday season. Season. As in an extended length of time. It covers Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and whatever culturally acceptable celebration floats your gravy boat. After that you specify: Happy Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving Day, Merry Christmas on Christmas Day, Happy New...you get the idea. Other holidays don't get a six week lead-in. Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentines Day...all one day. I don't wish someone a Happy Birthday when it's not their birthday. Why should Jesus be any different? Even to my wife, who thinks she can celebrate a "birthday month," I only wish her Happy Birthday ON her birthday. 

So get over yourselves and it, and just be glad someone is extending a friendly gesture, that someone wants you to be happy, or is at least wishing you happiness. Stop letting two words define what the season is to you, or define what you are to the season.

Cache and Carry

Hoarding: the excessive collection of items, along with the inability to discard them.


I am a hoarder.

I don't collect things. Tangible things, anyway. The hallways of my house are not cluttered with stacks of newspapers or magazines. I don't have bags of dryer lint stashed in a closet. No balls of rubber bands, baggies of twist ties, or an endless chain of linked paperclips. The things I collect are taking up space in my head. And I think it might be turning into a problem.

I came to this conclusion the other day while grocery shopping. Walking down one of the aisles, I passed an elderly woman and a voice in my head said, "Wow, that woman looks exactly like the grandmother on The Waltons." The tone of the voice was so matter-of-factly banal, offering no more reaction than recognizing water being wet. Yeah, I watched The Waltons as a kid, but that was in the 70's, which meant my recognition of that character had lodged itself somewhere in my head for almost forty years. But hearing that in my head wasn't the worst part. Another voice in my head chimed in, adding, "Ellen Corby."

I also have a brain cell in my
head that looks exactly like
John-Boy's mole.

The human brain weighs approximately three pounds and it contains roughly 100 billion brain cells. That's 100 b-i-l-l-i-o-n. As I began to think about this, I grew concerned about how much I'm pushing that capacity by housing non-essential trivia, like Ellen Corby, inside my brain. Perhaps her arthritic grip on a brain cell had prevented some other significant item from being at the forefront of my life. Maybe my failure to be my high school's valedictorian can be traced back and attributed to Ellen Corby blocking a correct answer on a test in middle school, giving me a lower grade which damaged my confidence and thereby destroyed my academic ambitions. Ellen Corby could be why I have to measure twice before I cut once. Certainly Ellen Corby must be part of the reason I have to write down all of my Internet passwords.

To be fair, it can't be all Ellen's fault as her name can certainly be interchanged with any number of random things cluttering up my head. Things like "chad." When I was a kid, Chad was a person's name. I'm using a brain cell to hold onto that. Then I learned it was a country in the middle of Africa, so I had to store that in my head, too. Then I learned it was also that piece of paper punched out of a ballot...and that they can hang! That's two more brain cells for the same thing! And for what? I don't know anyone named Chad, I have no plans to travel to Chad, and bits of paper punched from paper already have a name. They're called confetti. They don't need another name!

I also know what an aglet is. An aglet. With the exception of right now, I'm not ever going to use aglet. Oh, sure, I might look at the tip of my shoelace and somewhere in my deep recesses of my mind there's an association between what I'm seeing and what it is. But I can't recall ever hearing that word echo off the inside of my skull and pop out of my mouth. The only people who use aglet in conversation are people who want to make themselves seem smarter by saying shit like "aglet."

     "What's wrong with your shoe, Chris?"

     "Oh, the end of my shoelace frayed, Ted, and now I can't thread it through the 

       hole."

     "You mean the aglet broke?"

I don't know about you, but I'd want to whack Ted on the back of the head with a rolled up copy of his Brookstone catalog for saying that. Ted would be the kind of guy who actually owns an aglet tool to fix his broken aglets. He's as useless as wet tape if you need a pair of pliers, but he's got an aglet tool you can borrow. No man with normal levels of testosterone would walk up to another man and ask him if he happened to have an aglet tool, let alone ask to borrow it. That's because men don't replace aglets. They light a match and fuse the end of the lace so they can lace it through the lace hole. Then they tie their shoelace so they don't trip over it on the way to the shoe store to buy a new shoelace. So except for those pretentious asses like Ted, aglet just sits in the head taking up space. Forever.

I have a theory that the accumulation of useless crap over time is why people have difficulty remembering things as they get older. There's just too much blocking them from reaching the stuff they want, plus it takes too much effort to get there. It'd be nice if grandpa could dig deep enough to remember where he left his 1,000 shares of original Apple Computer stock. Unfortunately, all you can get out of him now are the same four or five stories he's told every time you've visited him for the last fifteen years.

I wish there was a way to manage what goes into my head and stays there. Unfortunately, there's stuff that goes in that I don't want and I can't do a damn thing about it. The closest thing I can think of is something like a lobotomy. But I don't want to empty the theater, I just want to ask the few assholes disrupting the show to leave. So I guess I'm stuck with chads and aglets and Ellen Corby and all of the rest of that stuff that are red wine stains on a white carpet. They may fade over time, but they'll never fully disappear.

I just hope I don't end up blaming Ellen Corby for my inability to remember how they got there.

Cookie Cutter

Connecticut College, in New London, Connecticut, recently released the results of a study that found Oreo cookies may be as addictive as cocaine. According to reports, hungry rats were put inside a maze with two options: Oreo cookies or rice cakes. The study indicated the rats spent more time in the Oreo side of the maze than in the rice cake side.

No shit.

I've eaten rice cakes. I've eaten Oreos. I can pretty much tell you that given a choice, I'd spend more time eating Oreos - or any other cookie - than eating rice cakes. In fact, if researchers were to conduct this test on me, they would have the added bonus of being able to ask me exactly why I'd prefer to spend my time eating Oreos over rice cakes. I wouldn't even have to say anything, either. I'd just hold out my hands - one with an Oreo in it; one with a rice cake in it. And when they reached for the Oreo, I'd pull it back and give them the rice cake and say, "You tell me why, Einstein."

There was a second part of the study, the part where researchers wanted to determine if the rats would prefer injections of cocaine over injections of saline. Hmmmm...wonder which side the rats liked better?

What the researchers did after that would have made more sense coming from a middle school science fair than from an institute of higher learning. They concluded that Oreo cookies, like cocaine, contain an addictive property that stimulates a pleasure center in the rats' brains. Through that, they suggested that the same stimulation process worked similarly in the brains of humans. Because rat brains are so similar to human brains, a commonality that was likely deduced by a college undergrad who saw rats and humans digging through trash dumpsters for something to eat.

I, for one, don't understand why the results of this study are newsworthy. There's no scientific breakthrough here. It's long been known that human nature dictates humans will respond to what is pleasurable over what isn't. That's why people hang out at bars, listen to certain types of music, like or dislike outdoor activities. You don't need to run rats through a maze to understand Oreos and cocaine can be addictive. All you need are some hungry people and drug addicts.

What the researchers should have done is compare Oreos to shots of cocaine to see which one is more addicting. Instead, they took the easy way out and drew a conclusion based on a simple observation. You could do a comparative sampling of any two things and draw the same conclusion. For example, if you gave me the option of going to church or a whorehouse, you'd likely find me putting my money into a hooker's hand instead of onto a plate being passed by the parish usher.

For the record, I've never been with a prostitute, nor have I ingested cocaine. But I have been to church, and that's a lot like eating a rice cake, so my comparative analysis concludes, therefore, that hookers are like Oreos. And since I like Oreos,...

A Trail That Reached Its Peak

One of the great advantages of living in the San Francisco Bay Area is being afforded the opportunity to get out and enjoy nature, whether in the foothills surrounding the Santa Clara valley or along the sandy beaches and bluffs along the Pacific coast. I recently decided to get out and spend a portion of my day hiking, and chose the trail to the top of Mission Peak near Fremont as my goal. It'd been several years since my first ascent of the roughly 3 mile, 2000 foot climb. I remembered it to be steep and challenging compared to other trails around the valley. I knew the day's temps would be in the upper 80's, and with little shade on the trail, I'd have to be prepared. Hat (check), plenty of water (check), lunch (check)...yeah, I was prepared. Prepared for me, but not for everything other than me.

Here's a partial description of the trail as presented by the East Bay Regional Parks District, who maintains the trail and some of the surrounding property:

"Rising steeply to the east of the city of Fremont, Mission and Monument peaks form a dramatic backdrop to the South Bay. The determined and conditioned hiker who reaches the top of Mission Peak will be rewarded with views of Mount Hamilton to the south, the Santa Cruz Mountains to the west, Mt. Tamalpias to the north, and Mt. Diablo and the Sierra Nevada to the northeast."

And I got all that...along with a trail intermittently marked with dog cairns, trash of every kind, signs and posts decorated with graffiti and stickers, and off-trail shortcuts plowed into the hillsides at every switchback. Oh, and let's not forget the group of hikers who apparently don't understand that playing their music loudly doesn't encourage what little fauna there is to remain within the sparse flora. Note to the Asian trail dancers: burrowing animals don't like Gangnam style, they're fans of Kenny Loggins (look it up). And of course, there are also those who believe that breathing isn't enough, that words must always accompany exhaling. Always.

My disappointment at the condition of the trail increased with the altitude. I was one of three people who stayed on the mapped trail to the top. At one point, I counted roughly 35 different people on the peak. That meant that more than 90% of the "nature lovers" who completed the hike when I was there cut upward along an existing scar of unofficial trail to do so. And what of that view reward touted in the trail description? Well, it was a clear day, and I got to see all of those Bay Area landmarks. That beauty was marred by the Mission Peak rocks emblazoned with graffiti, because it's important to let everyone else on the peak know that at least one of the God-knows how many John Does "wuz here" and that he may still love Jane forever. The surrounding area was also littered with trash, mostly empty water bottles left by people who don't realize an empty bottle is easier to carry because it weighs less than a full one. And sure, there's a trash can nearby, but who has the strength to lift the lid after such an excruciating hike, right? Besides, I have other things to carry down the mountain, like my uninhibited contempt for everything that isn't me.

They should post signs telling
people not post shit on the signs.

I can't put the blame entirely on the EBRPD. They've put up signs (that people don't read), placed trash cans and dog shit bag dispensers along the trail for hikers to use (that they don't), and erected fences to discourage off-trail cutting (that people go around). The main trail is well-maintained, and wide enough to accommodate hikers and bikers, yet both still feel the need to blaze their own trails. Outside of the societal culture that allows this type of behavior, I can't pin it on being a cultural thing as the racial makeup of the trail use misuse was varied. I can't blame it as a maturity thing as the age range for the trail use misuse was varied.

To me it's a right and wrong thing, which makes it nothing more than a disrespect thing. It's disrespectful to the land. It's disrespectful to the people who put the effort into preserving

The fence is as wide as the actual trail.
Apparently it's not wide enough.

a place for you to get away from something, not get away with something. It's disrespectful to people like me who don't give a fat rat's ass that you "wuz here" because I'd prefer that you "wuz" and I didn't know it.

So how do we fix it? Well, as current attempts have obviously failed, I see a need for some creative alternatives. Of course, my initial ideas like off-trail booby traps and random sniper days tended toward the extreme. Your dog shouldn't get blown up because you were too stupid to keep it on leash, nor should you risk taking a round for stepping into the bushes to take a leak. So the best solution I could come up with is to close the trail. Shut it down to the parking lot. Put up a big sign in all of the registered voting languages explaining why it was closed and when it will open. First time a month, then two months, and keep closing it until people get it into their heads that if they don't take care of it, they can't use it. What? You're a taxpayer? You say this violates your rights to access land that your taxes paid for? Yeah, you paid for it, but guess what? You don't own it. You're paying to have it managed. You may not be part of the problem, but unfortunately you're going to be part of the solution.

I wrote an email to the East Bay Regional Parks District after my hike. I explained how disheartened I was at the condition of the trail and how it saddened me how people apparently just don't give a shit about resources and preserves and the luxury of open space. (I'm paraphrasing, I didn't actually write "give a shit.") I also offered my suggestion that they close down the Mission Peak trail. I haven't heard back from them as of this post, but I'm sure they won't consider closure. My guess is they don't want to deal with public outrage. But maybe a little outrage would be good so when it opens up again - more likely opens for the second time because people are dense - the public will start treating the land like it has some value.

Happy Birthday, America!

(Ed. note: Today being a holiday, I gave the editorial staff the day off. So in essence, I'm wire-walking without a harness.)

Birthday bike ride. It's never too late to get back into shape.

Yeah, getting older is tough, and you're starting to look it. A bit out of shape, but you're on the right track by making the decision to exercise. Why not? You've got a council on fitness and nutrition. That's like having a staff of free personal trainers. And doing it on a bike, too! And one that wasn't made in China!

It doesn't take a Senate subcommittee to tell you that starting an exercise regimen needs care and consideration. Here are a few tips:

Pace yourself - That's years of government pork you need to work off. You can't turn that waddle back into a swagger over night, so take your time.

K.I.S.S. - Keep It Simple, Sam. Like we said, the bike is a good start. You need to get your cardio up before you engage in more strenuous activity, like raising taxes and running for re-election. A flat biking route is probably best, too. Congress can't agree on shit, so any thought about changing gears in the middle of the ride is out.

You are what you eat - Loading on carbs doesn't mean having another beer. No secret that you've been biting off more than you can chew. Time to trim the fat from the diet so the diet doesn't go to "waist." Sure, we all make excuses to feel better about the crap we eat, but the days of "catsup is a vegetable" are over.

Clothing optimal, not optional - Dressing for the exercise is a must. Clothes that breathe and wick are essential, so wear the proper attire for the activity. The biking outfit, while in your current condition is not flattering, is a good choice for biking. But those socks and shoes? We'll keep working on it.

Anyway, we hope this exercise thing works out for you. As usual, we mailed your gift and it should reach you some time before April 15. Happy birthday!

Words, Part 6: The Deen of Languages

Blogger's note: "Words" is an ongoing feature in which I take a look at special qualities and misrepresentations of the English language, how much fun it is to play with its words, and why it reigns as one of the hardest languages to master.


Paula Deen, the Southern Belle of culinary arts, said the word nigger. That's right. A white woman born and raised and living in Georgia since the late 40's testified in a court appearance that she said it. It occurred, she explained, when she was a bank teller and a black man robbing the bank had a gun to her head. All things considered, I'd have to give her a pass on that one. She also stirred the pot with other questionably racial things she's allegedly said over the course of her life. She has to live with that, whatever came or comes out of her mouth. I neither condone nor condemn her.

The Paula Deen cookware collection,

available in a variety of colors.

Except for the kettles.

As a result of the court testimony and subsequent bad apologies from her, the Food Network chopped Ms. Deen from their programming. The network's refusal to continue Ms. Deen's contract created public outcry against the network, the consensus being the network over-reacted. However, the network has an image to maintain and it decided to distance itself from the incident. They are the boss, and they have that right, as does any other business that finds itself in the same position. I neither condone nor condemn them.

What bothers me about the controversy is how it was reported by the media, in particular their use of "the N-word." By that I mean, literally, "the N-word." The media, in their need to sensationalize the "news," presented it in that manner, as "the N-word." The media, I assume, was trying to address what they considered a sensitive subject in an inoffensive manner, which is bullshit and cowardly. Refer to it as a racial epithet or slur then, and leave it at that. Otherwise, put that disclaimer up - you know, the one they use every time they find the ratings balls to show pictures or videos that aren't suitable for children or may be disturbing to some viewers - and say it. Because when it comes to using words deemed offensive, speaking or writing the word by its first initial does not allow you a pass for not saying it. If you say part of it, MFer, you said all of it.

I think by now society as a whole is familiar, if not immune, to this word to the extent that there shouldn't be a need to abbreviate it. Ironically, it's been infused into popular culture by the very people who should be offended by it. It's been overused, diluted to the point that it should not be allowed to maintain a taboo status, at least no more than any other word. That's not to say people should feel free to run around injecting it into conversation without concern. The word certainly does not have glamorous history, and may indeed be offensive when used inappropriately. But it doesn't make sense that it's okay to say nigger in a song, or repeat it in front of a movie camera in excess of an estimated 100 times as was done in the movie Django Unchained. (That movie, by the way, grossed over $162 million, which I think is way more offensive). Nor does it make sense for one segment of society to be allowed to include it in its vernacular, yet punish another segment as if it committed a trademark violation.

Content and context. A word, any word, only has the amount of power one gives it. The word "Jew" can carry offense, too, but we don't call it "the J-word." This blog has a stated belief that there are no bad words, only misused words, and hiding a word behind a hyphen with a wink that "you know what I mean" is misusing it. There are other educated and responsible ways of not saying a word you're uncomfortable with without making me say it for you.

As for Paula Deen, she may lose some business, with dropped endorsements by companies like Target or Sears, where you can still get your favorite Nas CD with racially explicit language. No doubt this will turn out to be a bumpy road for her, but I can't see her hanging up her apron and stop cooking. She seems to have a lot of supporters, both black and white, and should rebound over time. She certainly has the money to sit back and wait it out. Those who found her behavior inappropriate have the right to step away, just as those who saw no intended harm have the right to promote her career and see her back on T.V. in spite of the decision by the Food Network and not out of spite for it. Perhaps it will be hosting another cooking show on another network, or maybe as a product spokesperson.

Just as long as it isn't Cracker Barrel.