Who do we believe in now?

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News headlines of late have focused on the Catholic sexual abuse scandal that erupted in Pennsylvania.  Unfortunately, this scandal has dodged the Church for a long time.

Back in 2015, the movie Spotlight, an award winning docudrama,  gives a detailed account of the Boston Globe’s Pulitzer Prize-winning investigation into the widespread pedophilia scandals and subsequent cover-ups within the Catholic Church. As per Justin Chang’s review from Variety, Spotlight was “a superbly controlled and engrossingly detailed account of the Boston Globe’s Pulitzer Prize-winning investigation into the widespread pedophilia scandals and subsequent cover-ups within the Catholic Church. This measured and meticulous ensemble drama sifts through a daunting pile of evidence to expose not just the Church’s horrific cycles of abuse and concealment, but also its uniquely privileged position in a society that failed its victims at myriad personal, spiritual and institutional levels.

Where the film proves extraordinarily perceptive is in its sense of how inextricably the Church has woven itself into the very fabric of Boston life, and how it concealed its corruption for so long by exerting pressure and influence on the city’s legal, political and journalistic institutions. Given the blurrier-than-usual separation of church and state, and the fact that the newspaper’s own readership includes a high percentage of Irish Catholics, it’s no surprise that it falls to an outsider like Baron — a Florida native and the first Jewish editor to take the helm at the Globe — to play hardball with the Archdiocese.”

But that was just one city’s problem with Catholic priests.  Recently, new revelations have come to light in Pennsylvania, which I fear is just the tip of the iceberg. Even the Pope is cracking down now in public, instead of sweeping it under the rug and moving predator priests around to different parishes like chess pieces.

And like the tip of the iceberg that took down the Titanic, even something that is considered bullet proof really isn’t.  In fact, that attitude makes it even more vulnerable when the cracks start to split open.  The major players start to scatter like rats from a sinking ship.  We have had many examples of this behavior throughout history, and not just with the church.  But I digress.

I think the Catholic church archaic rules of priests/nuns not marrying has landed themselves into attracting a certain kind of person who finds his pleasure elsewhere. Sometimes at the expense of innocent victims. Most other Christian religions allow marriage. Perhaps this would help.

As a Catholic, this issue of sexual abuse by priests has bothered me for a long long time, primarily because of all the payoffs and coverups. Now it seems to be coming to a head, with the revelations coming to light, at least monetarily.  For years now many Catholics have been financially boycotting the church. The Catholic church is the 3RD LARGEST LANDOWNER IN THE WORLD. Financially it is one the wealthiest organizations in the world, Number 1 for religious organizations with 200+BILLION, and on the world stage puts it on par with oil companies and Walmart.

To sum it up, this all is a sad commentary on the world’s largest religion, with nearly a third of the population of the world, with Islam coming in a very close second and poised to take over the number 1 spot in the foreseeable future.  And lets be honest,  Islam/Muslims scare many Americans, don’t they, since 911, which changed how we perceive Muslim-Americans.  The majority of Islam are very peace loving, but as with anything, a few radicals spoil the whole pot.

So what do we do to clean the Catholic house? Keeping in mind it is a VERY BIG HOUSE. It is as corrupt as any large corporation. Or government. In my honest opinion. What is yours?

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Happy Holidays? Or Bah Humbug?

It’s the holiday season once again!  A joyous occasion!

Usually.

As I get older, I am more aware of the fragility of many people, both physically and mentally.  So many people have lost their partner/child, or never had one, and are facing the holidays alone, and yes, lonely.

What does lonely mean?  Google suggests the following:

lone·ly

ˈlōnlē/

adjective

1. sad because one has no friends or company

Very different than alone.  Google suggests the following:

alone

[uh–lohn] 

SpellSyllables

adjective, (used predicatively)

1.

separate, apart, or isolated from others:

I want to be alone.

So, you can see that there is a difference.  Some people like to be alone but most people don’t like to be lonely.

I remember visiting my mom in her final year at the nursing home.  She had Alzheimer’s and was slowly losing all functions.  She did not know what day it was, let alone if it was Christmas.  I always thought, maybe that was better.  Then she wouldn’t be lonely, per se.  Every day was a new day for her, and every visit was a new adventure, whether it was a holiday or not.

You see, I’ve been alone in a nursing home over a holiday.  I was alone, and I was lonely.  I spent almost 3 months there, alone in a room at the end of the hall, across from a very busy McDonalds.  The drive-up speaker was the voice that kept me company, until late in the night.  I could tell you what was ordered most frequently, and I could smell the french fries, which drove me crazy because I really really wanted some!  I used to pretend I could wheel my chair across a busy 4 lane highway, and roll right up to the drive-thru window, and order a cheeseburger and some fries!

I did have visitors, which I greatly appreciated!  Many people called, came to visit, sent fruit! or brought me McDonalds!  I was one of the lucky ones. There were others who had no one.    After dinner I would roll up and down the hall, and look to see if someone was alone in a room, and perhaps would like a visitor or want to chat.  There were people there in bad shape, and a kind word or two went very far.  At least I knew that MY ordeal was temporary.  Theirs, maybe not.  It just reinforced my goal of making it out of there in good shape.

So this holiday season, whether you love Christmas/Hannuaka/Kwanzaa whatever or not, please think of someone that might be lonely.  A simple hello could make someone’s day.  A card, or a visit or an invitation would send them over the moon.

I need to remember that more myself.  I need to reach out.  I need to help myself, and others not be lonely.  Sometimes you just need to make that call, grab that opportunity.

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas.  Peace, Joy and Love to all.

The Menendez Brothers

I recently watched the Law & Order Menendez Brothers treatment on TV.  This is a case that has fascinated me for years.  Two well-to-do brothers kill their parents in cold blood. I’m really conflicted about it.

Are they murderers?  Were they abused?  Did they really fear for their lives?  A picture perfect family.  Right?

Unfortunately, there is no good answer.  I think, like OJ, there has been too much publicity about all this.  Too many movies made, too much conjecture.

Unlike OJ, they did confess.  I almost wonder at what in the world they were thinking, after the murders, the way they acted and spent money on lavish lifestyles.  Did they think they were above the law?  Or smarter than the law?  Or did they just not think?

Everyone always looks to Erik as the weak one, the one that broke, that one that confessed.  I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for him.  Lyle seemed to be made of sterner stuff.  But regardless, however much you hate your parents, can you picture yourself waltzing into the den with shotguns and murdering your parents?  It seems maybe there SHOULD have been another answer.  Someone that could have helped them, protected them.

As a frame of reference, I think back to OJ, I personally never doubted his guilt.  Never gave him an ounce of sympathy.  He was violent, he was abuser.  He murdered out of jealousy and rage.  I’m just glad he did end up going to jail eventually, albeit not for murder.

The Menendez brothers?  I think it was a rash decision, that went very wrong.  They were still fairly young, perhaps not mature enough to understand the full ramifications of their actions.

So.  The brothers go to jail for life.  OJ is a free man today.  The brothers killed out of fear.  OJ killed out of rage.  Maybe.

#MeToo

So many, so very many people have come out lately to say #MeToo, about being sexually harassed or abused.  Seems like they are coming out of the woodwork.

And it’s not just women.  It’s men too.  And it’s not just Hollywood.  While this latest movement may have been sparked by the Harvey Weinstein scandal, it has quickly spread to many areas of life, including the music industry, sciences, academia and of course, politics.  Let’s face it, this problem has existed forever.  It is only now, in this day and age of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat etc. that this kind of movement can go viral overnight.  It only took ONE BRAVE PERSON to bust this out of its shell, and grow into #MeToo.

To me, it boiled down to people in a position of power over me.  People that held your career in their hands, or your reputation, or simply your life.  I grew up in an era of respecting your elders and not questioning authority.  If someone straddled the line of impropriety, we figured that was the way it was.  If someone crossed the line, we were too scared to push them back.

Luckily for me, it was more a question of sexual harassment than of actual abuse.  I have been harassed by more than one superior.  Made to feel uncomfortable.  Made to feel I’d better toe the line.  Made to feel that my job was on the line.  In fact, I left a great job at a great company because of it, and regret it to this day.

Now, those of you that know me well know that I am not a shrinking violet and I will speak up, sometimes to my detriment, about most anything that bothers me.  But back in the day, fresh out of college, and onto the working world?  Not really.  I was afraid of authority.  I was intimidated by men of power.  There were very few women of power.  The glass ceiling was still very low.

Today, I would raze them a new asshole.  Today, I am a grumpy old lady with nothing left to lose.  But today, if I had a child, I would hope that I had instilled enough of moral compass in them that they would know when things where going south.  That they would speak up and protect themselves by any means necessary.  I applaud this new #MeToo movement, and hope that it exposes enough that people will think twice before abusing their next victim.  No more hiding behind “power”.

P.S.  I’ve just GOT to get on a soapbox about one thing.  Donald Trump, while on the campaign trail, was on tape BRAGGING about sexually harassing people, grabbing them by the pussy etc.  Billy Bush, the TV Reporter, who was just asking the questions, got fired and his career was ruined.  Donald Trump was elected President.  Trump has as many, if not more, allegations against him as Weinstein.  But he claims this is all fake news.  The POLITICIANS, Democrats and Republicans alike, need to keep throwing these allegations at him and hope they stick.  But I doubt that will ever happen.  Trump has too much power.  In his own words he could shoot someone and still be elected.  But I am heartened to see that more and more Republicans are leaving their elected offices like rats fleeing a sinking ship.  We can only hope.

 

Treated like so much chattel

Interesting word, chattel.  I wasn’t sure if it was the right word to use.  I’ve heard and read it bantered about.  I always pictured it as meaning someone herded along.

Per Merriam Webster Dictionary, here is what they say:

Definition of chattel

1:an item of tangible movable or immovable property except real estate and things (such as buildings) connected with real property

2:slave, bondman 

• slaveholders who were determined to hold on to their human chattel

Interesting.

Recently I experienced the unique opportunity to be treated like chattel.  I was going to Florida, and was trying to get the best flight for my condition (really bad back, like 4 herniated disks and 2 micro disectomies, repaired not once but twice over the spring and summer).  I guess I am still recuperating.  I have good days and bad days.

Flying in and out of O’Hare and Orlando or anywhere is a nightmare for someone like me, who can’t walk very far all at once.  A short jaunt, sure.  A long one?  Pack a lunch.

So for the past few trips, I fly “disabled”.  Meaning a wheelchair picks me up at check-in, and takes me to my gate.  A wheelchair picks me up at my destination and takes me to the pick-up area.  It also means skipping the long security lines, and wheelchairs have their own special check through.

The first time, I flew American both ways, to Ft. Lauderdale.  It was such a blessing.  The man at O’Hare insisting upon staying with me in the chair until it was boarding time, and then he wheeled me right up to the plane door.  He also stopped along the way to the gate for me to use the restroom, and also get a bottle of water and snack pack for the plane.  Obviously he got a good tip.

In Florida, a wheelchair was waiting for me when I got off the plane, and took me right out to cousin who was waiting curbside.  Perfect.  He got a good tip too.  Worth every penny, not having to struggle along, with a bad back and luggage etc.

Same great service from Ft. Lauderdale back to Chicago with American.

The second time I flew, to Tampa, I flew United out and American back.  There was no wheelchair waiting for me at United, and I had to walk a distance to get to the “wheelchair assistance” room.  Then I had to wait for someone to come get me.  They took a long time getting me through security.  As I was now running out of time, I didn’t dare ask them to stop along the way for anything, and just had them dump me out at the gate.  He got a fair tip.

Arriving in Tampa, more problems with United.  They didn’t have a wheelchair waiting for me off the plane.  I had to wait, and was upset because my friend was already there to pick me up.  Finally got moving and met up with my friend inside the terminal.  Eh.

Flying home on American, I wanted to kiss them right on the mouth.  Once again perfect service.  Always ready and waiting.

This last time I flew to Orlando, on United both ways.  I REALLY wanted to fly American, but the flight times weren’t as good.  So I crossed my fingers.

Flying out, a waiting game again.  Luckily I had anticipated this and left plenty of time before the flight.  I waved them off as soon as I got to the gate, and then walked myself and my luggage to the restroom and the kiosk to get my water and snack pack.

Again more waiting at the gate in Orlando.  My poor old Aunt and Uncle outside waiting and waiting for me.  But, eh, better than hurting myself walking all that way.

Now back to Chicago.  Oh good Lord.  Landing in Chicago, no wheelchair again.  Down the tunnel I walked and then I was told to go sit on one of those big cart like things you see people riding around on inside the airport.  The cart was full, and I was told to step up this high step and sit on the back bench seat.  My carry-on was thrown next to me.  The cart took off at full speed, and I almost fell sideways out of the cart.  One of the people told the driver to slow down, and he slammed the cart to a stop, walked back by me, buckled me into a seatbelt I hadn’t known was there, and then took off madcap again.  Along the way he dropped people off here and there.  I had told him to drop me off at the upper level doors for United.  He pulled up, pointed down a long hallway and said, go there and then take a right.  Really?  This was my handicapped wheelchair ride?  Treated like so much chattel?  This guy got zero tip.  Nada.  Zilch.

Now I understand how cattle feel.  Or slaves.  Or any other group of people that get herded around, taken who knows where, with no say in the matter.  Just pushed and shoved where they wanted to take you.  I seriously felt used and abused.  It wasn’t a good feeling.

I was a little mad/sad about the whole thing, but then got home and quickly forgot about it.  Until now, lol.  No, actually, I have been thinking about it, and I do think that United needs to hear from an unsatisfied customer like myself, and the exact reasons and circumstances that cause me to be an unsatisfied customer.  People deserve to be treated with dignity and respect, not like so much chattel.

Knock Knock Knocking on my Door

Sometimes a knock at the door is a good thing.  Someone has come to visit!  Or it is the groceries!  Or a neighbor bringing tomatoes!

Sometimes a knock at the door is a scary thing.  Yesterday was Halloween. I didn’t have any trick or treaters last night, but I got home late after my infusion, and haven’t had any kids stop by in years. I had just gotten home and was in my bedroom changing when I heard this very loud and sharp rapping on my front door. My heart stuttered, and I gasped out loud, because the sound was so intrusive, especially to someone who lives alone.  My cats scattered, and I quickly locked myself in my bedroom and got my gun out of my safe, and stayed there shaking for like a half hour, because I was afraid to come out! I was thinking that little kids can’t knock that loud, maybe it was an adult with them, I sure hope it was a neighbor trick or treating!  We don’t have many kids in the neighborhood, and a lot of summer houses too, so I don’t even buy candy anymore.  My bedroom looked out at the back of my house, not the front, so I couldn’t look and see if anyone was there.

I do have a legit reason for being scared, but I thought the reason was no longer one to worry about.  I think the attack in NY yesterday made it come to the forefront again for me.

Because that is what it is all about.  I cannot go into details, but let’s just say that lone wolf terrorists that have been radicalized here are something I need to worry about.  And it happens more frequently, it seems.  Around the world, not just here, in the USA.

It really got me to thinking.  I am scared, yes.  But dammit, I am angry.  Angry that people like that even exist.  Angry that people die, and will continue die.  Angry that I have to make lifestyle changes.  Angry that I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with my heart thumping so loud, straining to hear the tiniest sound.  Was that a knock I heard?  A footstep?  Why did the cats wake up?  What are they hearing?

I have a gun. I only got it because the FBI told me to. (Again, I can’t go into details).  However, it only gives me a false sense of security.  I keep it locked up in a safe.  Most likely if someone broke into my house and wanted to kill me I would never have a chance to even get it.  That’s fine with me.  I don’t know if I could pull the trigger and kill someone anyway.  It’s a huge thing to do.  But I digress.

Over the winter something similar happened.  One night, very late, I was awakened by rapping on my door, very loud, insistently.  Never stopped.  Just kept knocking.  It took me a minute to get my bearings and get up out of my bed because of my bad back.  I stumbled down the hallway, eyes slit, and peeked around the corner to look at the front door.  There were flashing lights and spotlights shining everywhere.  I could not see who was knocking because of it.  But I could tell they were using a flashlight, or bat to knock.  I called out, “Who is it?”  They responded with “Police, open up immediately!”  I replied, “Why are you here, what do you want?”  They said they needed to talk to me and to open the door or they would break it down.  I was so scared.  Was it really the police?  I thought about going back to the bedroom to get my gun, but figured they would just shoot me if they saw a gun.  So I went down the stairs and opened the door.  They shone their big flashlights in my face, blinding me.  They asked me whose car was in my driveway.  I was confused at first, because I always park in the garage.  Then I remembered, I had told my neighbor that his friend who was living with them could park there.  So I told them that.  They asked me the name of the owner of the car.  I did not know.  By this time, I was shaking from fear and the cold, and crying.  They got a call on their radio then, and literally turned around and walked away without another word.

Now I was angry. My fight or flight adrenaline had now changed to fight. How dare they scare the shit out of an innocent citizen with no explanation or “sorry to wake you in the middle of the night”.  I am a single woman, living alone.  I slammed the front door shut, locked up, and then went upstairs to look out my big bay window.  There were squad cars at the house kitty corner from me, and police walking around yards etc.

I knew the grand kid of that homeowner was always in trouble.  In fact, at the time, I thought he was in jail, as per usual.  He was always getting caught doing something wrong. So I figured he was in trouble, again.

The next morning when I went out to go to work, the kid was outside, talking to some policeman or detective.  I glared at them, and the kid hollered over, “Sorry for the disturbance last night, I woke up last night to find somebody trying to steal my guns, can you believe that?”  I said, unbelievable, and then said to the policeman, I was very scared and upset last night, and the officers that were pounding on my door were very rude.  I have reasons that the Lake County Sheriff’s office is well aware of for being scared.  Obviously that was overlooked last night.

The policeman then apologized.   I went to work.  When I got home, I didn’t see the kid anymore.  In fact, I haven’t seen him in awhile.  I’m sure he stole those guns or something like that.  I hope he doesn’t come back.  And let me just say that typically the police/sheriffs/detectives/agents that I have had dealings with are the BEST.  So grateful to ALL our first responders.

Luckily the rest of my neighborhood is wonderful.  The people that live around me always look out for me.  They are very good to me.

Just don’t go knock knock knocking at my door!

 

 

The Big Eye

Taking a good selfie can be hard. The hair, the smile, the angle, the eyes…..

The eyes?  Yep.  It wasn’t until I started taking selfies that I was aware that my eyes are not the same size.  At first I thought it was my camera skills, but then I realized something.

One eye is bigger than the other. Aack!  I was freaked.  I started frantically taking pictures trying to hold my small eye open more.  But I discovered, no matter what you try, you have a BIG eye, and a small eye.

Once I discovered this phenomenon, I couldn’t stop seeing it everywhere, especially in pictures.  Even movie stars!  Seems like most everyone has different sized eyes.  A big eye, that makes you look younger, fresher, more alive!  And a small eye, that makes you look older, tired, ready to fall asleep.

Then I remembered a story or article I read years ago.  It said if you divide the face in half, the side with the big eye looks normal, happy. The side with the small eye looks mean, sad, or evil.

Most people would not ever notice this difference.  But with the age of selfies come more self perusal.  We are most critical of ourselves.

But really, who cares about a little eye asymmetry?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

REAR WINDOW

Sometimes I feel like Jimmy Stewart in “Rear Window”.  I don’t have a broken leg, just an annoying back and hip.  And I haven’t witnessed a murder….yet.  Anything is possible.

More to the point is the fact that I sit in my comfy chair in my office where I have a window, which on many days is my only outside view of the world.  While I work from home or watch TV I can see the kids go by on their bikes, golf carts, dirt bikes etc.  I see the dog walkers and the joggers, especially on the weekends when the neighborhood fills to the brim.  I see my family, walking to the boat to go for an enjoyable ride around the lakes.  I see LIFE, passing me by.

Sometimes I make up stories as the what the people are doing or where they are going.

The lazy unemployed son who lives across the street?  Drug dealer.  Sells anything you want.  Weed, edibles, vapes, pills.  Also arms dealer.  Has a display of guns in his living room.  Will sell to anyone, including his own son.  Except, well, the son is in jail now.  Drug and weapons charges.

The elderly couple who lives across the street.  Spends most of their days in their garden, which has a tall fence around around it.  They say it’s to keep out the varmints.  They NEVER invite anyone over.  I think they are growing the weed for the other neighbor.

The widower across the way.  I was friends with his wife.  When I walked my dogs late at night,  she would be out by the garage, sneaking a smoke.  She is dead now.  I saw her one day, and she was gone the next.  Never see the widower anymore, seems like he is hiding out in his house.

The Italian conclave that lives on the channel, takes up the whole one side of the turnaround street.  4 houses in a row.  I watch the cars start arriving on Thursday nights, and leaving on Sunday nights.  You don’t go down that street on the weekends.  It seems to have been taken over by the “younger” generation.  I haven’t seen the older folks in a couple of years.  They might be sleeping with the fishes.

The entertainment center of the neighborhood is on the corner, where the two streets split.  Many activities center on that property.  Dogs run, kids play and screech, adults drink beer, basketball is played, swimming is done by all on a hot summer day, all led by the neighborhood Pied Piper.  When evening falls, all signs of life disappear, tucked away in houses and garages, waiting to come back again, under the magical spell of the Pied Piper.  (Who resembles my brother but I’ll never tell!)

Then there are the mystery people, who visit my house when it rains.  I think the rain makes them grow.  They sneak in and out while I am sleeping, leaving only wet footprints behind.  I think I might know them, but I’m not sure.  Every now and then when I think I am dreaming, I hear a little girl’s voice, that sounds just like my niece.   I need to set up some cameras.

Hopefully my window on the world will expand soon.  I am feeling much better, and hope to be getting out and about a lot more!  I have a GREAT massage therapist and physical therapist, so I will be rocking!

P.S.  I almost wish I had a murder mystery to solve, I am great detective!  Jimmy Stewart goes a little overboard at times tho, lol.  Great film.  Everyone should see it.

Oh my Aching Back!

 

We all have a bad back every now and then, I think it is a fact of life.  I have had more than my fair share.  Most recently, since February, I have suffered with herniated disks and sciatica.  It has caused me a whole host of problems, included falling and double dislocating the fingers on my left hand, several hospitalizations, several epidural shots, and a surgery 6 weeks ago to do 4 laminectomies and 2 microdisectomies.

Apparently I have Oseoarthritis and Ankylosing spondylitis, which has helped cause these problems.  Whatever, all I know is that I have a bad back.  A very bad back.

After my surgery 6 weeks ago, I went right back to work (there were extenuating circumstances) and was driving to Libertyville 3-4 days a week plus working from home.  I was riding my lawnmower and my quad.  I was going to the pool.  I was dealing with my sleep apnea and going to sleep studies etc.  I was dealing with heart issues and going for stress tests, echocardiagrams and venous studies. I was doing WAY TOO MUCH.  So now I am back to square one with my back, and it is mostly my fault.  And my Catholic school guilt, which prevents me from putting myself FIRST when I need to.  So now I have ruined everything, and I don’t know if it can be fixed.  Crikey.

Tomorrow I go back to the hospital for tests and MRI, to see the scope of the further damage I have done to myself.  I am on very strong muscle relaxers and pain killers (so excuse the poor grammar etc.).  I am dizzy and in severe pain.  It takes me 15-30 minutes to get out of bed, because I have to wait for the zingers in my leg to pass enough to put weight on it without screaming.  Just like before my surgery.  I hate this.  I hate myself.

Sigh.  Why do I do this to myself?  I am my own worst enemy.  From now on I am putting myself first.  No matter what.  Please help me do that!

P.S.  You might want to read a previous post, in which I detail what happened back in February.  How was YOUR week? Redux

The Gorey Details

Another bullfighter was killed recently.  He was gored by a bull he was in the process of killing. He died a gruesome death.  Just like the thousands of animals that are killed in the name of entertainment, for bullfighting.

Do I feel sorry for the bullfighter?  Yes, I suppose I do, it is a human life lost.  However, he basically died by his own hand.  He chose to step in that ring.  He chose to fight an enraged animal that he was slowly and painfully killing.  He chose to do this as his profession, knowing that at any time he may be killed. And truth be told, he slipped on his own cape, making a fatal mistake.

But let’s be real here.  It’s not like his profession is a police officer or fire fighter, where you may be killed at any time in the line of action.  In these professions they are serving and protecting the public and trying to avoid death in the process..  In bullfighting, they are serving and entertaining the public by absolutely serving death on a platter, to the roar of approval by the crowd.  Shades of Roman gladiators, no?  Actually yes, it is all related.

Bullfighting is a series of three tandas, each of which bring more pain and suffering to the bull, in preparation for the final kill.  The matador entices the bull with his red cape (which is only red to mask the blood….bulls are color blind).

This is a gruesome sport, one that has been around for ages.  The arena in Mexico holds 48,000 spectators……FORTY EIGHT THOUSAND.  That’s a lot of people screaming for blood.  And, truth be told, a little goring of the matador probably adds to the excitement level of the crowd too.

I cannot say that I understand the sport of bullfighting.  Per Wiki, while some forms are sometimes considered to be a blood sport, in some countries, for example Spain, it is defined as an art form or cultural event and relevant regulatory frameworks liken it to other cultural events and heritage.

Then there’s the Running of the Bulls, where normal (?) people run in front of bulls down a narrow street, where the participants as well as the bulls may slip on the cobblestones. Another deadly sport I don’t understand.

Back to the dead Matador.  Sad for the loss of his life, sad for his family.  But I am continually sad for the hundreds, nay thousands of bulls slain every year for the enjoyment of the spectators.

But I guess I am in the mood for fighting for the underdog lately.  In this case, the bull.  I have no real pity for the matador.