The Newell Post

I have to confess. I did it. After years of avoidance and denial, I have succumbed to the peer pressure of the cultural bullies.

I watched two episodes of Game Of Thrones, albeit from season one.

I have a lot to catch up on to take part in all the water cooler or coffee pot discussions. Fortunately, being retired, I no longer take part in these gabfests. Nevertheless, there are occasions for me to sit quietly having nothing to say about GOT.

I hate having nothing to say.

I began watching and tried mightily to not associate the politics of GOT with the politics of GOTrump.

I have been successful, and no other mention about the current state of affairs will appear in this essay.

In the first two episodes, we see a number of beheadings, a dwarf having group sex with absolutely gorgeous women, I think there were five, and a small boy being pushed off a castle wall because he had the misfortune of seeing the Queen and one of his trusted men engage in an activity of, shall we say, double disloyalty?

Anyway, all the sex and violence did not move me in any way in identifying the good people from the bad people. I like Ned only because the actor, Sean Bean, also played Boromir in the Lord Of The Rings or LOTR as I am prone to say.

Well, here is my likable character in episode two killing one of his kids’ dogs.  Well, the dog is really a wolf, but he’s a cute little guy. It was this scene of gratuitous violence that upset me more than all the heads rolling on the ground.

I have been advised that you have to get through the first three episodes before GOT got you. Therefore, I have to decide if I want to get GOT got. Perhaps my most obvious obstacle to overcome is the sheer enormity of watching all those episodes from all those past seasons before I can be relevant in any meaningful GOT discussion.

The last thing I want to do is, for example, say I like Ned, and then someone chimes in that Ned is killed by his daughter for screwing up her chance to marry a Prince.

I hope the Prince gets killed. Let me know if he does, and I will be sure to continue no matter how long it takes.

I was always a late shopper. I always went Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. It seemed the thing to do. It was a spiritual impulse, not a procrastinating one. It seemed to make the present more significant if it was bought on Christmas Eve. Of course, it was a simpler time, and I had few gifts to purchase.

Nevertheless, I continued to do at least some shopping on Christmas Eve just to keep the tradition alive.

Mother’s Day was a lot like that for me.

Invariably, I would get up on that Sunday morning and get washed up and dressed for the ten o’clock mass that was mandated by the nuns of Blessed Sacrament. I would get out of the house by 8 o’clock, however, so that I could make my Mother’s Day purchase before my mother went to mass.

This entailed a trip to the Circle Florist and the purchase of a corsage. One year I had arrived at the Circle too late and had to head back towards St Lawrence Avenue to Dan’s Florist. That was a close one.

Every year the same gift and every year Momma loved it as much as the one she received last Mother’s Day.

I also had a card, and though I would wish her Happy Mother’s Day, I would always write,  “Happy Mother’s Day Momma” maybe sometimes I would use Mom instead of Momma. The point is I never called her Mother. My father never referred to her as Mother. Maureen, Johnny, Barbara, and Michael never referred to her as Mother.

It was always Momma. Never mother, never mommy and sometimes Mom.

I always got the impression that rich kids or at least snooty kids called their Mother, Mother. Sometimes you would see movies or television shows where kids referred to their parents as Mater and Pater.

But Lizzie was always Momma.

I should point out that our Father was never referred to as Father, always Daddy. Rarely Dad and always Daddy.

Of course, later in life, Momma and Daddy became Nana and Pop. But this was consistent as they were never called Grandmother and Grandfather.

So today, I write about Momma.

She seemed to have different relationships with people. I knew her in ways that my siblings did not. They, in turn, had much different relationships with her (I can hear Daddy yelling at me for using “her.” He hated any usage of pronouns when referring to Momma.)

Momma had an uncanny ability to know what was going on in your head. You really had a hard time keeping anything from her. I wouldn’t say she was manipulative, but she could get me to do things without coming out and asking me.

There was a time when I was in college, and I was working after school and I had some money. I could go out without asking my parents for money, and I bought albums whenever I wanted, and I saved up for next year’s tuition. Momma never asked me to contribute to the household and was confident that I was saving and not wasting my money.

Anyway, one night I came home, and she proceeded to tell me that someone had lost something they loved. She just related the story but in a way that made me ask, “Well, how much to replace it?” She replied, “One hundred dollars.” But, with a look of entreaty or anticipation.

I said, “I can give you a hundred dollars.” And she smiled.

Years late, I bought a 1973 Chevy Vega.

I was living at home, and I bought the car on a three-year payment plan.

Because I was living at home, I was able to pay the car off in seven months.

Now, because I had paid the car off in such a short time, I got a refund check of unearned interest for $800.

When I opened the letter and found the check, I was excited as you might expect.

Momma watched me and my reaction and asked very innocently, “So, what will you do with the money?”

Again, she had that look.

At that precise moment, I realized that I never would have been able to buy the car, much less pay it off in seven months, if I hadn’t been living at home. I saw all of that in her look.

She never asked me for it, but I believe she was wondering if I would realize what the proper thing to do would be.

I did not disappoint her.

In answer to her question, I responded, “Well, I never would have been able to pay the car off so fast so I’ll give the check to you.”

I know I made her more proud than happy. It wasn’t the money that pleased her, it was the appreciation of what I had been given all my life.

More than forty-five years after that interaction, I can still see her in our kitchen in 1261.

I consider that one of my many blessings and I hope you are as fortunate as I in remembering the tenderness and love of your Momma.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you beautiful mothers.

There was a time in my life when I could throw a football.  For a few years in my life, there was little else I could do but throw a football.

The combined talents of a number of my friends formed a pretty good team. We called ourselves The Falcons. Consisting mostly of New York Jet and New York Giant fans, Falcons seemed a useful compromise. Besides, it looked pretty good on our Gold and White with Black stripes around the shoulder uniforms.

One of our standard pass plays was what I called the loop. Today, I am going to refer to it as the Deep Fake.

It was a simple play. Mike or PJ would run a down and out pattern, and I would do a pump fake, look to the other side of the field all the while the receiver would run down the sideline. Having fully stimied the defensive player, I lofted a bomb that usually was caught by the wide open receiver.

We faked short and went deep.

Today the Deep Fake has nothing to do with football.

Apparently, savvy tech people can create human life. Well, at least to the extent that they can manipulate photographs and images and create a face that does not exist. It looks completely human, and in some ways, they can be very attractive. The trouble is it is a fake face.

Back in 2016, I knew there was something wrong with Facebook or at least with what I was exposed to on Facebook. There was a story that someone posted (not sure where it came from) relating that Hillary Clinton had had four abortions before she gave birth to Chelsea. This sickened me, and I refused to even comment on these types of pornography about a woman who was running for president.

Our concern with identity theft continues to be real. I feel vulnerable doing anything on the internet anymore. It won’t be long until I am sending checks instead of automatic payments. We worry about the big computer disasters. Someone hacking into the electric grid. Someone hacking into the Pentagon and launching an attack. But it is these seemingly minor incursions into our private life, being exposed to false information, that may prove most devastating.

While it is not certain, the 2016 election was affected by Russian hacking if only to sow a seed of doubt into our democratic process. Now, when data can be manipulated to create a face that does not exist, how long will it be that someone creates images of politicians in compromising situations. In the past, we had to rely on their sexting to do that. Now a four hundred pound guy in a New  Jersey basement can do it for us.

I worked at two colleges when they were implementing student information systems. Both were terrible experiences, and many people lost their jobs. Interestingly, it was never the IT people. They were the ones responsible for our schools purchasing inferior systems, they set it up badly, yet it was the users who paid the price. I remember thinking that this era will be deemed the Dark Ages Of Information Technology.

Apparently, we still have a way to go to perfect our technological vulnerability.

I understand the irony of this essay. I am here typing on an Apple Mac, and I am about to share my ideas on Facebook and Twitter and LinkedIn.

Oh well.

The last time I was in apartment six in 1261 Leland Avenue was sometime in the summer of 1983. Momma had died the December before and we thought it would be good for Pop to go to a different apartment. My brother Michael helped him identify a nice place on Benedict Avenue right outside of Parkchester.

Notwithstanding what I just wrote in the first sentence, I have been back to Leland Avenue and 1261 many, many times in the last thirty-six years. In fact, I was there just a few hours ago.

I used to return at least once a month but it seems the last few weeks I have gone there once a week. Most times my parents are there but, oddly enough, none of my siblings ever accompany me.

It’s usually dark and quite often in the dead of night. The television is never on, nor is the radio. If I talk to my parents it is only briefly and I seem to wake up shortly after seeing them. This morning’s encounter was the oddest one yet. My mother died when she was seventy-five but in this morning’s dream, she appeared very old, in her nineties.  My father, although I knew he was in the apartment, was not visible to me. He was in the front bedroom and I was in the living room talking with Momma.

We always called her Momma and my father was always called Daddy. Of course, once the grandkids came along they morphed into Nana and Pop. Even their children called them that whether or not the grandkids were around.

When Eileen and I were married we moved to Flushing in Queens. We stayed there for three years and then we moved to New Rochelle, just on the border with Larchmont. We lived in New Rochelle for four years.

I have never returned to Flushing or New Rochelle in my dreams.

From New Rochelle, we moved to East Quogue where we lived for over thirty-three years. In the two years since we moved to Florida, I have often dreamt about East Quogue.

I can only imagine that Leland Avenue and East Quogue have attachments still grabbing at me that Flushing and New Rochelle never had. It’s not that I wasn’t happy in either of these places. We had nice apartments and many good times with friends and family. Flushing was our first place when we were newly married. Life was easy and fun.

While living in New Rochelle I was still working in St. Vito’s and loving every minute of it. We did, however, grow up rapidly, forced to deal with crisis and life events that we hoped we could have put off for many years.

Shortly after moving to New Rochelle, we lost Eileen’s brother, Patrick, Then I lost my Momma. I think she would laugh if she knew I was still coming home to see her and Pop.

Leaving your parents when you reach a certain age is not only normal, it is expected. Leaving your children behind when you reach a certain age is not normal and I never would have expected that I would do that.

I know, lots of people leave their kids and move to Florida.

There wouldn’t be half the people down here if we all stayed back with our kids. So, dreaming about what I have left behind is probably not unusual. I don’t wake up sad or anything. In fact, dreaming about my parents allows me to enjoy their company however briefly.

Dreaming about East Quogue is mostly about remembering my youth and when my kids were young. Ironically, I also dream I am on a train about once a week.

Fortunately, we see our kids frequently considering the miles that separate us but that would have happened even in East Quogue. Life gets busier for them as they get older just as mine has grown lest hectic as I got older.

Sweet dreams everybody.

Today begins Unheated Pool Season in Florida, well, at least in my pool.

The water temperature was about 80 degrees which meant that it was a little chilly to my Florida adapted bones. Nevertheless, it was delightful. So much so that I began listening to one of my favorite playlists.

Back in the late ’60s, I didn’t have so much as a playlist as having several vinyl albums that would be part of my summer listening repertoire. The Byrds made up a significant portion of my summer fun.

Having my first unconditioned dip of the season, I decided to listen to the Byrds. Back in the days when I traveled the LIRR, I would get the Byrds onto my Walkman around Memorial Day. In Florida, the summer approaches sooner.

It was while in the pool and listening to the Byrds that I time traveled back to 1968 right into 1971. Specifically, the summers of these years.

To be a boy in New York at this time was glorious. I am sure it was great for girls too. I know this because one of my favorite things to do in these summers was to admire the girls in their summer dresses. Being a mail clerk that took me around to all the secretaries at P. Lorillard Corp., had its advantages.

There were times, also, that my assigned duties would have me make a delivery or a pick up requiring me to walk up Fifth Avenue. I used to love walking up Fifth and just admire the sea of people as their heads bobbed up and down as if in the surf at Jones Beach, You could see the heat, but it was still a beautiful sight to behold.

Of course, back in those summers, we didn’t have air conditioners. I felt fortunate because we had two fans at 1261 Leland Apartment 6. If you were lucky enough to sleep on those hot sultry nights, you were able to get up and dressed only because of the promise of what was to come.

Unfortunately, the promise was not readily available and would not be realized for nearly an hour. During that period of waiting, I had the distinct pleasure of riding the IRT number 6 from the Parkchester station.

The breeze of the line of subway cars that came when the train entered the station was exhilarating. However, the breeze and exhilaration were left on the platform as there was no air conditioning of subway cars in those days.

The train was hot and proceeded to get crowded. By the time you got to 125th Street and changed to the IRT 4 or 5, a damp mop could be made from your suit jacket and shirt. Happily, you got off the 6 and entered an even more crowded and hotter train. It was only an improvement because it was going to take ten minutes off my commute to 42nd Street.

Having arrived at my destination and made my way past the nun who sat incessantly on the top step of the Grand Central landing, my hopes for a better future were buoyed.

The corner of Lexington Avenue and 42nd Street was what you thought of as midtown New York City. The Chrysler Building, the Hotel Commodore and all the other buildings in the area were something I never took for granted.

But my destination was one block east. The Lorillard Building was situated on the southeastern corner of 3rd Avenue and 42nd Street. The address was 200 East 42nd Street, but the entrance was on 3rd Avenue. A Horn and Hardarts occupied the lower floor on the north side of the building. It was upon entering 200 East 42nd Street that the magic began and my promise for a brighter day was realized.

All you had to do was enter through the glass doors of the lobby and your day was transformed. A refreshing, aromatic breezed lifted you right off your feet. Your suit jacket didn’t seem to bother you. Hell, you could even scrunch up your tie a little tighter. There was a metal waterfall on the back wall of the lobby, so you imagined yourself walking beside a magic stream or river. Reading Herman Hesse on the train only seemed to enhance this fantasy.

I took the elevator to the 3rd floor and my day of work would soon commence. Chatting with my supervisors as we sorted the day’s mail and laughing at the give and take between my fellow mail clerks was always so much fun. We would get the mail sorted and broken down by floors, and each would complete his assigned round.

The first delivery of the day only resulted in cursory greetings to the office secretaries. They had jobs to do as more than one of their supervisors took great pleasure in reminding me. Additionally, the sooner we got our mail delivered, the sooner we could take our coffee break.

While a cart from Horn and Hardarts made the rounds to our office, we also frequented a coffee shop across 42nd Street that had great coffee and the best toasted blueberry and corn muffins. But it was the ensuing banter that was more enjoyable than the coffee.

Here it was weeks after Bobby Kennedy and two months after Martin Luter King were assassinated and yet black guys from Brooklyn, Hispanic guys from the South Bronx and Jewish guys from Queens along with this white guy from the Bronx were all happy and having fun with each other. It was the beauty of diversity before we ever knew what diversity was.

It was also multigenerational as our bosses were men in their sixties who had lived during WW II and were not so happy with the developments in the ’60s. Nevertheless, they, too, enjoyed us enjoying each other.

I made the equivalent of $5,000 a year, and I was able to save a few bucks and add to my vinyl collection as well.

It was a good time, but perhaps that is what the lesson of it all is.

There were assassinations, and crime, political unrest, demonstrations against the war, racial unrest, and on and on. In many ways, things are so much better today than back then.

Maybe it would be a good idea to put a music list together and remember that these are still the good old days?

I wrote this entry back in 2012. It was a far more innocent time when you could write about gratitude and actually have something to write. Sadly, today we seem to be beaten and downtrodden by those we have entrusted to be our leaders. It’s hard to trust anyone today in any position of leadership. So, let’s forget about the state of 2019 America and remember the good old days of 2012.

May 1st is May Day. Back during the Cold War the Soviet Union would parade out their ICBMs to celebrate the Russian worker. They didn’t have toilet paper but they had some big ass missiles. I remember that we used to celebrate May 1st as the Feast Day of St Joseph The Worker to kind of shoot down the May Day thing.

Well, the reason I am writing about this tonight is that I was waiting for my train and there were these two college students handing out May Day Rally newsletters. Apparently, there will be a march in the spirit of the Occupy Wall Street movement. The 99% are marching against the 1%.

I talked to one of the students and commiserated with him about the economy and job prospects. He was a grad student getting a degree in Social Anthropology. In the day when if you are not trained for a specific job, not a university professor, he will have a tough time. I didn’t have the heart to ask him about his student loans.

Then I came home and as soon as I got in the house Eileen made me watch Oprah. It’s Monday…(remember my Monday Monday blog?) and both the Rangers and Yankees are on and I have about 11 points to eat so the last thing I wanted to do was to sit down and watch Oprah. Don’t get me wrong I love Oprah but the Yankees, Rangers and those points, come on.

But I sit down and watch. She really does have great shows and tonight’s was about gratitude. She had a panel consisting of Tony Robbins, Deepak Chopra and a couple of other interesting speakers. The short message they had to deliver was that we all need to be in a state of gratitude. Regardless of what our station in life happens to be, we must show gratitude.

I thought of the college students and the May Day  Rally and the Occupy Wall Streeters and I was wondering if they feel gratitude? I would expect they don’t. I am not sure if you asked me as I was getting off the train tonight if I was grateful, what I would say. But watching Oprah tonight I hope I would say that I am.

There was a time when I was probably more grateful than I feel right this second. An ache here and a case of the shingles there and you can get crabby and not feel especially happy and certainly not grateful. That’s why you need Oprah to sit you down, via Eileen, and dope it out as my Uncle Al used to say.

I am grateful for everything I have, all the people in my life. The people I work with. The people I used to work with…I have lots of them in my life. The people who read my blog. I may be going into singing Bing’s “I’ve Got Plenty To Be Thankful For” if I don’t watch it. (By the way, that song is from Holiday Inn when he is cutting into Mr. Jonesy the turkey.)

I would bet that even on a Monday night you could identify quite a bit for which you are grateful. Perhaps you are grateful that I am going to be ending this blog…

Now!

Goodnight everyone and thanks!

Forty-eight years ago a few hundred thousand people descended on Washington DC to protest the War In Viet Nam. At the time it was said that it was the largest demonstration in DC history.

The War In Viet Nam divided this country more than any issue in modern times.

Fathers who fought in World War II didn’t understand their sons who didn’t want to fight in Viet Nam. The fathers remembered a time when to be patriotic was not a virtue it was simply what one should be.

Being patriotic meant that you went to war when your leaders said you should. Don’t question the President just do your duty.

Worthy sentiments, indeed, when your President was FDR and the enemy threatened the annihilation of civilization. In 1971 things were not so clearly defined.

While we hadn’t yet learned that President Lyndon Johnson’s reason for escalating the war was a political decision to offset the Hawkish Republican challenger, Barry Goldwater,  and not a military decision many, nevertheless, came to believe that the war was a failure of American policy and that it was an unwinnable war. We never won the Korean War so what made Viet Nam different?

America was still reeling from the Kennedy Assassination and, while the nation appeared to mourn together, whatever unity may have existed was short lived.

While LBJ may have faltered when it came to waging war on Viet Nam, his War On Poverty and enacting the Civil Rights Ace were noble achievements.

On the homefront,  LBJ was a master statesman. But still, a sizable portion of the American electorate was not happy. Illustrative of a great divide is the fact that in the 1968 Presidential election George C. Wallace, the hero of segregationists, was able to win five states and thirteen percent of the popular vote, over nine million votes.

In a year when Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy were both assassinated, a segregationist could muster thirteen percent to support him.

Enter Richard Nixon and his Peace With Honor campaign which included invading Cambodia.

While Nixon cannot be blamed for being the first President to send troops or “advisors” as Kennedy called them, nor was he the one who had first sent thousands of more soldiers. Nixon, was, however, the President who was in charge for most of the time America waged war on Viet Nam.

Peace with Honor was proving hard to come by.

So, to say that in 1971 America was a nation divided is no exaggeration.

Many American grew tired of watching a scroll of names every Friday evening listing the brave soldiers who gave their lives in Viet Nam. Sadly many of the returning war heroes were never acknowledged for their service or their loss. It took nearly twenty years to recognize these brave soldiers with a monument in Washington DC.

Today we are bombarded with Politician testimonials regarding the service provided by veterans. Ignoring that so many suffer from PTSD and so many are homeless, these politicians proudly proclaim that we love our Veterans.

It must be a kind of tough love.

It takes more than words to thank these brave men and women for what they have done and for what they have sacrificed.

We are greatly divided today, perhaps even more than in 1971. Can’t we at least agree that our veterans deserve much more than we are giving them? Can’t we have a government that can at least accomplish something for them?

There is such an ado about obtaining tax returns and other documents from Trump and his White House. I think this is being short-sighted. I think Congress should get his DNA.

At a family reunion this past weekend, one of my cousins had a map of the McHugh Diaspora. I made that term up. McHugh is my mother’s family name and the origination of the McHugh DNA was in central Africa. Well, East Central Africa.

Immediately upon seeing the arc of travel of my DNA, I said that this was the great equalizer. The McHughs are not alone in having their history begin in Africa. We probably all can call Africa our original home.

How terrific if we could all remember this fact when haters spew out their bigotry and bias. What more do we need to consider to illustrate that there is more that we share than what drives us apart?

A couple of bits of genetic material may not seem powerful enough to overturn centuries of racism and xenophobia but even if creates a nagging sensation in your head when you say something stupid about a group of people you have designated worthy of your wrath, then perhaps that little speck of DNA will prove too strong to ignore.

After a long arduous, frozen, gray winter, the first day of spring is a welcome arrival.

March can still be a bugger, don’t get me wrong. And April? For some reason, I feel the cold of forty degrees in April more than the fifteen degrees in February. I expect it to be cold in February but we are already a few weeks into spring when April arrives and I want it to be spring-like, and forty degrees is not spring-like.

Of course, since I have been living in Florida these last two years my right to complain about the cold of April or even February has been relinquished to the people I have left behind in the frozen tundra of New York and Long Island.

And while today is the first full day of spring, I always feel that spring really begins when pitchers and catchers report to spring training. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t spring in February, even in Florida. But, baseball has returned and that’s all that matters and little else is required to warm the cockles of an old man’s heart…but then there’s Saint Patrick’s Day. Another arrow in the quiver of spring.

As a kid, the arrival of spring inspired me and my friends to find our gloves and bats and balls (I’m sorry there’s just no other way to put it) and to meet in the schoolyard. Having done so for so many years you would have thought that we could have avoided the second rite of spring…throwing the softball too hard and throwing your arm out.

I can still feel the pain except that it is brought on by arthritis these days.

There were times that we had to bring a shovel to clean the field of yesterday’s snow. But it was still spring and we were officially entering the first day of summer countdown and the more important first day of summer vacation that would soon follow.

Happy Spring!

I came of age when graduating from high school was still a big deal. Neither of my parents attended high school as they had to work as teenagers. So, having five children that graduated from high school was an accomplishment for parents who worked hard all their lives and strove to make a better life for their kids.

Graduating from high school, notwithstanding, I was encouraged to go to college. It wasn’t because I possessed such a brilliant mind that had to be shared with the universe. It was more because it was such a grand step to take towards a promising future.

In addition to having parents that supported the notion of my attending college, I also had siblings who set a high bar for achievement. To keep pace with them I knew I had to go to college. The gang of friends that I had the pleasure and good fortune to latch on to was also pushing and prodding me along the way to college because I couldn’t let them go without me.

It was peer pressure all around.

As I entered my senior year of high school in 1967 I identified two colleges that I wanted to attend.

My brother Johnny attended St. John’s University in Queens and that became my first choice. The fact that my good buddy was going to be there with me made the choice easier.

While Mike and I would be attending St. John’s University, my other friends would be (or soon would be) attending Fordham University, Manhattan College, and Iona College. Only two of our friends ventured away from home.

For us going to college had nothing to do with rock climbing walls or sixty person hot tubs and if our parents had enough money to bribe our way into the Ivy League they sure wouldn’t have spent it on bribing our way into the Ivy League.

To be honest, back in 1967 I didn’t know what the Ivy League was.

All of my friends went to college and the only thing we debated was the quality of the basketball programs. We took for granted that the quality of education was a given. No matter where you went you would be afforded the opportunity to learn.

You were going to be exposed to ideas and people who were serious thinkers. You were going to have to work hard to keep pace. It wasn’t going to be all basketball games and beer rackets, though in my first two years I wouldn’t have thought anything else mattered.

The fact is I did learn at St. John’s and I did grow and I had an explosion in maturity that helped me make up for those first two years and was able to proceed from there to a lifelong journey of learning.

I think that is all my parents could have hoped for and the good news is that they didn’t have to bribe anyone to get me to that point of awareness.

Yesterday’s story about the college admissions scandal had no impact on me. Having worked at Universities for over thirty years, I saw firsthand how much has changed since 1967.

These parents who bribed officials to get their kids into “elite” schools had no illusion of getting their children an opportunity to learn. They were only concerned in the name of the school on the sweatshirt. They were only concerned with the logo on the diploma. These schools are not elite but they do serve elitist,

As millions of students have accrued over a trillion dollars in student loan debt to give this story any airtime on news channels is a misuse of the airwaves. More attention should be given to the increasingly dangerous reliance on student loans to and other federal programs to keep these elite schools open.

If the government wants to eliminate this type of fraud, make the penalty fit the crime. Eliminate federal aid eligibility for schools that continue to abuse the admissions system.

Also, parents wake up! Don’t get suckered in by glitz and glam of the elites. There are hundreds of colleges and universities that offer quality education where students learn much more the notion that money can buy anything.