Search results for: Lois DeSocio

We’re Morphing

20 Thursday Mar 2014

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New Day. watercolor. Julie Seyler.

New Day. Watercolor. Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO AND JULIE SEYLER

To Our Readers:

Without any conscious intent on our part, and with the intrepid adaptability that is necessary in the face of the unexpected slings and arrows that life in our 50s is rife with, we had to allow the blog to morph into a new direction yesterday.

We have been talking for some time now about whether or not we should shutter the blog. Not because we don’t love it – we do. It is our baby, our artistic release, and a ton of fun. No, we were thinking of shuttering because our schedules and obligations and responsibilities are endless. And yesterday, without warning, they all caught up with both of us.

We all know that this journey through middle age is unlike previous journeys. It seems as if, all of a sudden, we go from our crazy, partying 20s to careers, marriage and kids. Then there is the 10-year respite – when children leave home, and we have to re-define ourselves. Our generation has managed to (at least in our minds) extend each stage of our lifespan – 27 is the new 17, 40 is the new 30, 50 is the new 40! Until now.

How could we project what it would be like to have to worry about, take care of (and sometimes bury) our parents? We don’t want to retire – but can we if we wanted to? Is there enough to live on? Loss and change can be daily, and decisions are often of the momentous kind.

Plus, we are being reminded every day that our days are shorter. It’s daunting.

So all that stuff, plus our demanding full-time jobs, took over yesterday. Neither one of us had a moment to get the blog up and out. This was a first. We’ve published 412 posts in over a years’ time. And have not missed a day.

But we have 105 possible posts in the queue, from us, and our contributors.

So we’ve decided to do the lemonade-out-of-lemons thing. The blog is here to stay, but it will be a little different. It may not always be six days a week. If our responsibilities pull us in all directions, simultaneously, the blog may be dark for a day.

One last thing. Without a doubt, this blog is the sum of its parts, and we thank each and every person who has contributed. And a special nod to Bob and Frank, who were a part of it on November 19, 2012, when we launched.

And that’s the sweet spot in all of this – yesterday’s date. We realized today, that it was the perfect day to change course. It was March 19 – our 16-month anniversary.

Newark is Nothing New to Those of Us in the Know

24 Friday May 2013

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Forno's of Spain

Fornos of Spain. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO AND JULIE SEYLER

My little New Jersey town conveniently straddles two big cities – Manhattan and Newark. I can make it to downtown Newark in 15 minutes, and on a Sunday, sans traffic, can drive to Manhattan in 20.

But it’s a hard sell to get my Manhattan friends to bridge or tunnel it over to the Jersey side for anything, much less dinner. Why would anyone leave Manhattan to eat? And eat in Newark? For the 25 years that I’ve lived nearby, a suggestion to dine in Newark has provoked comments from the uneducated about how they don’t understand how I could live so close to a city that they consider to only have bragging rights as a murder capital. Given that Newark’s Ironbound district rivals any Manhattan neighborhood for flavor of both the palatable and neighborhood kind – they are missing out.

But Julie was recently open to giving it a go, and took the PATH to Newark, where we met at Fornos of Spain – a somewhat touristy, but still tasty, Ironbound fixture. Shocking that Julie, a born-in-Jersey girl, who will fly for seven hours to eat tapas in Madrid, had never, in 50-plus years, ventured anywhere in Newark beyond its Penn Station platform. Dare I say – she and her camera were smitten? At least with the name:

In the Ironbound section of Newark, New Jersey there is a restaurant called Fornos of Spain. It is readily accessible from Manhattan via either the PATH or NJ Transit to Newark Penn Station. Last week, Lois and I dined there with our contributor buddies, Frank and Bob. We reveled in clams casino and gambas al ajillo; grilled grouper, paella valencia and filled-to-the-brim pitchers of sangria. I am pleased to say the sangria was not cloyingly sweet, as I, too, as this New York Times article points out, remember it being when I was drinking it in the 1970s.

Paella Valencia.

Paella Valencia.

Sangria.

Sangria.

The next day I set about looking for the Fornos, you know, the restaurant “of Spain.” I assumed that the Newark joint was a scion of a famous place in Spain, probably Madrid. An Internet search just turned up thousands of reviews of the Newark restaurant. I discussed the dilemma with Lois, who had a simple explanation: ‘Well, Jule, fornos means ovens in Portuguese, therefore the restaurant is actually called the Ovens of Spain.’ What? I mulled this over. That doesn’t make sense, because if fornos means ovens in Portuguese, why didn’t they call the restaurant Fornos of Portugal? And even that is not the final word on the subject because couldn’t there be a family named The Fornos? Maybe they came from Spain. So, what’s in a name? Whether it’s forno, or Newark? What I do know is that I want to go back to Newark’s Ironbound and find a Portuguese restaurant without “Spain” in the name.

An E-Mail Ode (And Reply) to the Oyster Pearl

28 Friday Dec 2012

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Tree burls and pearls. Drawing by Julie Seyler

BY LOIS DESOCIO

An integral part of our blog’s beginnings were incessant e-mail exchanges between Julie and me, with ideas for what the blog should be about. Threaded into the scores of business e-mails and blog ideas, were some slices of raw revelation, as the ever-evolving voice of the blog drifted from a focus on food and travel to one about navigating our 50s. The e-mails generated tons of ideas, so we diligently filed them away in our queue.

One day in May, Julie dashed off a short poem and e-mailed it to me, thinking it was quite a witty characterization of being on the right side of 50. Her poem, and my e-mailed response, copied and pasted below, sums up how differently we view the physics of aging. For Julie, the two lines conveyed how fleeting the time is between the dewiness of youth, which we take for granted, and the next moment, when it has evaporated. As she sees it, it doesn’t come at one point in time, but throughout the transitions in life. You assume your oyster pearl complexion will always be a part of you, and then … it isn’t.

My poem was better:

On Wed, May 30, 2012 at 3:04 PM, Julie Seyler wrote:

One day you are the oyster pearl
the next time you looked you were the tree burl.

On Wed, May 30, 2012 at 3:28 PM, Lois DeSocio replied:

OOH – that hurts. Props on the poem, but I refuse to be deformed. I will be: 

One day I was just a girl;
The next time I looked I was the oyster pearl.

Lemonade, Jule

About

Conversations with other men and women had prompted the blog “The Write Side of 50,” because no one tells you, nor can they explain, what it’s like to navigate 50 to 60, and beyond. Well, the blog is almost three, and we’re hitting 60, so we’ve updated the name to “The Write Side of 59.” Sixty to 70, it seems, will be fodder for some fresh and adventurous storytelling.

Lois DeSocio (left), 61, a journalist who ran a blog for The New York Times, is an ethereal girl. She has a notebook, a pen, and a steadfast optimism.
IMG_8795
Julie Seyler (right), 60, is a New York attorney and an artist.
She is devoted to exploring the medium of oil, watercolor, collage,
pastel and fabric on canvas, paper and wood.  
She loves taking photographs of the beauty that exists so unassumingly in her world. She is a realist who translates life into irreverent strokes.

They grew up in the suburbs of Asbury Park in the 1960s and 1970s, which they believe gives them
an open mind and an edgy eye. They are friends for over 40 years who like to play a good knife and fork, drink martinis, and travel, all the while musing over the triumphs and travails of how much you change, and how much you are challenged, if you make it this far. They encourage comments.

Happy Thanksgiving

24 Thursday Nov 2016

Posted by in Confessional

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peace-earrings

BY LOIS DESOCIO

It took two recent encounters while wearing my $12.99, big, grasshopper-green, plastic peace-sign earrings (embedded with sparkly glass chips) for me to recognize their value.

I bought them years ago and have only worn them once. It was a Halloween party. I went as me — but with big, grasshopper-green, plastic peace-sign earrings (embedded with sparkly glass chips).

This past Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving, I wore them to Stop and Shop for my holiday shopping. I was feeling that heightened swell of warmth that always hits me when Thanksgiving becomes the reason I am in the supermarket. That fellowship with everyone else who is there at the same time. That sense of communal preparation. Who cares that your cart is blocking the aisle! Sure, you can have that last package of Pepperidge Farm breadcrumbs! Here, cut in line! It’s Thanksgiving!

But this year I expected to feel the bleakness that the election has draped over conversations, social media, the streets, dinner tables. I was prepared for a sense of discord in the aisles; polarization in frozen foods; lost souls in checkout. So I went out adorned with ear-to-ear whimsy. I will not partake. It’s Thanksgiving.

An older couple approached me in the parking lot as I was closing my trunk after packing it with groceries. They asked for, and I handed over, my shopping cart. They smiled simultaneously and both said “Thank you.” The woman said, “I love your earrings.”

“We need to help each other as much as we can,” I said. I rubbed the woman’s arm. She nodded. We simultaneously chuckled reassuringly. It’s Thanksgiving.

Hours later, while walking my dog on my street, a young woman jogging by proclaimed to my earrings with a fist in the air, “Peace be with you!”
It really is Thanksgiving.

So today I will bring my whimsy to the Thanksgiving table. I’m planning to wear my earrings all day. I feel grateful. I will give my mom, who is suffering from severe dementia, a tighter hug.

And by taking note of all the things that she can no longer do — go to the Stop and Shop. Connect with a total stranger or three on the street. Walk the dog. Vote. Make stuffing. Feel grateful. Put on big, grasshopper-green, plastic peace-sign earrings (embedded with sparkly glass chips) — I will be reminded of how easily and unexpectedly it can all be taken away.

Happy Thanksgiving. Peace.

Beirut Bound (And Boundless)

16 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by in Travel

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Maura

BY LOIS DESOCIO

This afternoon, my friend Maura will board a Lufthansa jet bound for Beirut, Lebanon.

“I love you.” “I’ll miss you.” (“Go for it!”) has been written, spoken, texted and sent (accompanied by hugs, kisses, sing-alongs, tequila shots, dining-room dancing, swimming, and wine-soaked feasts), by those of us who were part of her two-month summer send-off.

“What!” “Wow.” “Whoa!” has also been, and continues to be, uttered by many upon hearing of Maura’s decision to spend a year, and possibly two, in what was formerly dubbed the “Paris of the Middle East,” and is now a headline and a five-hour trek away from the war in Syria.

Maura, who will be 57 in November, is heading to the Middle East to teach reading, writing, math, science, and social studies to 4th graders at The American Community School in Beirut. She estimates she is one of eight to 10 new teachers coming to the school, with about 25 percent of the faculty from the United States.

What drew her to Beirut (she also had offers from Guangzhou, China and Doha, Qatar) is that it is “lush, Mediterranean, and old, with so many cultures (55% are Muslim, 5% are Druze, and 40% are Christian) that live together in shaky harmony.”

She plans to ski Lebanon’s snow-capped mountains, wander the “farm-rich plateaus,” swim its gold-sanded beaches, and snorkel over ancient Phoenician shipwrecks. There will be hiking in ancient caves, monasteries and Roman ruins to explore; hummus, fattoush, and shawarma to eat.

And then there’s the kids.

“I anchor myself in all the nuttiness of the move in reminding myself that I love to teach because I really enjoy spending the day around children,” she said.

A recent by survey by The International Educator, a resource for educators who are looking to teach abroad, revealed that middle age is ripe for grabbing that global teaching opportunity, and “some school heads and recruiters are quite eager to hire older candidates with extensive experience and the wisdom that can only come with age.”

Maura’s got just that. Plus she is intrepid, lovely, pragmatic and tough. Since suffering the loss of her husband Lee, who died two years ago from complications stemming from multiple sclerosis, her gearshift has been parked in Forward.

So putting her house up for rent, packing a year of life into three 48-pound suitcases, and trading her 14-year teaching job in an elementary school in small-town New Jersey for an urban-international school in the biggest (and among the world’s oldest) city in Lebanon is not much of a leap.

After all, she scuba dives in Honduras:

Maura scuba

Maura in the middle. With her sons Sean and Cameron.

Powers through 5K mud runs in New Jersey:

Maura Mud 2

Maura hanging. With rings.

And opened up the 2014 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony in Cleveland:

Screen Shot 2016-08-16 at 8.45.18 AM

Maura at the podium. With sequins.

No doubt Maura’s solid middle-age bedrock is fortified by her younger years with Lee. She has him tucked inside; his initial tattooed on her wrist. He’s going with her.

“I want to be strong, she said. “I know I will get lonely and miss everyone madly. But I want to grow as a human. To get out of the familiar way of being and thinking. And being alone and feeling lonely will have to be a part of that. I both accept it and dread it.”

So, I feel I can speak for those of us for whom Maura has been a staple in our every day for years; more sister than friend. One last (albeit tearful) round of: “I love you.” “I’ll miss you.” (“Go for it!”)

Maura back

Maura will be blogging from Beruit. Follow her at Eyes Wide Open, which will go live once she lands.

One Timpano, Two Timpano, Three Timpano …

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

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Timpano

BY LOIS DESOCIO

… Score!

After three attempts, in as many years, I believe I have conquered timpano — that barrel-shaped feast of encased noodles, salami, cheese, pork, beef, ragu, hard-boiled eggs, and star of the 1996 movie “Big Night.”

I wrote about my second attempt in 2012. (The first attempt was not worthy of documentation.)

So when I read New York Times food writer, Melissa Clark’s tweaked timpano recipe from December 11 (see below), I was inspired to go for a third round over the holidays. Clark mixed and nixed, modernized and molded an easier, less labor-intensive timpano.

But I was torn. Making timpano is a feat you don’t mess with. I have learned from first-hand experience and as is evident in the movie, it is an event that is supposed to be nothing short of a mix of religious exultation and traumatic sweat — a recipe for stress and science as you chop, slice, toss, stir, wrap and bake with a bow to the ingenuity of the ingredients and salutation to the artistry of the finished product.

There’s the mess on the counter. Arithmetic is called for. You salivate as you combine a bunch of things that you may never have thought could be combined into what becomes an unwieldy mound that then has to be wrapped in dough and baked and ultimately burnt at least two times before you get it right.

But I’m a fan of Clark’s. And a failure at timpano, so …

… I tweaked Clark’s tweak. And because of the merging of her talent and deft with my reckless abandon in the kitchen (because I’ll eat anything) — I finally nailed that drum.

Clark substituted savory roasted butternut squash for the hot hard boiled eggs from the original. I followed her lead, but I wish I had used both. (The addition of roasted squash, though, was sublime.) Also, instead of wrapping it all in dough, she used fresh pasta sheets, which makes for a gigantic, layer-free lasagne, as opposed to an upside-down (not pie-shaped) over-stuffed pizza. In retrospect — give me pizza.

I used broccoli and garlic instead of her broccoli rabe (no strings attached), I substituted honey for nutmeg, and I shoved some mini meatballs in there along with three kinds of homemade (from the local pork store) sausage. (You must never, ever eliminate meatballs. Never.)

And instead of salami OR prociutto, as Clark suggested, I went with salami AND prociutto. Clark took out the pecorino romano — I kept it in.

The one mess-up is that my recent triumph at timpano will for the most part remain in limbo, mainly because I didn’t write anything down, and couldn’t read a good portion of what I did write down. Most of what I’ve written here came from memory after drinking wine and eating timpano.

Here’s the original Big Night Timpano recipe, which takes a labor-intensive five hours to make.
Here’s Clark’s, which she professes to be a “faster and easier” four hours.

I can’t calculate how long it took me, but “faster and easier” and me and timpano didn’t mix (partly because of the frantic Christmas Eve-morning search for fresh pasta sheets). But I do believe my third try gave a nod to Clark’s modernity and a bow to the integrity of the original. And props to me for messing with the pros while maintaining palatability. And I didn’t burn it.

Timpano eaten

My timpano, 24 hours in.

Yes, This Thanksgiving Will Still Be About Stuffing

25 Wednesday Nov 2015

Posted by in Confessional, Food

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Mom 1-2

Mom. Monmouth Beach. Circa 1980.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

This year, Thanksgiving will be devoted to my mom.

My mom, who is the daughter of immigrants from Northern Ireland, who crossed the sea to America, dirt poor, but rich with a naiveté that allowed hope.

My mom, whose own mom, after a total of three healthy-born children and more than five miscarriages, left her family when my mother was four years old.

My mom, who is the only daughter of a loving father who, alone, raised his three children in Elizabeth, New Jersey and supported them by driving an ice truck.

My mom, innately feisty (and as no-nonsense as good Irish whiskey), who, determined to break the rut of struggle, made a life for herself. By herself.

My mom, a young 20-something woman who became a top-notch secretary, who eventually married her boss, my dad — a handsome, educated, athlete and poet, whose quiet demeanor rimmed (and sometimes masked) his zest and verve, and who, with my mom, raised three children who inherited her hardiness and his calm.

My mom, a 47-year-old woman who left that marriage after 25 years because she wanted what she never had.

My mom, a middle-aged woman whose grit and brains (and good legs), helped build a successful career as an export administrator (and leg model) for an international cosmetics firm.

My mom, who eight months ago was living with the onset of mild dementia, but was still somewhat independent, smart, dignified, supportive, loving, flawed. And feisty.

Then she fell.

She fell and hit her head on a concrete curb on the side of the road while walking alone near her home. For some time, her snow-white coat made her look like a mound of plowed snow, until someone stopped and called for help.

She was fast-forwarded into dementia with severe brain trauma that thrust her into a dark tunnel of a life; a kaleidoscope of sound bites from the past, confusion, hallucinations.

And the occasional laugh:

“When did you turn Chinese?” she asked me.
“I was on an airplane last night that had no pilots.”
“Watch out! Stay next to me! There’s a force field around us!”

And the latest, “They don’t make Pepperidge Farm Stuffing Mix anymore.”

Among the things she worries about when she remembers who she is and who she was, is sending birthday cards, buying gifts, and just recently buying pies from Delicious Orchards and that Pepperidge Farm Stuffing Mix to make her stuffing for the holidays.

For as long as I can remember, no one else has ever made the Thanksgiving stuffing. And until this Thanksgiving, no one knew her recipe. I now have her old, broken, but neat, recipe box from the ’60s with the squawking roosters on the front.

Tucked in between Cabbage with Onions and Irish Bread, and on what appears to be the original 3×5 card, is Sausage Stuffing.

photo-33

The stuffing reveal.

So this Thanksgiving, to be closer to mom, our party of eight will gather in my cozy four-room condo on the beach with the kitchen that only fits five. We’ll cram a big turkey into a less-than-ideal oven (it’s electric!) that comfortably fits a chicken, not a turkey. We’ll have the usual sides — mashed potatoes (I shamelessly might go instant), my mom’s creamed corn recipe that she shared with everyone, a pile of roasted veggies, and my mom’s stuffing recipe that she’s never shared with anyone.

My hope is that mom will make the stuffing (a double batch) for the first time with all of us crammed around her because she can’t be alone with a stove. I’ll imagine what she would be saying if she could.

I’ll chop and mince and measure. She’ll stir and sautee under my brother’s watchful eye. She’ll assemble. (“Never, ever in the bird!”) She’ll put it in the oven. I’ll take it out. I’ll sneak a spoonful before it reaches the table.

We’ll all eat as much stuffing as we can muster, in case this is the last time she has a hand in it. I’ll surprise her with an apple pie and a pumpkin pie from Delicious Orchards for dessert that she can take turns picking at with alternate sides of her fork. (“I think we need whipped cream.”)

We’ll talk as if Thanksgiving and mom are what they used to be. We’ll call her brother who is on the edge of 90 and forgets that his sister is “gone,” and talks as if it’s 1965. We’ll open and read to her the letters from family in Northern Ireland that have piled up.

And no doubt, she’ll remember none of it, including how much stuffing I ate. (“Put the stuffing in front of Lois.”)

But the rest of us will.

Who is Clueless: Me? The Press? Or the NFL?

20 Thursday Aug 2015

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“Conduct by anyone in the league that is illegal, violent, dangerous, or irresponsible puts innocent victims at risk, damages the reputation of others in the game, and undercuts public respect and support for the NFL. We must endeavor at all times to be people of high character; we must show respect for others inside and outside our workplace; and we must strive to conduct ourselves in ways that favorably reflect on ourselves, our teams, the communities we represent, and the NFL.”

Excerpt from NFL Personal Conduct Policy, courtesy of NFL.com, December 2014.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I have a scoop. I’m confident that no one else has written about it. I think very few people even know about it. For almost a year now, I have been pitching this opinion piece: The NFL published and promoted the walk-up songs chosen by the 2014 and 2015 draftees on its website, NFL.com. Songs that “are rife with misogynistic, hip-hop diatribes such as “hoes,” bitches,” and a slew of other highly offensive words and phrases that pump up violence against women, give props to drinking, dealing (and doing) drugs, and having enough NFL “paper” (money) to splurge on all of the above.”

I’ve pitched to mega media outlets, magazines, and online news blogs and websites. No one wants it.

I’ve been handed rejection after rejection. The rejections ranged from silence, to “Nice piece!”, to “… the makings of a good piece …”, to “Maybe”. And ultimately from all: “Sorry, but not for us.”

The vibe seems to be that my scoop is actually a “non-issue.” Much ado about nothing. Some young adult men that I know have hinted that this old(er) woman is a bit out of touch with the times.

Enough said. Read for yourself. Here’s the piece. Please chime in. Comment. I’m curious. Am I out of touch? Is this a non-issue?:

The May 2015 arrest of defensive end Ray McDonald on domestic violence charges (his third accusation of violence against women), and the subsequent decision by the Chicago Bears, who signed him in March of this year, to cut McDonald from the team, puts the spotlight back on the NFL and its culture of violence against women.

A big move in the right direction by the Bears? Is cutting McDonald a sign that the NFL is putting some muscle behind its ongoing campaign to change its misogynistic culture?

Let’s dig deeper. We don’t have to look much further than NFL.com. Plug in a search for “2015 Walk-up songs.” This is the second year that the draftees were asked to pick a song that would be played as each player walked across the stage at the NFL Draft. (This year it was at the Auditorium Theater of Roosevelt University in Chicago on April 30 through May 2.)

And it’s the second year that NFL.com lists those songs, with links to the accompanying videos. Songs that are rife with misogynistic, hip-hop diatribes such as “hoes,” bitches,” and a slew of other highly offensive words and phrases that pump up violence against women, give props to drinking, dealing (and doing) drugs, and having enough NFL “paper” (money) to splurge on all of the above.

Is my jaw the only one dropping?

For it was less than a year ago that commissioner Roger Goodell, in a 2014 September press conference after his end run around former Baltimore Raven Ray Rice’s elevator-punch that knocked his then-fiancee, Janay Palmer unconscious, pledged that when it comes to violence against women, the NFL was going to get “our house in order.” That the NFL will “get it right.”

I listened to all 25, 2015 walk-up songs, and all 26 from 2014 (which are still on the website). And watched every single video.(In 2014, the website gave links to the videos. This year, the videos themselves were embedded.) In more than half, women were “bitches.” In some they were “strippers” or “hoes.” Some like “popping mollys” or “x” in their mouths … among other things.

I do get that each song choice means something to each draftee, and I understand that a song choice for a pivotal life-moment may not necessarily reflect personal attitudes towards women. And to be honest, I’ve been known to dance to Drake. That is not the issue.

The issue is that this list does not belong on NFL.com.

And that the NFL thinks it does, sings of hypocrisy; dismissiveness — a chorus of NFL cluelessness at best; a strain of ingrained, absolute misogyny at worst. And I see a public song and dance by Mr. Goodell and all the NFL higher-ups.

Because, by all appearances, no one in the organization got it. Apparently, there was no “Oops!” moment; no motion, in a year’s time, to at least take those songs off the website. No, instead, they did it again this year — so we can add songs such as Rich Homie Quan’s, “Flex (Ooh, Ooh, Ooh)(“… Give that ho some x, she gone wanna sex every nigga in the set/ And now she screamin’ like oh, ooh, ooh …” ) to the list.

Equally disturbing is that, as of this writing, I have yet to find any commentary or press on the mixed message sent by the promotion of these songs. I see no signs of indignation, no visceral reaction either at the water cooler at work, or in print, about the publishing on NFL.com of racist, sexist, curse-filled content. Maybe some ESPN or NFL Network analysis? Some collective cringes to accompany the content of some of the videos? Nothing.

And what happened to that revised Personal Conduct Policy, which is not even a year old yet, that states, “We must endeavor at all times to be people of high character; we must show respect for others inside and outside our workplace; and we must strive to conduct ourselves in ways that favorably reflect on ourselves, our teams, the communities we represent, and the NFL …”?

Surely, a walk-up song, or 20, that repeatedly describe women as “strippers,” “bitches,” “hoes,” “pussy” — or my favorite: “an ass so fat” — would raise an eyebrow. Blink an eye? Hang a head? Apparently not.

So, please face the music, Mr. Goodell.

Does it make sense to post songs on NFL.com by artists who are talking up what they did with their “hoes” given that Hall-of-Famer Warren Sapp was arrested in Phoenix in 2014 for allegedly soliciting a prostitute and assaulting two women?

Is it furthering the mission to “clean house” to have lyrics and videos on NFL.com that lionize “smoking weed in my Mercedes,” and proclaim that “the dope I sell is the purest,” when former safety, Darren Sharper, recently made headlines because of a plea deal surrounding the allegations that he drugged and raped at least nine women in four states?

And what about that 12-year-old boy who may idolize newly-drafted New York Jet Leonard Williams? He can log on to NFL.com to get Williams’ stats, along with hearing his song choice (video included): Dom Kennedy’s “We Ball,” which proudly hails that: “We ball, we drink /F*** hoes, rock mink /New watch, gold links/ She going down, no teeth/And I don’t like your legs ‘less they at the roof/Pedicure toward the ceiling, mollys in the cabinet too/Pop, pop, pop, popping pussy … ”

This one line, “I didn’t wanna f*** the bitch, the molly made me f*** her even though she average…” from the song, “March Madness,” by Future, kind of goes against the “Like a Girl” campaign to empower women that the NFL champions through public service messages and commercials, doesn’t it? Think about what that line can do for a young girl’s budding body image.

The NFL dropped the ball. NFL.com is one room that should have been tidied up by now. The walk-up song page has been dirty for over a year now. It they can’t get this “right,” how can they possibly get a whole “house” in order?

And here is the most recent NFL response to domestic violence and sexual assault, updated on August 12, 2015 and also posted on NFL.com.