No! I'm Too Young!

I almost spilt my beer when my mom called me out over the phone last week for not inviting her or dad to my wedding that happened nearly six years ago.  “That was so…mean,” she choked.  Seated cross-legged, I puffed on my cigarette twice before answering.  My eyes impulsively fixed on my own reflection in the standing mirror placed clumsily near the corner of the smoking lounge (read:  freezing cold ‘sun room’ of my apartment).  Only a minute ago, we were having such a great conversation about the Clutter family murders of 1959, one of those “we never talk, but Now. We. Are. TALKING!” type of tête-à-têtes only nearly estranged mothers and daughters can share.  Now my heart was racing, and a black hole was forming around the outline of my face in the mirror.  “Keep it honest,” I thought quietly.  “You’re never honest with her.”  Suddenly, for no good reason at all, I went into hyper-revelation mode that resembled something disturbingly like this:

Guilt and confession have been on my mind for a while now.  I had kept things, big things, from my mom for years, and it made zero sense dragging skeletons out of a useless closet.  Nothing about that joke of a marriage matters to me anymore, but now because of my fucking big mouth, my mom has every reason to believe it still does.  The next time I see her, she’ll likely crinkle her face, and grab me in for a hug to ask, “Oh, honey, are you okay?”  Don’t worry gang – the Raggle has it figured out.  I’ll respond, “No, I’m broke!  Now gimme some MONAAY!”

So anyways, back to guilt.  Working in criminal defense for some time, I typically don’t treat clients as if I were a jurist in an Alabaman rape trial; which is to say I follow the creed of ‘innocent until proven guilty’, and spend a considerable amount of my time wasting away in front of police reports searching for instances where officers violate due process laws.  But with the Penn State scandal, I’ve found myself in the completely opposite position of not even batting eye when professing Sandusky’s guilt (and from the tone of Bob Costas’s interview and S.I.’s incredibly poignant article about the matter, it doesn’t appear that I’m alone).  It’s been difficult dealing with my transformation into a “Fry him!” biddy regarding the whole ordeal, but honestly, I’ve been hard-pressed to see any other way.

I mean, who hasn’t stared at their computer screens in jaw-dropped horror watching Bob Costas stare at the camera in jaw-dropped horror waiting for seventeen seconds for the voice of Sandusky to answer whether or not he’s attracted to young boys, all while Joseph Amendola, who could quite possibly pass for one of the GUH-REATEST FAILURES in American legal history for encouraging Sandusky to even be interviewed, looks more concerned about his ice cream scooping arm he got from last summer’s internship at T.C.B.Y. never leveling out with his other, weaker arm rather than actually mounting a conceivable legal defense for his client?  

Also, who hasn’t given their fridge door an embittered roundhouse-kick shut after packing all their freshly cooked lasagna in tinfoil because earlier in the day they thought it would be an unprecedented achievement in multitasking to read the 23-page grand jury pleading in its entirety while simultaneously cooking a labor-intensive pasta casserole, and now, after all that work, they’re not even hungry anymore?  They’ll never be hungry again.  Not for lasagna.  Now, when that zany, perpetually-single Aunt Judith of theirs hacks into her oddly-chosen side dish she brought for a July 4^th barbeque, they’ll only think of painful showers, broken childhoods, and endless car rides with a predator’s hand resting on their thighs.

And finally, who hasn’t put together that yes, in all probability Joe Paterno died from the heartache of losing his job and legacy (that, or cancer); and yes, people dying from losing their jobs is so, so sad; but no, the resurgent outpouring of sympathy over his death isn’t going to change the fact that his extreme insularity he used to maintain his legacy denied at least eight children from ever proclaiming, “This is OUR time.”

Explaining why the Penn State scandal has been eating at me so badly would be about as easy as recovering a teardrop stain from a basement room bed sheet in Happy Valley, PA.  As we’re off into the trial portion of the scandal, I’ll lend a 1,000-to-1 odds that Jerry’s not going to be found innocent.  The conspicuousness of his M.O. as testified by the victims leads me to think so.  However, I’d also venture to bet that while he’s alive, he’s not going to fess up to any of his allegations either.  He’s dug himself in too deep a hole for the past fifteen or more years for him to whisper to himself, “Keep it honest.  You’re never honest with anybody.”

On a brighter note, this week, my friend sent me the link for this gif, so that's nice :)