Neanderpundit

This almost NEVER happens. I’ve always got something going on, someone’s car to fix, someone’s furnace to look at, someone’s computer to repair. Today, I’ve been to mass, went out to breakfast with the family, napped on the couch, and blogged. Now I’m going back to napping on the couch. As I have no interest in football, I will be watching the Full House Marathon with the daughter, or rather sleeping through same. If this is what retirement is like, I’ll take some right now.

From Today’s Sun-Times:
“As she sat facing the intruder in her office on the 21st floor of the Daley Center — and with no one else to hear her cries for help — she begged him not to rape her.”

The victim, a then-59 year old coordinator for Cook County’s chief judge, begged and pleaded with the assailant before he bent her over her own desk in her own office, removed her clothing, and forcibly inserted his cock into her vagina. I’m not going to use any euphemisims like “rape”. That dilutes the nature of the act, we hear “rape” over and over again. It’s too pretty a word to descrive such a brutal act. Here’s the naked lunch: This middle aged housewife and mother of two was forced by an assailant to accept his unwelcome cock in her vagina. Warning, the rest of this post is even more graphic and potentially disturbing.
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Bob Keeshan died today. Ray Rayner died Wednesday. Fred Rogers, of course,died last February.

I was a kid, growing up in northwest Indiana, watching WGN Chicago TV. Ray Raynor, Bob Keeshan, they were there for me, long before Sesame Street. I woke every morning, rushed through my bowl of LIFE cereal, scambled into my Catholic school uniform, and sat to watch a couple of minutes of Ray Rayner’s show before going to school. In summer I had his whole show to myself, on our Zenith Black and White console, while mom ironed altar linens for Holy Name Church in the living room.

My colleagues and I reminisced today over lunch, one guy even knew Ray, his dad and Ray would play cards at a little greek restaurant downtown. Imagine being 11 and your dad is playing poker with Oliver O. Oliver.
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