The IJ Network and My Marbles

From the perils of social media file: You wake in the morning, log on to Facebook, and visit one of the groups that you've joined. And, lo and behold, there it is: a crude, dismissive, quasi-literate comment to something so, so benign. Case in point from a group devoted to my boyhood hero, a Baseball Hall of Fame pitcher: In a colorful Facebook box, a guy recounted how fortunate he was to have had said pitcher’s “MIL” as a grammar school teacher a half century ago. Why? Because she let her students watch baseball games. MIL, by the way, stood for mother-in-law.

To make a long story short, this post didn’t sit too well with one individual who responded to it with: “Whoop de do. Who cares?” This pithy put-down, however, wasn’t enough for him. He added an acerbic aside, which claimed that people make up “ridiculous acronyms” to “feel superior.” Actually, he didn’t use the word “people” but something vulgar beginning with “ass” and ending with “hole.” He also misspelled “ridiculous.”

While on the subject of acronyms, I checked out this person’s profile and determined that he was, in my opinion, an“IJ"—an Idiot...Jerk—and part of the rather expansive IJ Network. What makes an IJ an IJ? First of all, it has nothing to do with income, occupation, or geography. Rather, it’s a mindset: aggressive, coarse, and arrogant. IJs are men and women who confuse boorishness with being clever. Above all else, they love to pontificate. Where they are concerned, there are never, ever two sides to a story. The marriage of the words, by the way, occurred forty years ago at a neighborhood swimming pool in the Bronx. Splashed with water, an angry youth exacted his revenge on the splasher by writing "Idiot...Jerk" in BIC pen on his locker.

It is because of the vast and growing IJ Network that I am typically loath to post on public groups. Recently, I had an inconsequential encounter with a fellow who obviously considered himself Joe New York. He thought what I posted would be of no interest to real New Yorkers, whom he deemed to speak for. The man employed all caps at one point and concluded his loutish comment with “lol.” When the IJ Network comes calling, I promptly take my marbles and go someplace else. Like here:

For those considering visiting America and wondering what culinary delights to sample...

One can't go wrong with tacos, burgers, and tossed salads washed down with refreshing Bud Lights. They are as American as apple pie.

I kind of thought so...but now I know for certain...the Golden Age is no more...

New York may be the "city that never sleeps," but its bathrooms often do.

A remnant of old New York...

For some reason I thought of the game show: Can You Top This?

Apparently, everyone who is anyone rides around on a Citibike nowadays.

While growing up, my favorite pizza guy, George, would make a dozen or more pizzas before he even opened his shop. Ordering a slice later in the day was sometimes a crapshoot.

The Karate Kid of Kingsbridge.

This restaurant briefly appeared on my GrubHub roster of culinary possibilities. Since I've had a run of good luck of late when ordering via this online facilitator, the last thing I wanted was a Fiasco.

For a moment there I thought this was a yellow school bus.

I'd like to toast a marshmallow in something like that...

Now this is American gourmet food...

All alone in the last subway car afforded me a catbird seat. With fellow passengers on the scene, taking such a picture might have prompted a see something, say something moment.

Some people have seen Him on burnt toast, in cloud formations, and in a window's condensation. I have seen Him riding a bicycle.

And He said, "Let there be light!"

If anyone deserves Labor Day off, it's Edy!

When veteran newsman David Brinkley was asked about the iconic closing of NBC's Huntley-Brinkley Report with co-anchor Chet Huntley—"Good night, Chet...Good night, David"—he said that the pair initially found the notion rather corny. But then Brinkley wryly added, "You had to end the show with something." So, why not? And the rest is history...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)