Most parents are pretty concerned about their kids using foul language.
Dr. Timothy Jay, a psychologist and expert in swearing, says parents worried about bad words might be fighting a losing battle.
"As soon as kids start talking, they pick up this kind of language," Jay says. "They're like little language vacuum cleaners, so they repeat what they hear."
They pick it up from parents — as much as they may try to hide it — from siblings and peers, and entertainment. Jay, a professor at Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts, examines when and why children incorporate taboo language into their lexicons in recent paper in the American Journal of Psychology.
"By the time they're heading off to school at 5 or 6, they have a pretty well-developed vocabulary of bad things to say," he says.
As much as it may be frowned upon, Jay says it's not necessarily bad to swear in front of kids.
"I think it's part of them learning about their emotions and emotional expression and how their parents handle emotion," Jays says. "So I think if you look at it as just part of being angry or frustrated or happy or surprised, that is all normal. That's built into all of us."
He says it's each parent's job to teach children the nuances of language and when profanity is and isn't appropriate. If a child is swearing, punishment won't necessarily dissuade it.
"Try to figure out first why the kids are using this kind of language," he says. "Expect it to be there. Expect your kids to be angry and frustrated at times and sometimes this language seems kind of natural to them."
Jays says there are positive consequences of swearing that are largely disregarded. He is working to develop the social, cognitive science of swearing, which affronts the major perception of cursing as an immoral use of language.
"A lot of times you don't get to the argument about the positive uses of these [words]," Jay says. "Their use in humor, their use in bonding, their use as a relief from pain or venting or frustration — I look at this as an evolutionary advantage. Why would we have this language? It must do something for us."
Tens of thousands of people are attending the Cannabis Cup in Denver this weekend, the first time the marijuana festival and trade show is held in Colorado since the state legalized recreational pot in January.
The festival's date is no coincidence - it's a conversion of the pot smoker's favorite time of 4:20 into a date. As a recent essay in High Times magazine notes, for decades, marijuana smokers have "learned that 4:20 in the afternoon was 'prime time' for smokers, the 'pot-smoker's happy hour,' the 'best time to smoke,' or the 'international smoke time.'"
The Cannabis Cup includes panel discussions on topics from making marijuana-infused foods to growing pot plants. There's also a yoga class and a rundown of challenges for pot-smoking parents titled "Won't Someone Think About The Children?" as Ricardo Baca of The Denver Post's The Cannabist blog tells NPR's Rachel Martin on Weekend Edition Sunday.
As the name implies, the Cannabis Cup, which is organized by High Times, also includes a competition to choose the best marijuana strains in "many categories," Baca says, ranging from "the raw green, the flower, also edibles, concentrates, waxes, shatters."
A "shatter," we learned, is "a refined version of [butane honey oil], which typically involves multiple steps to extract all the plant matter and solvents. These steps usually involve a pressure vacuum. Shatter is semi-transparent, usually with a yellow or amber color. It is usually a thin cake, which 'shatters' when you break a piece off, hence the name."
The Cannabis Cup festival is held in other cities, including Amsterdam and Flint, Michigan.
"But Denver is the biggest Cup, so in a way, if you win a first-place Cannabis Cup in Denver, that's pretty much as high as you can go," Baca says without any discernible irony.
Local authorities are trying to encourage Cannabis Cup attendees to be safe as they celebrate - the "Colorado Department of Transportation plastered safe-partying advice on free bags of Cheetos and Goldfish crackers, which were a popular item at the Cup," the Cannabist reports.
The first tip? Take a cab.
At Monday's Boston Marathon, many runners will be on the course to honor the 16 people who lost limbs in last year's bombing. One married couple was among them: Jessica Kensky and Patrick Downes.
Among many dark stories of that day, theirs is among the darkest. They were newlyweds of just seven months when each had their left leg blown off. Their injuries were so severe that they were some of the last victims to leave the hospital.
But we want to tell you an encouraging part of their story. It involves an 80-pound black Labrador retriever named Rescue who is specially trained as an assistance dog.
To understand why Rescue came into their lives, you have to know how badly Kensky in particular was hurt. Her remaining leg, the one that wasn't amputated, was so mutilated in the bombing that one doctor thought it should be surgically removed, too.
"My whole Achilles tendon was blown off, a good part of my heel pad was blown off," Kensky says. "But when I woke up, my left leg was already gone, and I couldn't imagine losing my right. And I just — it's such a permanent decision. So I thought: You can always amputate it down the road, but once it's gone it's gone."
So surgeons reconstructed Kensky's right leg as well as they were able to. So far, her "good" leg really isn't so good.
Every Step Is Painful
Kensky wears a high-tech brace on her right leg, which greatly improves her mobility. When she removes the brace, she exposes her misshapen foot and ankle, and a heel no longer as round and padded. She sometimes needs a wheelchair, because walking on her remaining leg is difficult.
"I don't think I really appreciated what chronic pain means and how it just — it rules everything," she says. "When you have that level of pain with every single step — every single step — you don't want to take it."
Every day, that pain has her asking herself an excruciating question.
"I didn't know what it was going to be like to try to walk on something and live with a leg like that," Kensky says. "Now that I know, I'm always in the back of my mind wondering if I would be better off with an amputation."
That gets us back to Rescue.
Kensky got Rescue from a Massachusetts non-profit called NEADS, which trains assistance dogs for people with disabilities. NEADS is offering a free service dog to any marathon bombing victim with a permanent physical disability.
Kensky, because of her continuing mobility problems, is the first to accept that offer. Rescue steadies her when she walks on crutches or with her prosthetic. But that's not all he does.
"Come on — nudge!" she prompts him, and Rescue uses his paws to press an elevator button in Downes and Kensky's new, handicapped-accessible apartment building. "Good boy!" she says.
When Kensky drops her keys — "Rescue, fetch!" — the dog picks them up with his mouth and brings them to her.
Rescue can also open doors and retrieve a phone with his teeth — even if he drops it a few times and presses a few numbers in the process.
Having a dog also keeps Kensky and Downes physically active — a challenge for amputees.
"Here's this big animal who needs to be taken out, he needs exercise, he needs to go to the bathroom, he needs to be fed," Kensky says. "On the day you just don't want to get off the couch, you don't want to get in your wheelchair, you don't want to put your prosthetic on, he looks at you with those eyes and you've got to take him out."
A Value Beyond Assistance
Kensky and Downes have both had a pretty grim year. She's 33 and hasn't been able to return to her job as an oncology nurse. He's 30 and had to abandon his plan to do a pre-doctoral program in San Francisco, where they had been planning to relocate.
They also suffered shrapnel wounds and perforated eardrums. Since the bombing, they've had nearly 30 surgeries between them, with more operations ahead.
Amid all that, Downes says, Rescue has also had an intangible value just as important as his physical assistance.
"To have a dog like him around, you laugh 10, 20, 50 times more a day, and you can't help but have that lift the mood," Downes says. "And he's a huge cuddler ... he's just constantly giving us hugs and kisses and entertaining us, and he's a wonderful gift in that way."
"That week he came, for the first time, I started sleeping through the night," Kensky says. "We would be up, 3, 4 in the morning, sad, depressed, anxious. Not that I don't experience those feelings any more, but it was incredible to sleep through the night. And, I mean, I have to attribute it to him. He was the change."
Here's another command Rescue knows. Kensky admits she uses it mostly for "cuteness." It comes in handy when she's relaxing on the couch.
"So if I'm over here, and I have my leg off and I'm watching a movie," Kensky demonstrates, calling out to Rescue: "Brrr, I'm cold."
At that, Rescue heads for a blanket across the room. As he drags it back to her, getting it comically tangled in his paws, you realize how a smart, lovable dog who brings laughter to a house that hasn't heard much of it in the past year can be a transforming presence.
"Rescue, give me a hug," Kensky says. "Good boy!"
At St. Elie Armenian Catholic Church in downtown Beirut, Zarmig Hovsepian lit three candles and slowly mouthed silent prayers before Easter Mass. After reciting "Our Father," she added a prayer of her own: "For peace, for Lebanon and the region," she said, underscoring the deep sense of apprehension beneath the surface of otherwise festive Easter celebrations.
Next door in Syria, violence recently displaced thousands from the historic Armenian town of Kessab, which rests in northwestern Syria, along the Turkish border. Groups of Syrian rebels, including some with ties to al-Qaida, swept into the Latakia province last month, seizing a number of towns in the strategically important mountains.
The violence and mass displacement in Syria opened old wounds for Armenians across the region, stirring up memories of the massacre and deportation of ethnic Armenians at the hands of the Turks during World War I. Syria, once a refuge from that violence, is home to nearly 100,00 Armenians, but now the community feels under threat again.
That's making Armenians in Lebanon nervous.
"The future is not clear for the whole Christian community in the Middle East, not just the Armenians," says Shahan Kandaharian, the executive editor of an Armenian daily newspaper. He blames the rise of Islamic fundamentalism across the Middle East.
"We've seen what happens to Christians in Iraq," he says, referencing the hundreds of thousands of Christians who have fled as extremism has risen in the last decade.
As Islamist opposition groups in Syria grow in power, Christians increasingly find themselves caught up in the civil war. In December, a group of nuns was kidnapped from their convent in the ancient town of Maaloula and held for three months; they were released only in March. In the northern city of Raqqa in February, a Jihadist group imposed strict rules on Christians, outlawing public prayer and the ringing of church bells.
Part of the resentment toward Syrian Christians can be traced to their relationship with the government of Syrian President Bashar Assad. Himself a member of the minority Allawite sect of Islam, Assad has long positioned his government as a protector of all minorities. In turn, he has gained the often-tacit support of many of the country's Christians.
In comments to mark the Easter holiday, John Yazigi, the Greek Orthodox patriarch in Syria, said Christians "will not submit and yield" to extremists. He called on all sides to end the practice of "intimidation, displacement [and] extremism."
But Krikor Geukjian, a member of St. Elie Church, says that for Armenians, the situation is different. He says that for his community, memories of genocide are not just a shared history; they're personal.
"It has affected every single Armenian. Every single Armenian knows a victim," Geukjian says. "It's a wound that doesn't close."
A man who asked not to be identified agrees. He says he was born in Beirut and has lived here all his life, but never feels completely relaxed. "I always have all my documents ready," he says, in case the political or security situation changes and he's forced to flee.
Now, standing in front of St. Elie Church as some of the last worshipers file into the Easter service, Geukjian says that despite all his worries, he's always hopeful about the future. When asked why, he laughs.
"Perhaps it's our Armenian-ness," he says. "We've learned from our history that after every bad thing comes a better thing. Otherwise, we couldn't have survived all those centuries."
Sports movies were powerful once. In the '80s and '90s, there were hits about football, baseball, basketball, hockey, boxing, karate - and they were movies about teams and players and coaches, not scouts and executives.
Things seem to have taken a turn. Moneyball, which received a Best Picture nomination, is about the people who have jobs in sports more than the people who play sports. Draft Day, which will not receive a Best Picture nomination, is too. So is the upcoming Million Dollar Arm. So was Trouble With The Curve. We've still got stories about scouts and executives and agents, and there's the occasional biopic like 42. But where did the movies about sport itself, as it intersects with the lives of regular people who play and love and watch it, go?
It's a question provoked by remembrances of Field Of Dreams, 25 years old this week and as strange of a little piece of work as it ever was. We've had plenty of sports movies for kids with out-of-this-world elements like magical arms and ... well, Space Jam. But there haven't been a lot of adult-targeted dramas incorporating straight-up magical realism, which allows Field Of Dreams to transform the emotional subtext of a lot of these movies directly into text.
Instead of just being about the oft-repeated trope of men and their fathers bonding (or not) through sports, Field Of Dreams brings Ray Kinsella's father back to life, literally, for a long-deferred game of catch. Rather than just being about the connection of sports to childhood even for adults, it shows baseball bodily transforming the aging Moonlight Graham (Burt Lancaster) into a young man. And rather than simply seeing a tragic figure like Shoeless Joe Jackson as a symbol of lost opportunity, it brings him out of a cornfield - out of the very heart of Americana - for a second chance.
It's a deeply and unapologetically sentimental movie, despite the fact that it actually does contain impressive - and little-remembered - moments of restraint. The first scene in which Ray meets Shoeless Joe, in which Ray's curious and polite reaction is awed but very Midwestern, is a stunner, in part because of the faith the filmmakers had in the sound of crickets. Ironically, it loses its punch when the emotion-goosing piano begins tinkling away in the background.
Hollywood, unfairly or not, has always maintained an unofficial division between regular sentimentality and sentimentality designed to be palatable to men. This is probably one of the few places, in fact, where women are the default: a film simply described as a tear-jerker is usually marketed to women. When one is marketed to men, it's what Tim Grierson at Deadspin called the "male weepie" last year when somewhat ambivalently naming Alexander Payne (Nebraska, The Descendants) the form's current champion.
In fact, back in 1989, Richard Corliss at Time called Field Of Dreams "the male weepie at its wussiest." There's no reason in the world men shouldn't cry at movies or women should, but the baggage of that assumption is heavy and ever-present.
Sports movies have long been central to male-marketed melodrama: Pride Of The Yankees, Brian's Song, The Champ, The Natural. But those movies - like westerns and war movies, the other most commonly marketed sentimental dude flicks - involved an awful lot of ... you know, death. Death made strong emotion permissible as a response, even if it was more intended to provoke a quiet tear in the eye than the blubbering in which women have always been frankly encouraged to indulge.
What the sports movies of the '80s and '90s - and in fact, sports movies going back at least as far as Rocky in 1976 - got to be good at was using sports, without the heavy baggage of death, to play, sometimes in a less weighty way and sometimes even in comedy, with three issues that resonated powerfully with audiences, including men and boys: camaraderie, fathers, and aging.
While Bull Durham, for instance, can play as a sexy romance between Crash (Kevin Costner) and Annie (Susan Sarandon), with comic relief from Nuke (Tim Robbins), its poignancy comes from its study of the end of Crash's long career as a not-quite-major-league-caliber catcher. Here's a man who will leave baseball largely unrecognized, both because he spent much of his career making pitchers better and because he's ambivalent about becoming, for instance, the all-time hit leader in the minor leagues.
Crash is positively tragic if you compare his accomplishments to his original goals, but not if you simply ask the question of whether he leads a good life. Costner's other film with writer-director Ron Shelton, the not as good but still underrated golf movie Tin Cup, covers a lot of the same ground.
While films about female athletes are far rarer, there's a similar bittersweet tang to A League Of Their Own, in which Dottie (Geena Davis) walks away from baseball to be with her husband, despite how much she loves it. She has other priorities; there is life outside the game, and it's time to attend to it. That's on top of the story's constant burbling undercurrent that these women are all destined to be mistreated, thrown over when the male players return from the war. Just like Crash, Dottie is evidence that athletes sometimes have to love the games they play enough to forgive them their profound injustices.
You even get some of this from The Replacements, a lightweight comedy that posits Keanu Reeves as a failed quarterback dragged off his boat to work as a replacement player during an NFL strike. Just like we do with Crash and Dottie and Tin Cup McAvoy, we find him suspended at the moment when he's moving from athlete to former athlete, coming to terms with life after competition.
That's not to even mention the heft of some of the better straight-up Big Game Movies like Hoosiers, which follows an underdog Indiana basketball team to a suitable underdog's ending, but not without certain suggestions of pain, both for the coach, played by Gene Hackman, and for an alcoholic team supporter played by Dennis Hopper.
There are almost always fathers in these stories, sometimes literally and sometimes in the simple fact that coaches in sports movies are effectively fathers, and the push-pull of wanting to please and wanting to pull away comes up with coaches that comes up with fathers and with, in films like An Officer And A Gentleman, superiors in the military. In Hollywood, when you want to sell sentimentality to men and encourage them to be unembarrassed by it, you background their romantic relationships and foreground their relationships with whatever men a generation older they are trying to understand and gain understanding from. (In Field Of Dreams, this is not only true with Ray's father, but also with Jackson and the reclusive writer Terence Mann, played by James Earl Jones - who, in the novel Shoeless Joe, was actually an imagined version of J.D. Salinger, exactly the frustrating, unavailable mentor a novelist might come up with.)
In fairness, it's not all or nothing: Jerry Maguire in 1996 had a lot of the same themes of the teetering feeling of early middle age, despite being about an agent. And plenty of sports movies about teams have been soulless and cynical. But on the whole, it seems depressing to have moved from sports films mostly about athletes and coaches to sports films mostly about agents and the front office.
Draft Day falls so emotionally flat because it isn't really about sports; it's about business. It could just as easily be about a man negotiating shipping contracts as about the general manager of the Cleveland Browns negotiating draft picks.
What makes sports films work really is the connection to the sport itself. Costner's general-manager character in Draft Day gives no particular indication that he loves football. He seems to understand it pretty well, but he doesn't seem to love it, and he mostly seems beleaguered to have the job he does in the first place. In Draft Day, football is a product like shoes or computers - or movies - where, if you're going to follow the ins and outs of who wins and who loses, you mostly spend your time watching guys on the phone arguing about money. It's very, very difficult to write a good movie about guys on the phone arguing about money. Not impossible, perhaps, but very, very difficult.
Guys trying to outmaneuver each other on the telephone by hollering about millions of dollars will never match the scene in Bull Durham where the conference on the pitchers' mound incorporates discussions of wedding presents, visiting fathers (there's that theme again), and curses. Baseball is narratively rich; trading players is narratively thin unless you give it a lot of help.
Scouts, agents, managers, owners: that's fine, but it's different. It's a little hollow inside. It's a little sad.