Five men were recently absolved of accusations of rape. The charges were brought against them by a girl who recanted her claim. Though there’s a lot of noise about “innocent until proven guilty” in this country, these boys were thrown in lock-up, held on exorbitant bail their low-income families could never hope to pay and some of them were suspended from their schools. All the result of mere allegations … which have turned out to be false.

Rape is obviously very serious, but so too should be protecting the innocent from false accusations and unlawful repudiation. Like it or not — under the tenets of our justice system — even if someone did perpetrate an act that violates the law, there should be no recourse for punishment BEFORE a guilty verdict is delivered in our courts. However, preemptive punishment, regardless of guilt, is not new in this country … this purported land of freedom and democracy … more like of hyperbole and outright lies.

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The light in my kitchen died. Typically, it wouldn’t be a big deal of any order … I can replace light bulbs. But this is hardly typical; the fixture in the kitchen uses doughnut-shaped fluorescent tubes that attach by arcane plugs to what looks like a battery. Worse yet, the rings are held in place by three metal clamps.

So, I realized this was outside my purview. It wasn’t unscrew old and screw in new. I went to my superintendent, since he is — theoretically — the person responsible for handling repairs and maintenance in the building. I asked him about replacing the light and he told me he couldn’t.

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So, bread is up to $7 a loaf at Whole Foods. I’ve been wringing my hands about this tidbit for a while, so if I’ve already circulated my discontent, I apologize to my reader.

I heard a rumor it is possible to bake one’s own bread. Hogwash, you say? Perhaps. Still, it seems plausible … I mean, how else do the companies that sell such a fine product obtain said product? Yes, I suppose magic is a possibility, but as much as baking and magic may seem like the same thing, I say the former is more akin to alchemy. And everyone knows how easy that is!

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I dislike very many things, but I like what I like, no matter how uncool, ridiculous or risible it may be. There are also things towards which I am ambivalent. I dislike Incubus for many reasons, most of them related to the exes of mine who loved them but, at the same time, I do enjoy some of their music. Right now, I’m thinking of the lyric: “To resist is to piss in the wind / anyone who does will end up smelling.”

It is simultaneously insipidly puerile and insightful. I think that description can be universally applied to all of their music. Not to delve too deeply into something about which I have no insight, but I wonder if that dichotomy is the result of the songwriter’s urge to be meaningful while unable to avoid stooping to superficiality, hedonism and inanity.

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I dislike Roger Federer. I don’t like his beady eyes. His raptorish nose. His floppy hair.

I don’t like his steamrolling dominance in his sport. Don’t mistake me; I admire a great talent and he is certainly that. I respect his ability. I think he has great skill and he uses it incredibly well to be so indomitable.

But I still don’t like him. In fact, I dislike him most of all because of his dominance.

In my professional duties as a soccer blogger I once wrote that rooting for Manchester United is like rooting for the A-Bomb. You know it’s going to decimate its opponents. Is it really that much fun to witness total devastation? Would it not be a much more uplifting and human story for the target of such a rending catastrophe to survive and prevail?

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Last night, I was standing in a friend’s kitchen talking to a bunch of strangers who were all very emphatic and, in fact, confrontational. The topic turned to tennis and everyone was waxing sycophantic about Rafael Nadal and how magnificent he is. Sure, the guy’s a physical specimen and a hell of a tennis player, but I’m not about to pour adulation on someone just because they’re good at something. If that were the case, I’d be a Manchester United supporter.

No, I took the unpopular stance by saying that Andy Murray was going to whup Nadal in the U.S. Open. I said this not merely to be a contrarian, but because Murray is a Scot and that’s enough for me to root for him. I may understand Spanish a lot better than I do a thick Scottish accent, but I still like to root for people that hail from the same places as my forebears.

Well, Murray won. He’s in the finals to face Roger Federer. I don’t have anything against Federer; he’s also a phenomenal tennis player, but I can’t bring myself to root for him. I don’t root for the steamroller, I root for the little engine that could. I don’t get any joy out of foregone conclusions or the seemingly inevitable. I think some of the greatest joys in life are the unexpected accomplishments, when the little guy beats the big guy. David and Goliath, to cite the cliche. Way to go, little man.

One thing I find amusing about Murray’s run to the finals is that the English media is touting him as having the potential to be the first “Briton” in 72 years to win a men’s grand slam title. I guarantee you and would bet any amount of money that if Murray were English, the papers would be calling him an Englishman, not a Briton. The English are always happy to claim a Scot when it might make England look good.