I’m a little hung over from the pre-debate-debate-post-debate binge. And afterwards, I lay awake thinking of "if only" zingers Obama could’ve used. Me and half the country, I’m sure.
But whatever political points both candidates scored last night, whatever differences they were able to articulate, the most obvious difference in this presidential campaign remains unspoken. Skin color. Only a few pollsters and columnists are even mentioning it. So I have a dream.
Barack, you know how you did the red-blue-purple thing in 2004? About how we’re all the same America, united and all that? It’s time for the race talk in 2008. I’d like to see you hit us with some good-ol’ consciousness raising. Aim it at white guilt. Aim it at Christian guilt. Aim it at Jewish guilt. Aim it at those who should "know better" but are holding back out of ancient, latent fear. We have to be carefully taught. And now is a teachable moment.
I grew up in an all-white suburb and believed blacks, Negroes, as we called them in the early 1960s, were people who lived in Harlem or Africa. Occasionally, I heard the term schwartze at home and learned to lock the car doors and turn my rings palm-side-down when driving above 96th Street in New York City. I remember visiting my grandparents in Florida and seeing "colored" and "white" drinking fountains.
I remember MLK and the civil rights movement and the Black Panthers and Malcolm X, and I believed in equality. But until I became a social worker, I didn’t really have to dig into my own racism and learned prejudice. I remember in my first year of graduate school, we studied "differences." With clients of a different race, ethnicity, class, sexual orientation, or ability, we were taught to name that difference, bring it into the session, and work with it. Barriers existed, but barriers could be overcome, or at least acknowledged. Naming it is the first step to connection and mutual understanding.
So, Barack Hussein Obama, I’d like to see you look right into that camera and name it:
"Look, folks. I get it. I get that many of you, when you look at me, see only the color of my skin and that scares you somehow. You see someone who looks different from you and you say, ‘I can’t vote for him. I may agree with his policies and ideals. I may disagree with the Bush administration and the Iraq war and the mismanagement of our economy, but I simply can’t imagine pulling a lever for a black man. For president?’
"I also get that, for many of you, nothing I say or anyone else says in the next few weeks will change your mind. I get that you believe a black man simply shouldn’t be in the White House, the White House, because of his skin color. So be it. I concede your vote.
"But I know there are many more of you out there who are still struggling to decide. You’re smart, thoughtful Americans who care about our country. I get that you’re still worried about my first name, my middle name, and my last name, and the name it rhymes with. You’re still worried about my religious background, about whether I agree with Reverend Jeremiah Wright, whether I’m elitist or out of touch, and whether I love my country. You know as well as I do there’s a lot of name calling going on, rumors tossed about by some stubborn folks who have some outdated ideas and hateful tactics. You know better. You’re too smart to fall for that ‘sticks-and-stones’ playground silliness.
"This is not the old America, the segregated America. You’ve seen a lot of change. I know. Change is hard. I feel your growing pains. But, deep down, in your heart of hearts, I know you believe in freedom and equal rights for all Americans. You are fair-minded, patriotic, God-loving people. You can spot injustice and cheer the underdog. Were you raised to believe that people who look different from you and your family are less than equal? Probably. Maybe even, without knowing it, you began to believe it was true. That’s the nature of racism. I get it. That’s part of all our history. But you’re smarter than that now, in 2008. You can see past the biases you had no choice but to inherit—you can think freely now. America needs change. We agree on that.
"So, I ask you to think, really think. I believe you’re smarter than those narrow-minded, old-fashioned people who would judge a man simply by the color of his skin, rather than the ‘content of his character.’ You know the speech. You know the truth. You know it’s time for change we can believe in. Yes, I'm black. We're different. But you’re smart and fair and thoughtful. And, if you have the courage to stop and look inside, I believe you know the answer. Together we can change history and change America."
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Me and My Momentum
I’m having my tonsils out in a couple of weeks. "At your age?!" everyone asks. Yes, at my age. They’ve always been impressively large but of late, one of them has morphed into the Matterhorn. I can’t swallow, breathe, sleep, sing, eat, or drink comfortably. It took ten months and three ENTs before someone finally said not only are my tonsils the reason for my woes but they’ve got to go.
To prepare, I’m consuming the holistic literature on mind-body approaches to surgery, including positive affirmations, relaxation, meditation, and guided imagery. I'm identifying my inner sanctuaries and selecting a mellow playlist for the procedure.
I’m also cleaning house. Yesterday, I decided, in the spirit of Rosh Hashonah and renewal and all that clean-slate stuff, plus wanting a pleasant recovery environment, I'd get started.
The last time I vacuumed, I hate to say how long ago, instead of sucking up the dirt, the machine started spewing it from the roller brush and from some unidentified hole in the back. It glided smoothly enough when I pushed it, but on the return trip a spray of debris shot out.
Power: Off. Diagnosis: Trouble.
It was only the third time I’d used the thing. I’m not a big vacuumer, despite having two cats. I figure the dust mites and other little microbes that are growing in my rugs have the right to life, as long as I can’t see them. And I just hate the noise, not to mention the trauma inflicted on Sophia and Sascha, who cower under the bed, wide-eyed and trembling, until I give them the all-clear.
My vacuum is a Bissell Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Bagless. Sounds so promising. It’s one of those inside-out-type models with a transparent Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup in the front and a twisty series of external hoses secured with plastic brackets in the back. It boasts "Continuous Suction for Constant Cleaning." But it wasn't sucking at all.
I emptied the Dirt Cup, then flipped the Momentum on its side and spun the roller around, pulling a few hairs off the brushes. That should do it. But the more I pushed and pulled, the more it moaned and splashed filth in its wake.
I must’ve bought a lemon, I told myself. Well, maybe my mechanically minded neighbor will troubleshoot with me sometime. Or maybe I’ll have to return it. But not today. Back in the closet with you, Momentum. Let the mites live a little longer. I can’t deal.
That was the last time. So yesterday, when I tried again, same thing. As if it would have spontaneously healed in the closet without intervention? I dug out the manual and ended up talking to Stephanie, a Bissell tech support woman. I could barely understand her as she speed-read from her tech script, but as I lay Momentum down, I noticed for the first time a Filter Tray, which I removed. The sponge inside and the entire slot were chunked full of cat hair.
"Stephanie? I think I see what the problem is." She didn’t hear me and kept reading.
"Stephanie?" I told her of my discovery. She advised rinsing out the filter and, before we hung up, twittered something about cleaning out any stopped-up hoses with a broomstick.
The filter rinsed, I plugged Momentum in once again. It's better! Oops. Wishful thinking. The spewing resumed halfway through the living room rug.
Down you go. I unwound one big, ridged plastic hose and stretched it out on the floor. Empty. I wiped the dust off a second filter with a damp paper towel, then shoved my hand in the "Continuous Suction" orifice and pulled out more hair globs. By now I had filled a Shaw’s shopping bag about three inches high with thick gray gunky feline residue.
Ready? Let’s roll! Nope. Another Sahara sandstorm.
OK. Now I’m seriously committed to solving this myself, mechanically minded neighbor be damned. I flipped the thing over and closely examined the back, wondering why I hadn’t done this months ago. Besides the big, obvious ridged hose, I found solid hoses, soft hoses, nifty links, and U-joints, like under the bathroom sink, a mini-maze of interconnected piping, all removable. Snap, release. Cat hair. Twist, unwind. Cat hair. Two tubes were 100 percent blocked with, yes, more cat hair. I tried Stephanie’s broomstick technique, which worked perfectly. The Shaw’s bag was now overflowing with an enormous gray furball the equivalent of six cats.
At last, I stood up my Momentum—and it worked. Instead of coughing and sputtering, it roared a clear Cyclonic roar as it slid easily back and forth, inhaling the original plus the regurgitated dregs right into its Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup. Sweep, suck, slurp, swallow. Done.
I plopped on the bedroom floor, peeked under the bed, and purred, "It’s OK, girls. You can come out now. No more noise. You’re safe." They blinked appreciatively.
I felt cleansed. And declogged. And I couldn’t help thinking about my tonsils. It’s time. I’m ready. And, after the recovery, which is supposed to be hell (quick! replace that thought with a positive "My recovery will be quick and easy!"), I'll be free! No more Matterhorn. No more adjusting my jaw or rearranging my tongue. No more snoring. Pretty soon I’ll be singing again, open and clear and unobstructed. Yeah, it took a while to diagnose the problem, but with my brand-new Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Tonsil-less Throat, soon I’ll be good to go.
To prepare, I’m consuming the holistic literature on mind-body approaches to surgery, including positive affirmations, relaxation, meditation, and guided imagery. I'm identifying my inner sanctuaries and selecting a mellow playlist for the procedure.
I’m also cleaning house. Yesterday, I decided, in the spirit of Rosh Hashonah and renewal and all that clean-slate stuff, plus wanting a pleasant recovery environment, I'd get started.
The last time I vacuumed, I hate to say how long ago, instead of sucking up the dirt, the machine started spewing it from the roller brush and from some unidentified hole in the back. It glided smoothly enough when I pushed it, but on the return trip a spray of debris shot out.
Power: Off. Diagnosis: Trouble.
It was only the third time I’d used the thing. I’m not a big vacuumer, despite having two cats. I figure the dust mites and other little microbes that are growing in my rugs have the right to life, as long as I can’t see them. And I just hate the noise, not to mention the trauma inflicted on Sophia and Sascha, who cower under the bed, wide-eyed and trembling, until I give them the all-clear.
My vacuum is a Bissell Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Bagless. Sounds so promising. It’s one of those inside-out-type models with a transparent Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup in the front and a twisty series of external hoses secured with plastic brackets in the back. It boasts "Continuous Suction for Constant Cleaning." But it wasn't sucking at all.
I emptied the Dirt Cup, then flipped the Momentum on its side and spun the roller around, pulling a few hairs off the brushes. That should do it. But the more I pushed and pulled, the more it moaned and splashed filth in its wake.
I must’ve bought a lemon, I told myself. Well, maybe my mechanically minded neighbor will troubleshoot with me sometime. Or maybe I’ll have to return it. But not today. Back in the closet with you, Momentum. Let the mites live a little longer. I can’t deal.
That was the last time. So yesterday, when I tried again, same thing. As if it would have spontaneously healed in the closet without intervention? I dug out the manual and ended up talking to Stephanie, a Bissell tech support woman. I could barely understand her as she speed-read from her tech script, but as I lay Momentum down, I noticed for the first time a Filter Tray, which I removed. The sponge inside and the entire slot were chunked full of cat hair.
"Stephanie? I think I see what the problem is." She didn’t hear me and kept reading.
"Stephanie?" I told her of my discovery. She advised rinsing out the filter and, before we hung up, twittered something about cleaning out any stopped-up hoses with a broomstick.
The filter rinsed, I plugged Momentum in once again. It's better! Oops. Wishful thinking. The spewing resumed halfway through the living room rug.
Down you go. I unwound one big, ridged plastic hose and stretched it out on the floor. Empty. I wiped the dust off a second filter with a damp paper towel, then shoved my hand in the "Continuous Suction" orifice and pulled out more hair globs. By now I had filled a Shaw’s shopping bag about three inches high with thick gray gunky feline residue.
Ready? Let’s roll! Nope. Another Sahara sandstorm.
OK. Now I’m seriously committed to solving this myself, mechanically minded neighbor be damned. I flipped the thing over and closely examined the back, wondering why I hadn’t done this months ago. Besides the big, obvious ridged hose, I found solid hoses, soft hoses, nifty links, and U-joints, like under the bathroom sink, a mini-maze of interconnected piping, all removable. Snap, release. Cat hair. Twist, unwind. Cat hair. Two tubes were 100 percent blocked with, yes, more cat hair. I tried Stephanie’s broomstick technique, which worked perfectly. The Shaw’s bag was now overflowing with an enormous gray furball the equivalent of six cats.
At last, I stood up my Momentum—and it worked. Instead of coughing and sputtering, it roared a clear Cyclonic roar as it slid easily back and forth, inhaling the original plus the regurgitated dregs right into its Extra Large Capacity Dirt Cup. Sweep, suck, slurp, swallow. Done.
I plopped on the bedroom floor, peeked under the bed, and purred, "It’s OK, girls. You can come out now. No more noise. You’re safe." They blinked appreciatively.
I felt cleansed. And declogged. And I couldn’t help thinking about my tonsils. It’s time. I’m ready. And, after the recovery, which is supposed to be hell (quick! replace that thought with a positive "My recovery will be quick and easy!"), I'll be free! No more Matterhorn. No more adjusting my jaw or rearranging my tongue. No more snoring. Pretty soon I’ll be singing again, open and clear and unobstructed. Yeah, it took a while to diagnose the problem, but with my brand-new Power Trak Cyclonic Momentum Tonsil-less Throat, soon I’ll be good to go.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Rewind
Jon Stewart was on hiatus this week, so I missed my 11:00 sanity fix. Instead, I entered the surreal world of 9/11 on Thursday night. Do you remember, really remember, that morning seven years ago? I thought I would never forget, that the images and sequence of events were forever imprinted. But I was wrong.
I was flipping channels, looking for light fare, when I stumbled upon MSNBC’s "9/11: As It Happened." It was simply a rebroadcast, with some editing, of NBC’s original coverage from the morning of September 11, 2001, as it unfolded, with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer in New York. At first I tried to resist—no, no, watching the footage and seeing the towers would be too upsetting. I'd seen the tributes earlier in the day. I know what happened. But after two minutes, I was frozen. Just as frozen as I had been when it was live. What’s going on? What will happen next?
As the first tower burned, they speculated about a small errant plane that might have caused the explosion and fire. Remember? They alluded, not casually, but not alarmingly, to the 1993 WTC bombing. It was so strange, the sight of the billowing smoke from that initial blast. Then a reporter on her cell from a nearby neighborhood saw the second plane crash—not a small plane but a jumbo jet, live, as it happened. Could the air traffic control system have failed? Why would a pilot fly into a building? No, this is no accident. Terrorist attack. A declaration of war? The report of a hijacking. Tom Brokaw joined Matt and Katie in the studio, and Jim Miklashevski was on the phone, safely harbored in the Pentagon, until the Pentagon itself shook from another unknown blast. What’s going on? What will happen next?
This compulsion, this exercise of watching the rebroadcast, was almost like rereading a tragic novel, one I’d read repeatedly, knowing the outcome but forgetting the details. Wishing, hoping that if I read it with fresh eyes, it might yet have a happy ending. As the emerging facts were recounted, Katie added, "And, of course, who knows the human toll?" Remember? They guessed 50,000 people could've been inside but hoped most had been evacuated safely. I remember seeing that live, hearing the estimates. It was a third plane that hit the Pentagon, they announced, not a bomb on the heliport.
Some of the story is locked in my memory. Yet now I struggled again to string it all together. Which flight came from where? It was two from Boston, right? Was it the north tower that was struck first but fell second? Or vice versa?
By now, it was long after midnight and I had to sleep. I hit the VCR and watched the rest on Friday. How could the coordination have been so perfect? Were more planes being transformed into missiles? Air traffic across the country had been grounded and transatlantic flights diverted to Canada. I’d forgotten that. The first tower fell. The second tower fell. A fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania: United Flight 93.
While smoky footage rolled from Lower Manhattan where the towers had been vaporized, Tom Brokaw said, in his twangy, comforting way, putting the pieces together, slowly and confidently: "It is hard to overstate the consequence of all this, and this is just the beginning. We’ll be living with this story and dealing with the consequences for some time. It will cost us in loss of life and cost us in terms of the psychological security that we have in this country. America has been changed by all this."
What was it the beginning of? Had we not felt vulnerable before? I don't remember. And who would have imagined Iraq and more needless reckless loss of life and Bush 2004 and the sickening spectre of McCain-Palin? Are we back to sleep? What’s going on? What will happen next?
I hit the button to rewind and the video played backwards, the story reversing. Transfixed, I watched the smoke billowing in, not out. The towers uncollapsing, one by one. The scene of a single fire in a single building. We interrupt this broadcast. And back to the beginning. A sunny September morning when the sky was safe and azure.
I switched off the TV, took a deep breath, and went about my day. Unlike the 9/11 families, I have the luxury of putting the story away, until I need to remember again how it began and ponder how it will end.
I was flipping channels, looking for light fare, when I stumbled upon MSNBC’s "9/11: As It Happened." It was simply a rebroadcast, with some editing, of NBC’s original coverage from the morning of September 11, 2001, as it unfolded, with Katie Couric and Matt Lauer in New York. At first I tried to resist—no, no, watching the footage and seeing the towers would be too upsetting. I'd seen the tributes earlier in the day. I know what happened. But after two minutes, I was frozen. Just as frozen as I had been when it was live. What’s going on? What will happen next?
As the first tower burned, they speculated about a small errant plane that might have caused the explosion and fire. Remember? They alluded, not casually, but not alarmingly, to the 1993 WTC bombing. It was so strange, the sight of the billowing smoke from that initial blast. Then a reporter on her cell from a nearby neighborhood saw the second plane crash—not a small plane but a jumbo jet, live, as it happened. Could the air traffic control system have failed? Why would a pilot fly into a building? No, this is no accident. Terrorist attack. A declaration of war? The report of a hijacking. Tom Brokaw joined Matt and Katie in the studio, and Jim Miklashevski was on the phone, safely harbored in the Pentagon, until the Pentagon itself shook from another unknown blast. What’s going on? What will happen next?
This compulsion, this exercise of watching the rebroadcast, was almost like rereading a tragic novel, one I’d read repeatedly, knowing the outcome but forgetting the details. Wishing, hoping that if I read it with fresh eyes, it might yet have a happy ending. As the emerging facts were recounted, Katie added, "And, of course, who knows the human toll?" Remember? They guessed 50,000 people could've been inside but hoped most had been evacuated safely. I remember seeing that live, hearing the estimates. It was a third plane that hit the Pentagon, they announced, not a bomb on the heliport.
Some of the story is locked in my memory. Yet now I struggled again to string it all together. Which flight came from where? It was two from Boston, right? Was it the north tower that was struck first but fell second? Or vice versa?
By now, it was long after midnight and I had to sleep. I hit the VCR and watched the rest on Friday. How could the coordination have been so perfect? Were more planes being transformed into missiles? Air traffic across the country had been grounded and transatlantic flights diverted to Canada. I’d forgotten that. The first tower fell. The second tower fell. A fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania: United Flight 93.
While smoky footage rolled from Lower Manhattan where the towers had been vaporized, Tom Brokaw said, in his twangy, comforting way, putting the pieces together, slowly and confidently: "It is hard to overstate the consequence of all this, and this is just the beginning. We’ll be living with this story and dealing with the consequences for some time. It will cost us in loss of life and cost us in terms of the psychological security that we have in this country. America has been changed by all this."
What was it the beginning of? Had we not felt vulnerable before? I don't remember. And who would have imagined Iraq and more needless reckless loss of life and Bush 2004 and the sickening spectre of McCain-Palin? Are we back to sleep? What’s going on? What will happen next?
I hit the button to rewind and the video played backwards, the story reversing. Transfixed, I watched the smoke billowing in, not out. The towers uncollapsing, one by one. The scene of a single fire in a single building. We interrupt this broadcast. And back to the beginning. A sunny September morning when the sky was safe and azure.
I switched off the TV, took a deep breath, and went about my day. Unlike the 9/11 families, I have the luxury of putting the story away, until I need to remember again how it began and ponder how it will end.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Jon Stewart, Will You Be My Sponsor?
I don’t drink. No big reason, no rehab ghosts, no vows of temperance, just not a fan. I guess I don’t like feeling loopy, although I used to sip an occasional glass of wine or, in my college waitressing days, a ladylike apricot sour or tequila sunrise. Maybe it’s another one of those control things, I’m not sure.
Instead, I’m addicted to politics, and my life has become unmanageable. For the past ten days, it’s been CNN and MSNBC and NYT, slate.com and the huffington post, and even Fox News for a peek behind enemy lines. It started with The Royal Clintons, Michelle’s sassy glam and Barack and Biden’s gleaming smiles, mile-high fireworks, tears and historic exhilaration, red-white-and-blue hope. Then came Sarah Barracuda and the Beehive, Bristolgate and moose, Gustav and vetting and sex-lies-and-videotape. Hype and hyperbole and hypocrisy. I feel sick.
Finally, during McCain’s Thursday speech, I nearly blacked out from the excess brain activity involved in debunking falsehoods and resisting the powerful forces of Rovian manipulation. All of a sudden, I felt dreamy. Yes, bipartisanship, what a lovely thought. Let’s stop shouting. How nice. Strength and honor. What’s not to love? The surge? Sure, a tidy success. Oh my God, I’ve hit bottom. Take away the keys to the remote. I am not safe to watch.
OK, I realize I could turn off the TV or ignore the newspapers and blogs but I consider myself an informed person and, as the child of a news junkie, I am genetically programmed for current-events immersion. Growing up, it was multiple daily papers and the TV plus one, if not two, radios going all day and sometimes into the night. That would be Dad. A relentless media barrage, sometimes in different languages. I respect my father’s curiosity and knowledge and multitasking, but now I’m hooked too.
I wake up in the morning and even if I have a channel-changing hangover, I need to know what’s going on in the world. Drag me to the Situation Room. Give me a Keith Olbermann rant with a Campbell Brown chaser. Not good enough. Larry King, hit me up. Anderson Cooper, spin me around on the 360. I really should stop. But I’ve tried. I can’t. I am powerless over my disease.
That’s where Jon Stewart comes in. Nauseous and vibrating by 11:00 at night, I need detox. The Daily Show detox. My 30 minutes of cold, hard truth—the fake news. Tell me really what’s going on in the world, not what they want me to think is going on. Give me a dose of those video clips. Like last night, I came to during a jaw-dropping juxtaposition of the Bush 2000 and McCain 2008 acceptance speeches. Or earlier in the week, I sobered up watching Karl and Bill O’s double-talking rhetoric. Better than any slap on the face or jolt of espresso. Jon Stewart, you restore me to sanity! Will you be my sponsor? I’m ready to quit real news, I promise.
On second thought, cold turkey sounds tough. The withdrawal could be painful. What about cutting back? No, not before the debates. Oh, I know! I’ll find a substitute, something to take the edge off, just temporarily. That’s fair, isn’t it? Yes. First thing tomorrow, I will get down on bended knee and pray: Dear God, please guide the Red Sox to the playoffs. Bring me Soxtober. If you do, I swear I’ll kick politics for good, on November 5.
Instead, I’m addicted to politics, and my life has become unmanageable. For the past ten days, it’s been CNN and MSNBC and NYT, slate.com and the huffington post, and even Fox News for a peek behind enemy lines. It started with The Royal Clintons, Michelle’s sassy glam and Barack and Biden’s gleaming smiles, mile-high fireworks, tears and historic exhilaration, red-white-and-blue hope. Then came Sarah Barracuda and the Beehive, Bristolgate and moose, Gustav and vetting and sex-lies-and-videotape. Hype and hyperbole and hypocrisy. I feel sick.
Finally, during McCain’s Thursday speech, I nearly blacked out from the excess brain activity involved in debunking falsehoods and resisting the powerful forces of Rovian manipulation. All of a sudden, I felt dreamy. Yes, bipartisanship, what a lovely thought. Let’s stop shouting. How nice. Strength and honor. What’s not to love? The surge? Sure, a tidy success. Oh my God, I’ve hit bottom. Take away the keys to the remote. I am not safe to watch.
OK, I realize I could turn off the TV or ignore the newspapers and blogs but I consider myself an informed person and, as the child of a news junkie, I am genetically programmed for current-events immersion. Growing up, it was multiple daily papers and the TV plus one, if not two, radios going all day and sometimes into the night. That would be Dad. A relentless media barrage, sometimes in different languages. I respect my father’s curiosity and knowledge and multitasking, but now I’m hooked too.
I wake up in the morning and even if I have a channel-changing hangover, I need to know what’s going on in the world. Drag me to the Situation Room. Give me a Keith Olbermann rant with a Campbell Brown chaser. Not good enough. Larry King, hit me up. Anderson Cooper, spin me around on the 360. I really should stop. But I’ve tried. I can’t. I am powerless over my disease.
That’s where Jon Stewart comes in. Nauseous and vibrating by 11:00 at night, I need detox. The Daily Show detox. My 30 minutes of cold, hard truth—the fake news. Tell me really what’s going on in the world, not what they want me to think is going on. Give me a dose of those video clips. Like last night, I came to during a jaw-dropping juxtaposition of the Bush 2000 and McCain 2008 acceptance speeches. Or earlier in the week, I sobered up watching Karl and Bill O’s double-talking rhetoric. Better than any slap on the face or jolt of espresso. Jon Stewart, you restore me to sanity! Will you be my sponsor? I’m ready to quit real news, I promise.
On second thought, cold turkey sounds tough. The withdrawal could be painful. What about cutting back? No, not before the debates. Oh, I know! I’ll find a substitute, something to take the edge off, just temporarily. That’s fair, isn’t it? Yes. First thing tomorrow, I will get down on bended knee and pray: Dear God, please guide the Red Sox to the playoffs. Bring me Soxtober. If you do, I swear I’ll kick politics for good, on November 5.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Berger, Beethoven, and Bliss
A sizzling drum roll, a bass guitar groove, and that distinctive trumpet riff. With those pulsing measures that open “Aquarius,” I knew I was in for much more than a fun ’60s flashback. Hair. Outdoors. In Central Park. The 40th-anniversary revival production last Friday night was harmony and understanding, mystic crystal revelation, and way beyond the mind’s true liberation. And that was just the overture to a magical weekend whose coda belonged to Ludwig van Beethoven, on a mountain road high in the Berkshires.
New York City on a late-August evening could’ve been impossibly humid or stormy, given this summer’s violent weather. But we were lucky. It was heavenly. My friend Susan had bought tickets months ago (they miraculously survived her apartment fire) and we sat fifth-row center in the Delacorte amphitheater. We weren't exactly going get in line at 3 a.m. to nab free tickets. Not from Boston.
Truth be told, half the reason for securing advance seats was to see Jonathan Groff, of Spring Awakening, as Claude, the guy who gets drafted. I realize it’s embarrassingly unseemly for a 50-something woman and her 30-something friend to drive 200+ miles to drool over a 20-something actor, but Jonathan is, well, special. His face, his body, his voice, his intensity. He could make any reasonably sane (but deeply feeling) woman (or man, in his case) keel over in reverence. Because of a prior commitment, though, Groff would be gone before the end of the run. Oh no. But an actor named Christopher Hanke, blond and shiny and effervescent, stood in and he done good. Mad good, as my teenage clients say.
I’m not a bona fide Hair groupie like Susan, who’s been obsessed with the show since childhood. She played Sheila, the female lead, in an area production last fall and knows the score and the script (such as it is) inside out. I sang a cheesy choral arrangement of “Aquarius” for Munich High School’s graduation ceremonies in 1969. But Hair is my era, my youth. The minute those opening chords sailed out from the onstage bandstand, I was gone. As in transported. It was perfect staging, electric dancing, authentic costumes, breezy air, naked bodies, peace and love and the psychedelic energy of a cloudless summer night.
And then Will Swenson, the hunky actor playing the Tribe’s leader, Berger, danced with Susan. The cast was cavorting throughout the theater during the title song. Will undoubtedly had spotted Susan on the aisle in her peace earrings and Bohemian dress, moving as much as one can without making a spectacle but restraining herself, I imagine, from simply jumping onto the grassy proscenium to merge with the Tribe.
Will swiftly navigated a few rows and barriers and, in a blurry flash of denim and beads and bare-chested sweat, extended his hands to Susan, who instantly rose to mirror his figure-eight head-flailing tangle of hair in an ecstatic swirl of rock and roll and pure luv. I was breathless. The people next to me whooped. After he bounded back onto the stage, Will reached out his hands, wiggled his fingers toward Susan, and raised his eyebrows, once. Stunned yet calm, Susan gave him a quick, gracious thumbs-up, and fell back in her seat.
For the finale, catharsis not yet complete, the audience was invited on stage for “Let the Sunshine In.” As many as could fit, anyway. It’s been decades since I was at a Be-In or any kind of -In. Propelled by my neighbors, Susan long since disappeared into the mass, I began jumping, twirling, screaming, singing, waving my arms above my head, not even breathing or thinking, just being, along with dozens of euphoric strangers and the wonderful, hairy cast. And lightning didn’t strike. And, for that moment, all was well with the world.
By the next night, we’d visited with my dynamo cousin Bobby, cruised the Upper West Side, sampled organic smoked salmon at Zabar’s, watched my brother, Don, play piano for a silent film at MOMA, caught ten minutes of the tantalizing Dali exhibit, had a yummy Italian dinner in a too-noisy restaurant with my parents in White Plains, and headed to the hills of northwestern Connecticut to Don’s home.
Sunday afternoon, Don, Susan, and I went to Falls Village, where we climbed down a steep hill to a swimming hole. Across a medium-size pond studded with rocks, the powerful waterfalls beckoned. I try not to think of myself as phobic about too many things. But swimming across the pond without being able to touch the bottom is one of them. Maybe it’s a control thing. Maybe it’s the fact that I never learned to swim well. So I chose to scuttle slowly along the algae-covered rocks and watch daredevil children jump off the cliffs, while Don and Susan swam against the current to frolic under the falls.
After a while, I was relieved to climb carefully up the hill to the car, where we headed off for a real lake, where I could do my kind of swimming. Sidestroke, parallel with the shore. Kind of like those old ladies in the ocean with their pink-floral rubber bathing caps and flabby arms. But I didn’t care. I’ll be an old lady if it means being able to touch the bottom.
Don started the engine. It was 4:00, Sunday, August 24. On the car radio, we heard four words, Alle Menschen werden Brüder, enough for instant ecstasy: Beethoven’s Ninth, live from Tanglewood! “All men will become brothers.” Susan and I have sung it countless times, including with Tanglewood at the United Nations for the 1998 Winter Olympics Opening Ceremonies. Bumping along the rocky dirt road up Mt. Riga toward the lake, past verdant hills and meadows flocked with horses, then deep into the shadowy woods, we cranked the volume and sang, Susan on soprano, me on alto, Donnie improvising impeccably as always, shushing ourselves to hear how the chorus pulled off the scary parts, melting at their perfectly executed crescendos and pianissimos, swooning and swaying and flinging our arms and legs and heads, now to Beethoven not Hair, but it’s all the same, isn’t it? Joy, peace, love, brotherhood, sisterhood, music, dancing, bodies in motion, bliss and gratitude. Let the sunshine in. Mad amazing.
And when we arrived at the lake, the water was cool and placid and inviting. I strode in and dunked and dog-paddled and sidestroked, knowing I could stand on the soft, sandy bottom whenever I needed to.
New York City on a late-August evening could’ve been impossibly humid or stormy, given this summer’s violent weather. But we were lucky. It was heavenly. My friend Susan had bought tickets months ago (they miraculously survived her apartment fire) and we sat fifth-row center in the Delacorte amphitheater. We weren't exactly going get in line at 3 a.m. to nab free tickets. Not from Boston.
Truth be told, half the reason for securing advance seats was to see Jonathan Groff, of Spring Awakening, as Claude, the guy who gets drafted. I realize it’s embarrassingly unseemly for a 50-something woman and her 30-something friend to drive 200+ miles to drool over a 20-something actor, but Jonathan is, well, special. His face, his body, his voice, his intensity. He could make any reasonably sane (but deeply feeling) woman (or man, in his case) keel over in reverence. Because of a prior commitment, though, Groff would be gone before the end of the run. Oh no. But an actor named Christopher Hanke, blond and shiny and effervescent, stood in and he done good. Mad good, as my teenage clients say.
I’m not a bona fide Hair groupie like Susan, who’s been obsessed with the show since childhood. She played Sheila, the female lead, in an area production last fall and knows the score and the script (such as it is) inside out. I sang a cheesy choral arrangement of “Aquarius” for Munich High School’s graduation ceremonies in 1969. But Hair is my era, my youth. The minute those opening chords sailed out from the onstage bandstand, I was gone. As in transported. It was perfect staging, electric dancing, authentic costumes, breezy air, naked bodies, peace and love and the psychedelic energy of a cloudless summer night.
And then Will Swenson, the hunky actor playing the Tribe’s leader, Berger, danced with Susan. The cast was cavorting throughout the theater during the title song. Will undoubtedly had spotted Susan on the aisle in her peace earrings and Bohemian dress, moving as much as one can without making a spectacle but restraining herself, I imagine, from simply jumping onto the grassy proscenium to merge with the Tribe.
Will swiftly navigated a few rows and barriers and, in a blurry flash of denim and beads and bare-chested sweat, extended his hands to Susan, who instantly rose to mirror his figure-eight head-flailing tangle of hair in an ecstatic swirl of rock and roll and pure luv. I was breathless. The people next to me whooped. After he bounded back onto the stage, Will reached out his hands, wiggled his fingers toward Susan, and raised his eyebrows, once. Stunned yet calm, Susan gave him a quick, gracious thumbs-up, and fell back in her seat.
For the finale, catharsis not yet complete, the audience was invited on stage for “Let the Sunshine In.” As many as could fit, anyway. It’s been decades since I was at a Be-In or any kind of -In. Propelled by my neighbors, Susan long since disappeared into the mass, I began jumping, twirling, screaming, singing, waving my arms above my head, not even breathing or thinking, just being, along with dozens of euphoric strangers and the wonderful, hairy cast. And lightning didn’t strike. And, for that moment, all was well with the world.
By the next night, we’d visited with my dynamo cousin Bobby, cruised the Upper West Side, sampled organic smoked salmon at Zabar’s, watched my brother, Don, play piano for a silent film at MOMA, caught ten minutes of the tantalizing Dali exhibit, had a yummy Italian dinner in a too-noisy restaurant with my parents in White Plains, and headed to the hills of northwestern Connecticut to Don’s home.
Sunday afternoon, Don, Susan, and I went to Falls Village, where we climbed down a steep hill to a swimming hole. Across a medium-size pond studded with rocks, the powerful waterfalls beckoned. I try not to think of myself as phobic about too many things. But swimming across the pond without being able to touch the bottom is one of them. Maybe it’s a control thing. Maybe it’s the fact that I never learned to swim well. So I chose to scuttle slowly along the algae-covered rocks and watch daredevil children jump off the cliffs, while Don and Susan swam against the current to frolic under the falls.
After a while, I was relieved to climb carefully up the hill to the car, where we headed off for a real lake, where I could do my kind of swimming. Sidestroke, parallel with the shore. Kind of like those old ladies in the ocean with their pink-floral rubber bathing caps and flabby arms. But I didn’t care. I’ll be an old lady if it means being able to touch the bottom.
Don started the engine. It was 4:00, Sunday, August 24. On the car radio, we heard four words, Alle Menschen werden Brüder, enough for instant ecstasy: Beethoven’s Ninth, live from Tanglewood! “All men will become brothers.” Susan and I have sung it countless times, including with Tanglewood at the United Nations for the 1998 Winter Olympics Opening Ceremonies. Bumping along the rocky dirt road up Mt. Riga toward the lake, past verdant hills and meadows flocked with horses, then deep into the shadowy woods, we cranked the volume and sang, Susan on soprano, me on alto, Donnie improvising impeccably as always, shushing ourselves to hear how the chorus pulled off the scary parts, melting at their perfectly executed crescendos and pianissimos, swooning and swaying and flinging our arms and legs and heads, now to Beethoven not Hair, but it’s all the same, isn’t it? Joy, peace, love, brotherhood, sisterhood, music, dancing, bodies in motion, bliss and gratitude. Let the sunshine in. Mad amazing.
And when we arrived at the lake, the water was cool and placid and inviting. I strode in and dunked and dog-paddled and sidestroked, knowing I could stand on the soft, sandy bottom whenever I needed to.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Conventional Wisdom, 1968
It’s Convention time with a capital C, so in honor of the ever-changing, never-changing world of presidential elections, I'm posting excerpts from my memoir-in-progress, Where Is Luv? A Teenager’s Diary of Hope, Passion, and Total Confusion.
August 1968: On the political front, LBJ had dropped out of the race and RFK was gone. McCarthy was challenging Humphrey, and no one wanted Nixon to be president. No one I knew anyway.
On the personal front, my family was on Home Leave for two months, staying with relatives in Connecticut, plus a short visit to Miami to see the grandparents. All family all the time—quel challenge for a 14-year-old continental sophisticate. Or so I fancied myself.
Americans overseas, military or not (we were not), called extended visits to the States "Home Leave." But, after living in Germany for two years, the States was like a foreign country to me. Home was Munich. I’d left Rye, New York, far behind in 1966, and was deeply enmeshed in my life abroad and the politics of adolescence.
August 4, New Haven
Today I got all made up. I looked really good. I could be a model maybe! Mom said so. Cool! I think I'm not that ugly.
Can’t wait for Munich—28 days. Ugh! 4 whole wks. Convention starts tomorrow. Hope it’s Rocky vs. HHH [Nelson Rockefeller vs. Hubert Humphrey] or Rocky vs. LBJ. I doubt LBJ will run. 2 mos. ago Bobby Kennedy was shot. Still can’t believe it. I'm gonna plan my schedule for ninth grade real rigidly and get my homework done and study hard and keep up in Social Studies! I have potential!
August 12, Miami
Watched Convention. Tricky Dicky Nixon won and chose Spiro Agnew (whatta name!) for running mate. Rocky put up a good fite.
August 16, New Haven
Grüss Gott! [Hi!] Back in Connecticut after hectic week in Miami, visiting family and swimming and playing gin rummy, shuffleboard, and going out to dinner and having a gay-all time.
Latest rage! Earrings! Got a whole bunch of pierced-look earrings. I have been wearing them all the time. Mom is considering letting me get my ears pierced.
Latest rage! 35 $$$ to spend any way I please! I would like to buy a fall [faux hair] with it. That’s my latest wild wish. Since London I’ve sort of wanted one.
Latest rage! Spex! I got new pair spex. Also prescrip. sunspex. They really look great and do wonders for my face!! Soften, unangulate!
So now we’re back to nagging and arguments—better than nagging from the grandparents! But I love them dearly. They’re so peppy and alive. Some people their age resign themselves to a secluded life cuz they think they’re not much left for the world.
Saw 2001: A Space Odyssey. Really weird, interesting, wild movie. I’m gonna read the book and find out what it was really all about. I remember when I was at the movies at Family Theater [a Munich hangout] 2 mos. ago today (last time I saw everyone!!) and tried to foretell what real Americans were like. Well, I’ll tell ya! Real Americans are just as cheap as Munich Americans. Curlers, gum, fakey everything, airs, Cadillacs. I don’t really "dig it," as Donnie says. Higher-class "America" appeals to me. Late nites, evening gowns, sophisticated company. I hope I don’t submit to the cheap America later on.
For the plane trip, bought Intimate, a trashy magazine. Interesting to read, tho, and see how some girls (although imaginary) succumb to flattery and sweet talk to be conned into making love with a man. I hope I never make that mistake and then regret it as those girls did.
August 26
Went to Caldor's and got gobs of stuff. Breckset, Pssssst, school stuff, etc. Today, Karen and I went downtown. She got $17 Weejun loafers. I got a free Bonne Bell makeover. It was fun. But we put too much on! Bought $4 worth of the stuff and got free lip gloss. Bought orange and yellow accessories for my room. I wanna redecorate my room when I get back (5 days!!) w/ less clutter and more femininity.
August 30
Well, as Daddy says, it’s down to the wire! We’ll be in the air in 24 hours. Went to Hartsdale, went shopping, bought 2 mobiles and a poster at Giftique. Came back and saw Humphrey get the nomination. He chose Muskie as a running mate. Yeccch, what a choice, HHH or Nixon!!
I’m really nervous about going. I think I’ll really miss it more than if I hadn’t come at all. Visited old house [in Rye]. Nostalgic. TOODLES FROM THE STATES—Land of TV, hamburgers, nice houses, no fences, Alexander’s, violence!! Most everything! Oh well, not of friends.
September 2, Munich
Hello from land of beer, fat, hairy legs, ugly houses and our beautiful house!! The whole house is redone! It’s great! New möbel [furniture] in the living room. Brand new küche [kitchen]. Fantastic!! Rug in hall. Paint all over! My room is really tuff! Painted lite blue. With new stuff that I got it’ll be great! Have already started rearranging.
Left USA on Saturday—sad goodbyes. Then Ma, Pa and I zoomed off to JFK via the dentist (ayayay!). Good 6½-hour flite to London. Slept most of the way. Then 1½-hr. to Munich. Good to be back!
September 5
All I’ve been doing is fixing my room and clothes and the house. It’s taking shape now. Talked with Kathy for 40 minutes last night. I was afraid to tell her that I kind of wanna break away from her and the new kids and not always group together. So she agreed! I solved both our problems! We decided that we both want a new image. Both of us want good grades and popularity, so we figured we'd get good grades and be studious and then people will come to you if you’re generally nice to them w/out plugging for popularity. See? It’s hard to write. But on the first day we’re not gonna pair off and talk and gossip (no, no, no!!) but be more alone. I hope it works out.
I’m gonna really try to work this year. It’s very important to get honors to get into any ½ decent college and get a ½ decent education. So BUCKLE DOWN! In 10 days, school starts. My new "image" should be complete by then. It’ll be hard but I'm trying.
Stay tuned next week: Notes from HAIR in Central Park, August 22, 2008. Long live the '60s!
August 1968: On the political front, LBJ had dropped out of the race and RFK was gone. McCarthy was challenging Humphrey, and no one wanted Nixon to be president. No one I knew anyway.
On the personal front, my family was on Home Leave for two months, staying with relatives in Connecticut, plus a short visit to Miami to see the grandparents. All family all the time—quel challenge for a 14-year-old continental sophisticate. Or so I fancied myself.
Americans overseas, military or not (we were not), called extended visits to the States "Home Leave." But, after living in Germany for two years, the States was like a foreign country to me. Home was Munich. I’d left Rye, New York, far behind in 1966, and was deeply enmeshed in my life abroad and the politics of adolescence.
August 4, New Haven
Today I got all made up. I looked really good. I could be a model maybe! Mom said so. Cool! I think I'm not that ugly.
Can’t wait for Munich—28 days. Ugh! 4 whole wks. Convention starts tomorrow. Hope it’s Rocky vs. HHH [Nelson Rockefeller vs. Hubert Humphrey] or Rocky vs. LBJ. I doubt LBJ will run. 2 mos. ago Bobby Kennedy was shot. Still can’t believe it. I'm gonna plan my schedule for ninth grade real rigidly and get my homework done and study hard and keep up in Social Studies! I have potential!
August 12, Miami
Watched Convention. Tricky Dicky Nixon won and chose Spiro Agnew (whatta name!) for running mate. Rocky put up a good fite.
August 16, New Haven
Grüss Gott! [Hi!] Back in Connecticut after hectic week in Miami, visiting family and swimming and playing gin rummy, shuffleboard, and going out to dinner and having a gay-all time.
Latest rage! Earrings! Got a whole bunch of pierced-look earrings. I have been wearing them all the time. Mom is considering letting me get my ears pierced.
Latest rage! 35 $$$ to spend any way I please! I would like to buy a fall [faux hair] with it. That’s my latest wild wish. Since London I’ve sort of wanted one.
Latest rage! Spex! I got new pair spex. Also prescrip. sunspex. They really look great and do wonders for my face!! Soften, unangulate!
So now we’re back to nagging and arguments—better than nagging from the grandparents! But I love them dearly. They’re so peppy and alive. Some people their age resign themselves to a secluded life cuz they think they’re not much left for the world.
Saw 2001: A Space Odyssey. Really weird, interesting, wild movie. I’m gonna read the book and find out what it was really all about. I remember when I was at the movies at Family Theater [a Munich hangout] 2 mos. ago today (last time I saw everyone!!) and tried to foretell what real Americans were like. Well, I’ll tell ya! Real Americans are just as cheap as Munich Americans. Curlers, gum, fakey everything, airs, Cadillacs. I don’t really "dig it," as Donnie says. Higher-class "America" appeals to me. Late nites, evening gowns, sophisticated company. I hope I don’t submit to the cheap America later on.
For the plane trip, bought Intimate, a trashy magazine. Interesting to read, tho, and see how some girls (although imaginary) succumb to flattery and sweet talk to be conned into making love with a man. I hope I never make that mistake and then regret it as those girls did.
August 26
Went to Caldor's and got gobs of stuff. Breckset, Pssssst, school stuff, etc. Today, Karen and I went downtown. She got $17 Weejun loafers. I got a free Bonne Bell makeover. It was fun. But we put too much on! Bought $4 worth of the stuff and got free lip gloss. Bought orange and yellow accessories for my room. I wanna redecorate my room when I get back (5 days!!) w/ less clutter and more femininity.
August 30
Well, as Daddy says, it’s down to the wire! We’ll be in the air in 24 hours. Went to Hartsdale, went shopping, bought 2 mobiles and a poster at Giftique. Came back and saw Humphrey get the nomination. He chose Muskie as a running mate. Yeccch, what a choice, HHH or Nixon!!
I’m really nervous about going. I think I’ll really miss it more than if I hadn’t come at all. Visited old house [in Rye]. Nostalgic. TOODLES FROM THE STATES—Land of TV, hamburgers, nice houses, no fences, Alexander’s, violence!! Most everything! Oh well, not of friends.
September 2, Munich
Hello from land of beer, fat, hairy legs, ugly houses and our beautiful house!! The whole house is redone! It’s great! New möbel [furniture] in the living room. Brand new küche [kitchen]. Fantastic!! Rug in hall. Paint all over! My room is really tuff! Painted lite blue. With new stuff that I got it’ll be great! Have already started rearranging.
Left USA on Saturday—sad goodbyes. Then Ma, Pa and I zoomed off to JFK via the dentist (ayayay!). Good 6½-hour flite to London. Slept most of the way. Then 1½-hr. to Munich. Good to be back!
September 5
All I’ve been doing is fixing my room and clothes and the house. It’s taking shape now. Talked with Kathy for 40 minutes last night. I was afraid to tell her that I kind of wanna break away from her and the new kids and not always group together. So she agreed! I solved both our problems! We decided that we both want a new image. Both of us want good grades and popularity, so we figured we'd get good grades and be studious and then people will come to you if you’re generally nice to them w/out plugging for popularity. See? It’s hard to write. But on the first day we’re not gonna pair off and talk and gossip (no, no, no!!) but be more alone. I hope it works out.
I’m gonna really try to work this year. It’s very important to get honors to get into any ½ decent college and get a ½ decent education. So BUCKLE DOWN! In 10 days, school starts. My new "image" should be complete by then. It’ll be hard but I'm trying.
Stay tuned next week: Notes from HAIR in Central Park, August 22, 2008. Long live the '60s!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Olymp-o-Mania
I remember it happened four years ago, too. And eight years ago. And 12, 20, even 36 years ago, when Mark Spitz was the hot, supple-limbed poster boy in Munich. The pageantry and pomp, rabid nationalism, heart-wrenching backstories, and interminable commercials. And I remember each time spending long hours in front of the TV trying to imagine the life of an elite athlete—what it must be like to have a singular, all-or-nothing, must-win goal, where success or failure hinges on hundredths of a second or tenths of a point. Where the turn of an ankle or a surge of nerves could obliterate years, years, of coaching, preparing, fine-tuning, sweating, dreaming.
Olympic fever—utterly irresistible. I was gonna skip it this time. Really. I would not be seduced by NBC. Too much hype, it’s on too late, too much to do. I just can’t commit.
I casually, noncommittally caught the end of the Opening Ceremonies. Damn. They got me. So here are some of my Olympic reflections after Week 1:
Michael Phelps
Of course! How else could I begin? Gold medal #7 by 1/100 of a second! I can’t wait for the relay tonight. He’s God and Hercules and Paul McCartney all rolled into one. Along with the hungry media and international fan clubs, I’ve devoured the micro details about his training regimen, the 12,000-calorie-a-day “diet,” and the vital (and I mean vital) statistics about his body and his strange tunnel-vision life. Did you know he was arrested for driving under the influence in 2004, after Athens? God is flawed. But at least God partied.
Phelps is a miracle. Or a freak. Or something meta-human. But when you think about it, which I’ve been doing for a week, what kind of a life is eat, swim, rest? I’d much rather eat, pray, love. I do hope he plays when he gets back to the States. After cashing in on the endorsements, of course.
Anyway, it’s that arm-span thing that knocks me out. The wing-flapping before each swim. Six feet seven inches of sublime condor. I had to try, didn’t you? I yanked myself up out of my chair, all five feet of me. Lengthening my spine and leaning forward, fully bent over, I extended both arms and pressed them backwards. I flapped, slowly and gently, then a little faster. Ouch! You can’t be serious. I read he was double-jointed in the elbows, knees, and ankles. Is it possible to have double-jointed shoulders too? Note to self: Schedule chiropractor appointment.
So it’s goodbye to swimming, to Ryan Lochte’s bedroom eyes and Aaron Peirsol’s satin chest and Dara Torres’s powerful arms. To the Water Cube and Rowdy Gaines, who used to be a hunk and now looks wizened. To buttery muscles and flipper feet and smashed world records and fantasies of flexibility. And to Michael Phelps, Man and Superman.
Men's Gymnastics
The biceps, the thighs, the symmetry, the chalk, the still rings, that Sascha kid on the pommel horse, the tattoos, the biceps. Enough said.
Women's (Or Should I Say Girls'?) Gymnastics
How old are the Chinese girls, really? Who selects them as three-year-olds and why? Is it their shape, their bone structure, their malleability? Are they psych-tested to assess their strengths and vulnerabilities? Even the Americans are like machines. I wonder what Nastia Liukin’s Rorschach would reveal: “I see a full-twisting double-flipping dismounting Romanian pixie about to nail a perfect stick”? Do these girls know about Monet and Brahms and chocolate-hazelnut gelato? I worry about their mental health.
Of all the routines, the balance beam is the most daunting—how do they do that? Let me try. I placed a ruler on the floor and measured out four inches. Can I walk an imaginary straight line that wide, one foot in front of the other? Imagine whirling and twirling and leaping and cartwheeling and somersaulting and somehow still landing on this tiny little surface.
I tried a back flip once in sixth grade and landed on my head. After that, I decided to be a writer.
Coming Up: Track and Field
One stretch of my usual walk is a mile-long circuit by the Charles River, past quacking ducks and annoying geese and eagle-eyed seagulls and herons fishing along the waterfall’s edge. One mile. It takes me around 20 minutes at a nice pace that gets my heart going and my brow sweating. This week, people will run fast enough to cover that entire distance in under four minutes. My God.
Or the 100-meter dash: Imagine the length of a football field plus a little more. Imagine coordinating every breath and every movement and every muscle and eye-blink and propelling your body through space in under ten seconds. OK, no one’s around. I’ll try to run as fast as I can. After ten seconds, I covered maybe 20 feet or 20 yards, or, I really don’t know. I’m not good at distances. I only know my knees were howling and my feet started to laugh.
I think I’ll stick to writing.
Olympic fever—utterly irresistible. I was gonna skip it this time. Really. I would not be seduced by NBC. Too much hype, it’s on too late, too much to do. I just can’t commit.
I casually, noncommittally caught the end of the Opening Ceremonies. Damn. They got me. So here are some of my Olympic reflections after Week 1:
Michael Phelps
Of course! How else could I begin? Gold medal #7 by 1/100 of a second! I can’t wait for the relay tonight. He’s God and Hercules and Paul McCartney all rolled into one. Along with the hungry media and international fan clubs, I’ve devoured the micro details about his training regimen, the 12,000-calorie-a-day “diet,” and the vital (and I mean vital) statistics about his body and his strange tunnel-vision life. Did you know he was arrested for driving under the influence in 2004, after Athens? God is flawed. But at least God partied.
Phelps is a miracle. Or a freak. Or something meta-human. But when you think about it, which I’ve been doing for a week, what kind of a life is eat, swim, rest? I’d much rather eat, pray, love. I do hope he plays when he gets back to the States. After cashing in on the endorsements, of course.
Anyway, it’s that arm-span thing that knocks me out. The wing-flapping before each swim. Six feet seven inches of sublime condor. I had to try, didn’t you? I yanked myself up out of my chair, all five feet of me. Lengthening my spine and leaning forward, fully bent over, I extended both arms and pressed them backwards. I flapped, slowly and gently, then a little faster. Ouch! You can’t be serious. I read he was double-jointed in the elbows, knees, and ankles. Is it possible to have double-jointed shoulders too? Note to self: Schedule chiropractor appointment.
So it’s goodbye to swimming, to Ryan Lochte’s bedroom eyes and Aaron Peirsol’s satin chest and Dara Torres’s powerful arms. To the Water Cube and Rowdy Gaines, who used to be a hunk and now looks wizened. To buttery muscles and flipper feet and smashed world records and fantasies of flexibility. And to Michael Phelps, Man and Superman.
Men's Gymnastics
The biceps, the thighs, the symmetry, the chalk, the still rings, that Sascha kid on the pommel horse, the tattoos, the biceps. Enough said.
Women's (Or Should I Say Girls'?) Gymnastics
How old are the Chinese girls, really? Who selects them as three-year-olds and why? Is it their shape, their bone structure, their malleability? Are they psych-tested to assess their strengths and vulnerabilities? Even the Americans are like machines. I wonder what Nastia Liukin’s Rorschach would reveal: “I see a full-twisting double-flipping dismounting Romanian pixie about to nail a perfect stick”? Do these girls know about Monet and Brahms and chocolate-hazelnut gelato? I worry about their mental health.
Of all the routines, the balance beam is the most daunting—how do they do that? Let me try. I placed a ruler on the floor and measured out four inches. Can I walk an imaginary straight line that wide, one foot in front of the other? Imagine whirling and twirling and leaping and cartwheeling and somersaulting and somehow still landing on this tiny little surface.
I tried a back flip once in sixth grade and landed on my head. After that, I decided to be a writer.
Coming Up: Track and Field
One stretch of my usual walk is a mile-long circuit by the Charles River, past quacking ducks and annoying geese and eagle-eyed seagulls and herons fishing along the waterfall’s edge. One mile. It takes me around 20 minutes at a nice pace that gets my heart going and my brow sweating. This week, people will run fast enough to cover that entire distance in under four minutes. My God.
Or the 100-meter dash: Imagine the length of a football field plus a little more. Imagine coordinating every breath and every movement and every muscle and eye-blink and propelling your body through space in under ten seconds. OK, no one’s around. I’ll try to run as fast as I can. After ten seconds, I covered maybe 20 feet or 20 yards, or, I really don’t know. I’m not good at distances. I only know my knees were howling and my feet started to laugh.
I think I’ll stick to writing.
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