Category: universe

politics, sports, pop, fashion, science with a sprinkling of thinkings

All In All Is All We Are

I'm Sorry, handwritten note

There used to be a TV show on when I was a kid called Happy Days. It was a situation comedy about the olden days of the Fifties. I think was a spin-off from a pre-Star Wars film by George Lucas.

So there was this too cool character that was named Fonzie. He was so cool that even more cool than his slick leather motorcycle jacket and perfectly stacked Brylcreemed hair was his title. The Fonz.

The Fonz was very tough, most excellent with the ladies, respectful to the adults and able to extract music from the jukebox in the diner via a well-placed fist. He was also papally infallible. Seriously. He was damn near perfect.

He was so utterly faultless that his vocabulary could not accommodate words that would conflict with that reality. He physically could not say the word wrong or the word sorry if the words preceding those nouns were I am.

This was difficult for The Fonz, because nobody is actually without sin. It just doesn’t work that way. So when an extremely rare occasion of error or omission occurred, he was unable to use his words to express himself.

And yet somehow, without specifically saying, “I was wrong,” or “I am sorry,” it was clear from the context and his emotion that he was admitting his offense and acknowledging his failure. This was because his character was indeed sorry. Not pretending. But for real.

This is in contrast to the parade of non-apologies, abdication of any responsibility for wrong doing, and contortions of language to obscure any rational admission of fault that I have been listening to over the past week.

Why is it so hard for people to admit that they done effed up, when they, as a matter of fact, effed up? Parsing the meaning of the word “is,” is frankly unacceptable. Sorry about how someone feels isn’t the same as being sorry for what you did. Technicalities, skirting of the truth and sleight of hand is skeevy and inauthentic.

Even if he couldn’t say it directly, you knew exactly what The Fonz was saying. That he was wrrrrrrr… and that he was sssrhrrr… He meant it. Be like The Fonz.

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Once in a Lifetime

Look up. At the light. From the ceiling.

Yesterday a woman threw herself. Some say that she dove. I didn’t see that. I saw her hurtling her body to cross that line first. And she did.

I find people who do not appreciate her effort to be missing the point. She came to win. She was excruciatingly close. I felt excruciated for her. She may have won the race without resorting to a headlong fling and the attendant skinned knees and arms. Maybe not. Shaunae Miller, of the Bahamas, literally put her whole self out there in the 400M. She was there to win, like all the athletes. She went extreme.

Another woman put all she had out there to win. Oksana Chusovitina of Uzbekistan competed in her seventh Olympics. The first was in 1992. She’s 41 years old. For number seven, she not only qualified, but competed well enough to be a finalist in the individual vault competition.

Hers, like all gymnasts, is a skills and math problem. If you have the ability to pull off a very hard vault, your rewards spiral upwards via a formula. More hard = more points. Chusovitina knew that her competition’s knees were younger and springier, but she wasn’t in Rio to observe. She was there to medal. Her strategy ? Do “the vault of death.” Seriously. It’s a vault that her lithe, fresh rivals think is too dangerous to risk. But harder increases point potential. Gauntlet thrown. She didn’t hurt herself, nor did she medal. But Chusovitina laid out everything she had. She didn’t just come to play. She came to win.

I got chills watching Miller’s dive at the finish. I held my breath and found myself on my feet clapping as I saw Chusovitina fly, flip and flame. These, and so many other athletes, are the reason that I watch the Olympic games. To see the determination and the drive of these Beasts. Some are going to win. Some are going to lose. But every athlete is there to reach their goal. Not to try, but to do.

I find myself asking, “Doc, what do you want? What will you do to get there?” Win or lose, make it count. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. Same. As. It. Ever. Was.

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Enchanté

Medalist in the 100m backstroke, Fu Yuanhui (China) Kylie Masse (CAN), gold medalist Katinka Hosszú (Hungary) and (USA) Kathleen Baker.

You win a gold medal at the Olympics, you feel joy. You stand at the podium with any medal around your neck, there is joy. For many athletes, finishing their event brings joy. They are achieving long-standing goals. They are competing on an elite stage.

There is the inevitable local news coverage after an event. Athletes–especially athletes from big national news markets–are regularly prepped with words of wisdom and platitudes. To say the right things, thank the right people, to be poised and humble, and to certainly hold your hand in the correct position when your country’s national anthem rings out.

The strongest expressions of joy you see is a fist pump or an air box. You see beaming ear to ear grins. You see teammates gripping each other in bear hugs. You see overwhelming tears of gratitude, relief and, perhaps, joy. Once you saw someone take off her jersey and fall to her knees. That was an unusual, unscripted and primal display of joy. It was the exception that proved the rule. Pump, grin, hug or cry. Those are the acceptable norms.

And then you see the pure and unabashed joy of Chinese swimmer Fu Yuanhui. She is most definitely having a good time. It’s as if she was never given the advice to “act like you’ve been there before.” She’s not acting, she is being.

She was blatantly amazed and pleased by her bronze medal swim. She learned of her time from the interviewer and brought her hand to her wide with surprise mouth. She as much as said, “I swam that fast?!”

She hops up and down like a kid on Christmas morning, all the time. It’s like she’s acting out. Acting out her very huge feelings of glee and the soaring of her heart. At least for this Olympics, she’s not willing to tamp down any of her feelings of wonder and delight.

I could watch her most natural joie de vivre during every Olympic break. She loves being there, and she loves sharing that in the most obvious ways. You don’t need to interpret her. Why hold back, she asks us all? Don’t act like you’ve been there, act like you’ll never be back.

Damn, I love this woman.

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Poseidon In The House

The waves are crashing on the beach. There are some big fluffy clouds. And some sandy feet and sandy sandals in the foreground. It's sunny, too.

The gods of the sea asserted themselves today. It’s not like they were absent. They are always a part of the ocean. It’s just that today they made themselves known.

For the past few days, the ocean has met the shore with gentle rollers licking the sand. The water was a gray blue at the edge and striped green blue and then medium blue. The waves broke late, and without fanfare. It was subdued, but, the boss is still the boss.

Today, the breeze was stiff and from the north. It wasn’t windy. Hats were safe on heads, but blankets and the bodies on them were quickly covered with a light layer of sand. If there was no body on a towel, it would fold upon itself. Only once and then it would be heavy enough to stay put.

The soundtrack volume went from 3 to 7 with the percussive waves falling farther and with more frequency. Where the waves were only breaking at the shore, today, they were successive lines of crashing hills as far as you could see. Sometimes, a wave cresting north-south would meet up with a wave cresting south-north. The resulting criss crossing swirled and left a creamy foam reminiscent of  a well-poured Guinness.

On the waves, out halfway to the horizon, I saw a five foot swell speeding to the coastline. As I squinted I saw the outline of Poseidon riding the crest that was actually six white seahorses pulling his giant shell sleigh. There were dolphins, or were those mermaids(?), breaching the water in front of him and along the sides as his emissaries. The clamshell turned into a pair of majestic sea turtles–siblings for sure and as old as the sea–with the god’s feet planted firmly in the center of their shells.

The trident carried by Poseidon shone bright in the sun.  The glint from the sun blinded me for a minute. I had to close my eyes. When I opened them, the billowing white wave had dissipated and I lost the god. But I know he was there.

 

Posted on by docthink 1

You’re Not Boss Over Me

Bossed up. Like Diana. Wonder Woman. From an Esty.com ad

The child was prancing at the edge of the waves. I don’t know if she was teasing the ocean, or if the ocean was tricking her.

She was backing away from the water, and I could see the bottom of her swimsuit had white stars on American flag blue. Reminded me of Wonder Woman.

I readjusted my sun hat and pulled the long brim up a bit so I could see better. The suit had a cutaway and the top was red with yellow trim. Was this really a Wonder Woman suit? The girl turned toward me and I saw the definite gold “belt.” I so wanted that suit. Now. In a grown-up size.

I always forget how important Wonder Woman is to me. When Warner Brothers added Wonder Woman to it’s super hero lineup and released the trailer for her film, I watched it about fifteen times that first weekend. Thirty if you count all the times I skipped ahead to see her break a rifle in half, over her back, and deflect heavy artillery shells with her shield. But the best was when the guy said, “I can’t let you do this.” She looked at him somewhat blankly and said, “What I do is not up to you.”

“What I do is not up to you.” I love this. She makes her own calls. She doesn’t care about the guy’s chivalry. She doesn’t thank him for his concern. It’s foreign to her. It does not compute.

She doesn’t apologize for her strength. She protects other super heroes–like both Batman and Superman as they blathered on about their relationship. She is a fully formed person–albeit a badass person.

The girl was about seven. My eyes closely followed her every frolic. She kicked her leg out at the incoming wave. I looked. She waved her little plastic shovel above her head. It was duly noted. She pushed her wet locks away from her face, showering herself with sand. I saw that, too.

I watched this little girl playing next to the big bad ocean. She had no fear. She was alert, but not leery. She displayed her confidence. She didn’t need someone to protect her. She was fine. Wonder Woman in the making. I hope she always remembers that she’s a warrior princess. Oh, and where she parked that invisible plane. It’s impossible to see.

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Peddle to the Meddle

People setting up their booth of trump campaign booty in front of a restaurant with the motto, I got my crabs at Dirty Dick's.

The fact that the sky was blackening with intermittent streaks of lightning did not dissuade them. The wind wasn’t picking up, so the roof would stay on the tent.

Anyway, this is a big day. The rentals turned over on Saturdays. People line the realty offices waiting for their keys to be delivered between 4-6 p.m. They pick their way to the house and dump the kids. The sisters or the bros pile back in the car for the Food Lion.

Everyone goes to the Food Lion when they get in. People need milk and that vanilla coffee creamer and their margarita mix. The chips were eaten in the car before the bridge, and you need salsa anyway. Not to mention chardonnay. And olives. You could get beer, too, if you missed the Brew Thru–yes, where you drive through an open garage and get handed a case of Bud.

You passed the next closest real grocery store 45 miles ago and you need charcoal, hotdogs, buns and mustard for tonight’s vacation grand opening. Grab that bag of pre-shredded coleslaw for me, will you? It’s got the slaw dressing in the bag, right?

So for the folks selling campaign bumper stickers, yard signs, hats and t-shirts, this is the day. They set up the tent right next to the entrance, where there’s a traffic light. People pause and look over the merchandise as they wait for the light to change. Some people give a thumbs up and sometimes a car horn blares an approval. They set up their store because they want America to be great again, and because they bought the shirts, signs and hats in bulk figuring there was some money to be made. People spend money on impulse buys all the time at the beach.

There’s plenty of foot traffic in the lot. The Food Lion sits in a strip mall with a dollar store and a yogurt place and a sandwich joint. Then there’s the restaurant which fronted the lawn space to set up the campaign shop. Dirty Dick’s Crab House. The folks at Dick’s are especially proud of the thousands of t-shirts they sell with their slogan, “I got my crabs from Dirty Dick’s.” Now customers can buy that shirt–or maybe even a onesie for the baby–at the restaurant and then pick out a yard sign that reads “Hillary for Prison.”

It’s all really quite something. The storm mostly held off. Who says America isn’t great?

 

 

 

Posted on by docthink 1

crab soup

crab

Well damn. Could that crab soup be any better?

It was creamy. But not floury. The worst is when you can easily identify the thickening agent. When you taste the flour, somebody failed. Worse would be a thickening and flavorless and thick cornstarch. But this soup did not make that mistake.

Flour needs to be a part of the fat, incorporated, with only thick and no interruption except to add feel. The fat could be butter. It could be olive oil. Or another oil. The flour needs to be heated, maybe taking on a color, and cooked. Flour tastes lousy. A mouthful of fatty thickness? Yes. That’s it. And cream. Yes, add cream.

The soup was sweet from the flesh of the crab, but you could taste the honey from the sherry. The sherry wasn’t just sweet, but nutty. And the butter wrapped around all of it–to fill your mouth.

That’s what I shoveled into my mouth. It was crazy. I didn’t need to eat it so fast. But it was just that good.

Posted on by docthink 0

Mourning In America

Detail from William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Pietà, 1876, Dallas Museum of Fine Arts. Mary is so sad. She lost her son.

Women with loss. Loss of a child. A boy, a man, a son, a girl, a woman, a daughter.  A Gold Star mother saying these words, “I became a Gold Star mother,” into a microphone. To millions of people. And tucked deep inside her story of bravery at the unspeakable, she thinks, “Keep your star.” It’s an exclusive club. Nobody wants to join.

Wailing women. Weeping. Pounding their chests. Grabbing their heads. Pulling out clumps of hair. Faces wrenched. Clenching jaws and grinding teeth, trying desperately to hold back the bellows of grief. Of their worst moment. Of falling to the ground with horror. Of being unable to breathe. Of minds going blank, no thoughts, no feelings, nothing, because the alternative is that this is real.

Women of grace. Standing there. Alone. Together. Some with anger. Many with anger. Some struggling to find meaning. Others taking the mantle of meaning. Sharing their heartache, despair, agony and anguish. Pleading with us to see them. To acknowledge their children. To imagine their pain. To warn us. All searching for peace.

There are no words. But I am so sorry for your loss.

 

Posted on by docthink 0

You Can Live Through Anything if Magic Made It

A stylized corner-scape of the construction entrance for the new DC Trump Hotel at 12th and Penn NW with a riff on a no-parking sign that reads "No Trump Anytime."

Enough with the outrage. This is not a scandal. In the big picture, it’s a minor error.

Let me start by saying that while I’m not indifferent to the pickle that Ms. Trump has gotten herself into, I don’t actually feel sorry for her. She’s doing okay for herself.

I mean, first, she can walk in those shoes. I would totally misstep and feel the heel slip out from underneath me to find my ankle bent at the wrong spot, immediately followed by bouncing my own not-so-tight buttocks to the ground.

Second, her dress was quite nice, with those frilly poofs at the end of her 3/4 length sleeves. It was an angelic white. I could imagine myself in the green room and either spilling a coffee, or, very likely, depositing a ring of makeup around the neckline. She looked pretty flawless.

She’s along for a crazy ride as a politician’s wife. Not just any politician, but a major-party presidential candidate. There’s a ton of spotlight trained on her, but she spent the early part of her career under lights, strutting along the catwalk. I think she’s got this. She might not like it, but she’s got it.

Okay, back to the outrage. The outrage about Melania Trump’s speech at the Republican National Convention. The outrage over the speech she delivered to “humanize” her brash spouse. The speech that was cribbed liberally from the speech Michelle Obama gave eight years ago to humanize her own presidential candidate husband.

Michelle Obama’s was a good speech to copy. It probably marked the beginning of America’s love affair with the future first lady. It made people see the Obamas as another couple with struggles “just like us.” It was designed, in part, to de-other them.

Ms. Trump delivered her version professionally, if a bit stiffly. I mean it was originally written to introduce a “South Side [of Chicago] Girl.” That doesn’t fit Trump so much.

But this is not a scandal. It is a staffer using cut and paste and then attempting to make the words Melania’s own by whitewashing the personal out. Yes, the two speeches eight years apart had almost 50% in common. But the concepts of hard work and loyalty and hope for children is pretty universal–whether you grew up in eastern Europe or south Chicago.

More importantly, this is the candidate’s wife we are talking about, not a future Attorney General (although it would be a little funny if Gov. Christie got passed over, again. But I’m not laughing since schadenfreude may be bad karma).

From an artistic point of view, it could be that Melania Trump is just digging deep into her OG self. Like Weezy says after incorporating Kanye’s lyrics in his song:

And that was called recycling
Or re-reciting
Something ’cause you just like it
So you say it just like it.
Some say its biting
But I say its enlightening
Besides Dr. Kanye West is one of the brightest.

So maybe she was paying homage to a great first lady. Maybe she was modeling herself after another supportive wife. Maybe she was feeling the same feels and didn’t have a more clever way to express them.

Maybe she was just sampling a familiar hit. So sue her.

Anyway, her nonpartisan words about what it’s like to be an American were not the scandalous words that I heard last night. No, they were not. Let’s not waste any more time on the frivolous speech of the wife. There’s bigger fish to fry.

Posted on by docthink 0

No Honor In Killing

an egg with a bunch of cracks and an ineffective bandaid across a few of them.

This is going to be a short, hot post. Because I am boiling.

Stupid headline in Rolling Stone reads:

Pakistan’s “Kim Kardashian” Murdered by Brother in “Honor Killing”

WTF is an honor killing? Why the hell even use that term? Is it to make it foreign and exotic? Like this is something that people do in other countries, in the calling of other religions?

STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.

Yes, this murder is heinous. Yes, it is totally out of line. No, he has no right to control her. And there is no right he has to kill her.

BUT THIS SHIT HAPPENS EVERY DAY IN THE U.S., TOO.

  • One in four women, yeah one of the four women at that brunch table next to you, will be a victim of domestic violence in her lifetime.
  • Young women are most likely to be beat up or killed at the hands of a partner or former partner. Ages 20-24 are the worst. Hide your daughters.
  • One-third, yup, one in three, women murdered are murdered by a partner or ex-partner.
  • From 2003-2012, 65% of female victims were targeted by someone they knew; only 34% of male violent crime victims knew their attackers.
  • More than 320,000–yes three hundred and twenty THOUSAND–women each year are abused by a partner.
  • Men use rape to control women. 45% of women in physically abusive relationships are raped during the relationship.
  • Do you know that men who kill women they know are treated more leniently than stranger murder, like facing fewer charges of first-degree murder? It’s called the intimacy discount in Canada.

Before you go #NotAllMen on me, I know that. So what.

This is about control. It’s not about honor. We need to fix our language at home and abroad. It’s not a quaint custom of a foreign land. It’s what happens every day.

Yes, every day there are three (3!!!!) women killed by a current or former male partner in the U.S.

So stop acting like it’s the other. It’s fcuking us. And what the hell are we doing about it?

PSA: If you or someone you know is in danger call 911, a local hotline, or the U.S. National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 and TTY 1-800-787-3224.

Posted on by docthink 0