Kinetic Beauty

Leave it to David Foster Wallace to describe my fascination with athletes in a paragraph:

The human beauty we're talking about here is beauty of a particular type; it might be called kinetic beauty. Its power and appeal are universal. It has nothing to do with sex or cultural norms. What it seems to have to do with, really, is human beings' reconciliation with the fact of having a body*.

Thank God it didn't take him 1,088 pages to do it. But, of course, what would Wallace be without a footnote?:

*There's a great deal that's bad about having a body. If this is not so obviously true that no one needs examples, we can just quickly mention pain, sores, odors, nausea, aging, gravity, sepsis, clumsiness, illness, limits -- every last schism between our physical wills and our actual capacities. Can anyone doubt that we need help being reconciled? Crave it? It's your body that dies, after all...great athletes seem to catalyze our awareness of how glorious it is to touch and perceive, move through space, interact with matter. Granted, what great athletes can do with their bodies are things that the rest of us can only dream of. But these dreams are important -- they make up for a lot.

(Source: Wallace, David Foster. "Federer as Religious Experience." The New York Times Sports Magazine. September 2006, 47-51.)

Dog Wrangler

One additional item to add to the lost and found list -- one German Sheppard.

Last weekend was gorgeous; the sky was ever so blue with no humidity or equatorial temperatures. To rejoice, I grabbed the little Tobyrino for a walk in the hood before scheduling a picnic of delectable proportions with Toombsday.

Note: Toby doesn’t realize he’s a dog. His kennel papers list him as part Jim Henson’s Muppet. So when he’s approached by other dogs, he responds with a “Pardonez-moi,” flops his furry stumps around, and then sneezes to show his frustration.

This particular day, a moody German Sheppard was on the loose. I see the dog regularly because he barks incessantly when we walk by his house. And, of course, Toby looks like a delicious treat on a leash to him. The Nazi approaches Toby; Toby huffs and tries to avoid him. The Nazi proceeds to try to find Toby’s Star of David or his nonexistent testicles. I try my best Cesar Millan stance to dominate the situation with a badassitude, but it’s not helping.

So fuck Cesar’s advice. I revert to my Southern technique, inherited by my Ma. It consists of saying “Git!” while standing akimbo. And you have to add the country accent or else it will not work. So I’m standing in a primarily middle-class Midwestern vanilla neighborhood screaming Git! like a crazed barefoot Southern woman with a cast iron frying pan at this Nazi dog who is trying to eat my muppet. And it works. Tried and true. Unfortunately, it works so well that the Nazi runs the opposite direction and barely misses a speeding car. By this point, I’m attracting all the Lance Armstrong wannabes who practice on the trail in their sponsor endorsed spandex jerseys. And I realize that if the Nazi doesn’t find his concentration camp, then he will get hit by a car, picked up by dog fighters and/or pound and be destroyed and/or euthanized and all will go horribly wrong for this misplaced dog.

It’s a long story thus far so the following bullet points are a summation of the tedious details:

• Turning your dog’s leash into a rigged collar/leash combo for an unmarked dog. This means trying to restrain an adult Sheppard while holding a squirmy 13 pound Muppet on my hip like a baby infant dangling from Britney Spears.
  
• Cutting across yards and inspecting fence lines for other scalawag dogs only to discover that some citizens prefer the version of tying a dog to a chain to scare the hell and tarnation out of any passersby and/or innocent do-gooders trying to return your dog.
  
• After trying four houses, finally locating the Nazi’s Hitler, who rather than expressing appreciation, scolds his dog who runs in tucktailed before the door is promptly slammed. And, really, could I have expected anything more from this Nazi’s owner?

So what’s the moral of this story? Don’t expect people to thank you for general acts of kindness. Act with sincerity rather than ego. And remember your goddamned insect repellant because a nice Saturday afternoon stroll may turn to a hellacious hour of trespassing and dog maul escaping.

Golden Books

In reference to my earlier post about learning to read at age three, please note the cover of that heralded first book:

I just realized the gravity of this title to a young girl who was deathly allergic to cats. So not only did I learn to put a sentence together, I learned that God secretly hates me and delivered furry balls of evil to make me miserable. Really brings into question the whole all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good dilemma with divinity. Thanks, ma!

National Threat Level Mood Ring: Miffed

Pearl Jam was on to something in 1994 with the Ticketmaster debacle. I didn’t follow the issue at the time. I was too busy rummaging through my dad’s retired Harley Davidson shirts and rebelling against the school’s headmaster. Evidently PJ’s complaints were valid. In 1994 Ticketmaster was a pimp, raiding our weekly allowances with $2.35 surcharges and service fees. What’s the big deal, Pearl Jam? Stop complaining like an “elderly woman behind the counter in a small town.” So what if you can’t keep ticket prices under $20. Well, Toombsday and I paid $20 just in service fees to Ticketmaster this week to see Tom Waits. Paying TM’s surcharge is like getting a “Girls Gone Wild” trucker hat after letting Joe Francis manhandle you. But I digress…

Tom Waits put a major kibosh on any audience participation and any potential for scalping. I admire his efforts and hope that venues use the same methods in preventing slimy scalpers of taking advantage of well-meaning fans, which is outlined below:

1. Ticket limit was 2 - no exceptions.
2. They did not mail the tickets before the show. The purchaser had to appear in person within two hours before the concert to pick them up with his/her guest present.
3. You can not leave the theatre after picking up the tickets.

Inside this contributed to a sold out show of true fans. It may have been a bum deal for smokers who could not escape outside for a cigarette - but the show was exceptional. There were no major disruptions of people leaving the theatre for a smoke or a drink (he requested that the bar close at the start of the show). The demands seemed superlative, but they worked. I could enjoy Waits’s ranting in peace.

Speaking of restrictions, I’m sure you have all heard about the London Heathrow-US airline issues. No gel, ketchup packets or souls can enter airplane cabins. I’m still not sure how to react to this type of restriction. My first response was, “Wow, I’m living in a military state” instead of feeling secure in our democracy of freedom as our leaders purport. Thankfully, I work in a place that has only two conservatives. This contrasts considerably from Oklahoma where I thought I would be defending myself against Southern Baptist Republicans all of my life.

But here, when I mentioned my discomfort, I could see the smile breaking out on a conservative colleague’s face, “but we are taking these measures for your freedom.” This is the sort of reaction I saw all day from the media - these are signs of progress, signs that we are winning this ideological war of terrorism as witnessed in men walking around with guns in airports to protect our freedom. Of course, I forgot that terrorists hate it when we have freak out, airport mayhem. God bless the U.S.A.

Memorandum of Understanding

Dear Mr. Chode with the Buttcut:

Thank you for choosing to sit behind me instead of in front of me with your horrific haircut and monster of a six-year-old. Speaking of six-year-olds, do you realize that this is a R-rated horror movie that would scar most children his age? This isn’t a typical horror movie wherein large werewolves jump through windows to attack innocent victims for 1.5 seconds before cutting away to someone screaming. This is a horror movie where strange creatures hide in darkness and feast on brains for two minutes before slipping away in gigantic pools of blood. So probably not a good idea to bring your six-year-old.

On another note, this is a MOVIE THEATRE. Not your living room equipped with a La-Z-Boy and a T.V. dinner tray. In the latter environment, it may be okay to take a few moments away from ridiculing your wife and son in order to make funny little quips about the characters on T.V. But not in a movie theatre where people are, get this, trying to WATCH the movie. Granted, the only penalty is my loud sighs and clearing of my throat. During serious infringements, I may turn around and give you my stink eye. But please for the love of Jebus remember that people are in the theatre. People who care about whether or not plunging out another’s eyes is a fatal wound, or merely a minor Aristotelian type wound that temporarily hinders a future brutal vengeful act.

Thank you for your understanding and compliance.

Heart,

WR

CC:

The bitch who gasps in adoration at the costumes in Phantom of the Opera.

The nimwit who makes loud interpretations of Inherit the Wind to his wife.

The cunt who talks on her cell phone during the ballet

"I never told the truth so I can never tell a lie."

I have never reached for a Tom Waits album in good spirits. I never thought, “Hey, I feel like getting funky. Put on that “Waltzing Matilda” so I can wag my pointed finger in the air.

Nope. Tom Waits is something to listen to whenever my soul is more funk than funky. When my hopes have been snagged by a three-pronged fish hook - it hurts when I bite it; it hurts even worse when I try to dislodge it. This is when I listen to Tom Waits - when I’m dragging myself along some river bed.

And there he was - Tom’s shadow personifying this fear against the theatre curtain. Stark in its light. Grief articulated in the gravel road of his larynx. His mannerisms are ravenesque. Legs kicking, scratching the stage floor. The angle of his head, the crook of his widespread arms - listening and searching for life underground.

His humor is disarming. He’s like the uncle your family doesn’t approve of…I want to sit on his lap, listen to stories of wigs and bums and pizzle dog treats. Maybe he will bring out some of his crazy toys, his bull horns and optical novelties. He drinks coffee (Or is it whiskey? Or motor oil?) between sets. Witnessing his show that comes around as often as some comet was “like giving a cigar to a five-year old. I turned blue, and I cried.”

Read the Louisville Courier-Journal review here.

Lost and Found

Items I have found (and returned!) in the course of one week:

Turquoise ring

Entry access badge to the natural gas building

Pink Razr phone

I wonder if this is an untapped hidden talent of mine - finding lost items and returning them. Let me know if there is anything you would like me to find. We may have to negotiate if you’re seeking Jimmy Hoffa’s body, Paris Hilton’s talent, or the real reason we are at war (excuse me, I mean peacekeeping) -- all of which may prove to be a smidge difficult. Unless you know how to organize a bureau drawer. I somehow haven’t learned to manage that and would certainly consider bartering.

Special back powernet panel

FADE IN:

INT. DOWNTOWN SHOPPING MALL DAY

WR rushes through the mall corridor in an attempt to avoid the men with ponytails, asking to see her jagged cuticles and pushing their Dead Sea lotion skincare line.

Before WR dashes to the second floor escalator, she spots the Victoria’s Secret storefront display of headless mannequins in fishnets and corsets. Above the entryway is the SEMI-ANNUAL SALE sign.

WR
(aside)
Ohh…the semi-annual panty sale.

Enter SALESWOMAN who smells of stripper perfume -- combination of cupcakes, cotton candy and freesia. She also wears a black suit as if she is going to a “meeting” with executive clientele and wears stiletto heels. For eight hours this woman is going to wear stiletto heels. She presents to me a bra.

SALESWOMAN
This is very sexy.

WR
Huh? What…yes, I guess it is very sexy.

SALESWOMAN
No, it’s Very Sexy™, our new bra.

WR
Oh, okay…whatever. It’s very sexy. Are you hitting on me? Is this appropriate?

SALESWOMAN
(flips hair)
No, it’s our new line.

WR
(studdering)
I’m just browsing. But, yes, it’s very sexy. You’re very sexy. It’s all very sexy. Can I just sort through these bins of incredibly uncomfortable panties now?

FADE OUT

It’s at this point that purchasing a 4-pack of cotton panties seems more prudent than searching through boxes of bedazzled dental floss. Old-fashioned nudity is sexier than deceiving support panels that hoist and smooth. There are enough pulley systems and fly panels in their signature line to make the whole naughty bit coverage more theatrical than it should be. Then again, headless mannequins are pretty damned sexy.

Bad Idea jeans

Q: When is it a bad idea to tell your assistant you're allergic to mosquitoes?

A: Three days before you leave to South Africa.

Hope you packed your DEET!