My team big and good, your team weak and stupid

 

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I've learned pretty much everything I know about sports from Partner.  Much of this information is garbled in my mind; I will not ever understand what a "safety" is, for example, because I made up my mind early on that it involves a football player running backwards.

 

 

But now and then something in the sports world catches my attention, and I strain to figure out what it's all about.

 

For example: back in November, there was an incident involving a football player named Derek Anderson.  His team was losing, and he had the nerve (!) to sit on the sidelines with a teammate and smile and laugh for a moment.  The crowds, and the sportscasters, were enraged. 

 

This is unforgivable, apparently. 

 

Unlike (let's say) dogfighting, or texting pictures of your genitalia to the world at large.

 

Yesterday morning I read a commentary in "Sports Illustrated" (don't blame me, Partner subscribes) about this event.  The columnist made it clear that the losing team is required to be stoic and grim.  Anything else lets down the team and the fans.  I quote: "It may seem irrational, but fans want their own passions validated by seeing the athletes they're rooting for show that they feel just as strongly."

 

Yes, babe, it does seem irrational.

 

I always knew there was a theatrical element in sports; I've just never heard it enunciated so clearly.  According to this guy, athletes aren't just supposed to play well; they're also supposed to represent the passions of their home fans.

 

Whoosh!

 

Now, players for any given team come from all over the country and the world.  But once you're on the team, you're a native son.  Once you're on the (let's say) Boston team, you become a Boston soldier, hup hup hup.  

 

Until such time as you're sold or traded, of course.

 

This goes way beyond the whole role-model thing.  This is all about rivalry, and tribalism, and ritual combat.  Cleveland is better than Detroit, Boston is better than Atlanta, the Bep Tribe is better than the Bap Tribe, Cave #73 is better than Cave #74.

 

 

Eesh!  Too serious!  I'm glad I'm not an athlete.  I'm not serious about anything.  I'd never be able to keep a straight face.

 

Sometime let's talk about the erotic element in sports instead.  All that running and chasing and grabbing. 

 

Now that's an interesting topic.

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The little book of Hindu deities

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A couple of months ago I picked up something called “The Little Book of Hindu Deities: From the Goddess of Wealth to the Sacred Cow.” It is a perfect delight. The various members of the Hindu pantheon, peaceful and wrathful, are drawn in bright Hello Kitty style, the nice gods with big smiles, the mean gods with ferocious cartoon scowls. Some, like the wonderfully playful elephant-headed Ganesha who (very appropriately) opens the book sharing one of his sweets with a mouse, are very endearing. Others, like Indra and Mangala, are big-guy tough in a superhero way. They are all given their appropriate attributes: Siva is blue, Guru carries his rosary and wishing wand, Kali wears her necklace of skulls.

 

 

It's meant a little for children, especially the explanatory text, but it's for adults too: adults like me, who are enchanted by this whole spiritual world, crowded full of gods and spirits and demons. I don't believe in them, but I sort of wish I did. These gods feel benevolent and sweet, and far more approachable than – well, You-Know-Who.

 

 

Take Ganesha: he brings good luck and clears away obstacles, and he blesses the beginning of new enterprises. He is tolerant, and helpful, and kindly, and intelligent, and he has a sense of humor, and he likes sweets.

 

 

So maybe I'll give Ganesha a little something sweet tomorrow, even though I don't quite believe in him.

 

 

He looks like he might be willing to put up with me.

 

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Hey, Bulldog

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I used to like gin best, but I progressed to vodka over time. Now, vodka is really nothing but grain alcohol and water; if it's correctly made, it should be completely flavorless. The idea of “quality” vodka is really pretty silly.  People always swear that Grey Goose is best, or Belvedere, or Stolichnaya, but when the companies run taste tests, people always end up picking Store Brand or Guckenheimer's.

 

 

And still people buy the expensive stuff.

 

 

Well, the bottles are prettier, anyway.

 

 

But gin is nice too.

 

 

A friend sometimes gives me interesting bottles of liquor. He's given me Plymouth gin, and Magellan; there was a mesquite-flavored gin from Oregon which was pretty interesting.

 

 

But this year he gave me something very interesting.

 

 

It's called “Bulldog.” It comes in a dark bottle with a funny collar-shaped ornament on the neck. It's a botanical gin, but it doesn't have the perfumy unpleasantness that some botanicals have (a few, like Hendricks, are like drinking cologne).

 

 

I noticed that, after drinking a shot of Bulldog, I got very sleepy. And, when I finally went to bed, I slept like the dead.

 

 

There had to be something in the gin that produced the effect. What could it be? Chamomile? Valerian? I checked the label again.

 

 

Aha.

 

 

Poppy.

 

 

Shades of the Wizard of Oz!

 

 

Sleepy now.  'Night.

 

 

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Come out, come out

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Some magazines I read for information. I read “Out” for fun.

 

 

It's not meant for my demographic, that's for sure. I am not so young nor so smooth-skinned as the men in most of the advertisements. But it's fun and glossy and colorful.

 

And sometimes interesting too.

 

 

A recent issue featured the 100 most important people in the gay/lesbian community. The (mostly wonderful) photos were themed in three groups: the Stonewall riots, Truman Capote's Black and White Ball, and Studio 54.

 

 

And the people!

 

 

In case you were wondering: we are everywhere. We are not just creating window displays and house music (though we do that too). We are in commerce, and politics, and entertainment. John Benjamin Hickey, the actor on “The Big C” who plays Laura Linney's homeless brother, is gay. Jasika Nicole, the quiet funny actress who plays Astrid, Walter's nanny/assistant on “Fringe” is a lesbian. Rostam Batmanglij, who writes pretty much all the songs for Vampire Weekend, is gay. Bruno Tonioli – well, I was pretty sure he was gay anyway, but it's nice to see him at the party. Mary Glasspool, the Episcopal Bishop of Los Angeles, is a lesbian. (I could have used a few more doctors and scientists and such on the list – heaven knows they're out there – but I can wait a few years.)

 

 

The modern scene is fairly teeming with examples of successful gay people. Every time I turn around, I see another good example. Partner showed me a recent Sports Illustrated article about a huge toothless item named Gareth Thomas, a member of the Welsh national rugby team, who is – get this – the only openly-gay male pro athlete in team sports in the entire world. He looks like the Incredible Hulk on crack.

 

 

And I am so proud to have him on my side.

 

 

Keep marching out of the closet, kids.

 

 

It does get better.

 

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Big theatah, small theatah

 

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There was a nice little piece in the Times recently about a little play I've never heard of. It's called “Almost, Maine”; it lived and died off-Broadway several years ago; and now it's having a very happy afterlife in regional theater all over the world.

 

According to the article, it's ideal for local groups for any number of reasons. It's pleasant without being corny; it's relatively easy to stage; and it can accommodate as few as four actors and as many as seventeen, depending on how many people you need to cast.

 

 

Providence is pretty rich in theater. We have a couple of really good local companies (especially Trinity and Gamm), several smaller groups, and the colleges. I saw a spectacular “Angels In America” at Trinity back in the mid-1990s. I still remember the jolt when the angel crashed through the ceiling at the end of “Millennium Approaches”; I was expecting it, my companion wasn't; I was electrified, and he was completely paralyzed.

 

 

And that is a perfect example of something you simply cannot do, and should not even attempt to do, on a small stage.

 

 

Scale matters. Partner and I saw “Wicked” on the PPAC stage here in Providence some years ago, and it was pretty good. Then we saw it on Broadway, and Jesus Christ, it was gorgeous. In Providence, the Emerald City was a sparkly lighting effect; on Broadway, it was blinding.

 

 

So small theaters need something else. They need, in a word, to be original. I've seen “Comedy of Errors” done as burlesque, and “A Little Night Music” done with cardboard automobiles, and “Peer Gynt” done with rap numbers.

 

Long live the dinky little local theaters.

 

 

And why don't people do “The Skin of Our Teeth” more often?

 

 

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The dark side of children's literature

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The Times recently presented a “Room for Debate” feature on dystopianism in young-adult literature. Why are recent books and series (the Dark Materials books, the Hunger Games series, the Twilight saga) so dark? The contributors offer lots of different answers: cultural changes, technology, kids are changing, the world is changing, kids want reality, etc.

 

Here's my answer: it's nothing new.

 

 

To wit:

 

 

 

• “David Copperfield.” Hero works in a factory, gluing labels on bottles.
• “Great Expectations.” Old lady catches on fire. Rotting wedding cake.
• “Treasure Island” and “Kidnapped.” Main characters get into serious trouble, in strange distant dangerous places, consorting with outlaws and criminals and rebels.
• “Huckleberry Finn.” Huck's father is a violent drunk. They live between the slave states and the free states, and they know exactly what “slave” means, but Huck chooses to help his friend Jim into freedom (which ain't perfect either, but which is far better than the alternative).
• Diane Duane's “Wizard” books (personal favorites of mine) take place in a universe in which entropy is an unpleasant fact of life, and Lucifer frequently turns up to taunt the main characters (in the most polite and seductive way possible).
• Harry Potter is an abused stepchild. His home life with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia is played for laughs, but it's plainly vile.
• The Five Little Peppers lived in intense poverty.  Polly weeps with joy when she gets a new stove.
• The March girls weren't terribly well-off – not even able to afford pickled limes! - and their father was off ministering to soldiers in that thing called the Civil War.
• Evelyn Nesbit could write very sprightly fantasy, but take a look at “The Railway Children”: Dad's in jail, Mom's desperately poor, the kids are oblivious.

 

 

 

Let us not even speak of the brothers Grimm.

 

 

Makes your own childhood look a little brighter, doesn't it?

 

 

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New Year's Day blog: 'Tis well that the old year is out

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I've always found the poetry of John Dryden congenial.  Here's something from “The Secular Masque”:

All, all, of a piece throughout,

Thy chase had no beast in view;

Thy wars brought nothing about;

Thy lovers were all untrue.

'Tis well that the old age is out,

And time to begin a new.

Good riddance to a mostly crappy year.

Welcome, 2011.

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Blizzards and blowhards, part II

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Where were we yesterday? So Providence mayor David Cicilline was blamed for not averting the 2007 “December debacle” by former Providence mayor (and convicted felon) Buddy Cianci.

 

 

Let me tell you about Buddy.

 

Buddy was the most corrupt mayor Providence ever had, and that's saying something.  He got out of jail a few years ago – he was in for racketeering, by the way – and has since repositioned himself as a political commentator on radio and TV. He holds forth daily on how he “saved” Providence when he was mayor, and how terrible the current administration is.

 

People actually listen to this lump of soggy polenta!

 

 

But here's the great thing about him: his predictions are wrong with great regularity.

 

I followed his political prognostications during the local 2010 elections with great interest.  He had very strong opinions about everything. He knew what was going to happen.

 

 

But he was very often wrong.

 

 

For example: Buddy said Angel Taveras, the Democratic nominee for mayor, was going nowhere.

 

 

Taveras won in a landslide.

 

 

(Oh, Buddy changed his mind right before the election, when the polls showed Taveras with an unstoppable majority. I can't blame Buddy for illiteracy. He can at least read the paper.)

 

 

Anthony Gemma, a local (and completely politically inexerienced) businessman, ran for Congress against the adorable David Cicilline.  Cicilline won easily. Gemma made a mess of his whole campaign, and lost badly. Cianci championed Gemma.

 

 

Guess what? Cianci was wrong again.

 

 

So why do people listen to this dope?

 

 

Well, have you ever had a really ugly old dog, with terrible bad breath?

 

 

Sometimes you just put up with it.

 

 

Cianci still thinks and acts as if it's 1980. There was still a regimented Democratic political machine in the state in those days, and things happened according to plan.  Also, the ethnic balance in the state has changed enormously.  Also . . . 

 

 

Times have changed.

 

 

But people still listen to convicted felon Cianci on the radio and on TV.

 

 

To paraphrase Cindy Adams: Only in Rhode Island, kids, only in Rhode Island.

 

 

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Blizzards and blowhards, part I

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Rhode Island just had another “blizzard.” It was a scrawny little blizzard, let me tell you. We had maybe ten inches of powdery snow, although it looked ferocious, what with all the blustery wind and such.

 

 

You must understand that Rhode Island has a thing about snow. Back in early 1978, there was a big unexpected snowfall that brought the state to a halt for several days. People were stranded everywhere – at their offices, in their cars, in their homes. I arrived in the state six months later, and everyone was still nattering about it. Now, thirty-two years later, they're still nattering about it.

 

 

To this day, when there's snow in the forecast, people go mental. “Milk and bread” is the catchphrase. The supermarkets are insane asylums; I went into the local market on the day before this year's “blizzard,” and it looked like a riot scene. There was broccoli on the floor in the produce department. People were fighting over broccoli!

 

 

So we're crazy. Okay. We're a small state, we exaggerate things. A few years ago, there was an early-December snowstorm that turned out a little worse than expected, and hit slightly earlier in the day than predicted. People got stuck in their evening commutes, and a couple of school buses were delayed. It was the Rhode Island version of the Apocalypse. It is still referred to, several years later, as the “December debacle.” I'm not kidding. People blamed this, if you can believe it, on the mayor of Providence. (That mayor, David Cicilline, a very nice openly-gay fellow, is Rhode Island's new First Congressional District Representative in the U.S. House of Representatives as of 2011, by the way.)

 

 

Actually, there was one particular local personality who kept yapping about it: ex-Mayor Vincent “Buddy” Cianci.

 

 

More about Buddy tomorrow. Stay tuned.

 

 

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The dumbification of America

 

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There was a recent piece on Nova.com about the new Spider-Man musical.  The blogger was okay with the musical, but didn’t like the idea that the villains are mad scientists.  Why make scientists the bad guys?

I usually have little sympathy with people whining about fictional victims. Fiction has featured mad scientists for a long time, and the USA doesn't have a monopoly on them: Doctor Faustus and Doctor Frankenstein come to mind.

 

 

But it's true that science, and scientists, aren't respected in our culture very much. We as a country, as a people, don’t put a premium on education.  The glory professions are all flukes and shortcuts: entertainer, singer, athlete, Kardashian.  You don’t hear kids talking about wanting to be doctors and lawyers and scientists anymore.  What modern kid would ever want to be a pointy-headed smartass?

 

 

There are people – let's be ingenuous and call them “anti-educationists,” though I think we all know who we're talking about – who encourage this galloping charge toward the dumbification of America. They are great believers in “common sense” and “native intelligence,” which is (according to them) a whole heap more valuable than book larnin'.

 

 

Anti-educationists dismiss science as a “belief system,” neither more nor less worthy of credence than any particular religious belief. (Never mind that it's based on empirical research rather than feelings and religious texts and I-say-so.) They've put evolution and "intelligent design" on a par with one another; if one's worthy of respect, then so is the other. They're both “theories,” after all.

 

 

However, as one particular judge in Dover, Pennsylvania can tell you, they are not both “theories,” and anyone who says so betrays his own ignorance of the meaning of the word “theory.”

 

 

Anti-educationists say that science is a useless smartypants charade, a way for sneaky people to waste money. I recently watched Senator Coburn of Oklahoma listing some wasted-money projects: one was “the study of cow farts.” How silly, right?

 

 

But science is always silly, girlfriend. Coburn would have had a lot of fun at the expense of Alexander Fleming fooling around with moldy bread in search of penicillin.  Because, hyuk hyuk, this guy's spending money experimenting on rotten food!

 

 

As you can tell, I have little patience with the anti-educationists. I do not believe that there is any such thing as “native intelligence” or “common sense,” or “God speaking in the heart” for that matter. God may speak to you in your heart, but just try asking him to calculate a tip sometimes and see how much math he knows.

 

 

I will predict right now that, in that instance, God will know exactly as much math as you know yourself.

 

 

You'll see I'm right.  I have weird powers of prophecy in these matters.

 

 

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