Well, I listened to the President’s speech the other night. It was not what I wanted to hear. I’m a product of Vietnam and a seemingly never ending Middle Eastern crisis. I don’t believe in happy endings when it comes to war torn planet earth.
I support the President’s decision however. No, it’s not the knee jerk, anything goes since he’s one of ours. I continue to disagree with Mr. Obama on a number of issues. I want Gitmo closed and now. I’m tired of the delays.
I want the “don’t ask, don’t tell” ended in the military. I wanted that done like January 21, 2009. I wanted a more supportive stance on gay rights in general.
I am sad that Mr. Obama supports the death penalty, and I wish he didn’t. I want this barbaric practice stopped everywhere.
I want universal health care for everyone, period. Perhaps he agrees with me on this, but he’s clearly ready for more compromise than I am.
The point is, is that I can disagree, while overall still supporting Obama because he is heads and shoulders above any alternative. My proclivity to despise my opponent (Bush and McCain for instance) is known. The Contrarian suggests that if GWB discovered a cure for cancer I would refuse it. That might be true. But it doesn’t stop me from objectively concluding that my choice is not without error in his political decisions some times.
President Obama got stuck with a mess not of his creation. That divine honor goes to Bush/Cheney/Rummy/Karl/ and the rest of the crew of incompetents. Mr. Obama is one of the brightest humans around and surrounds himself with top notch advisers. I have spoke my opposition, but I will wish this enterprise well and deeply hope that he knows a good deal more than me about the options and likely results.
Speaking of Tiger, (well, I segue my way), I’ve said that I don’t care about his personal business and it’s none of mine in the end. Yet the question remains to me, exactly when did we determine that our heroes were somehow above the rest of us in virtue? We seem to have come to that conclusion, but I want to know when.
If we look back to the time of Greece and Rome, there is no question that the ancients of that time regarded their gods and heroes as having “feet of clay.” Their limitations and their foibles were well known and alluded to in literature of the time.
Somewhere all the line, we changed and we imbued our “heroes” whether they be silver screen members or sports stars, with some perfection once reserved only to newborns. Somehow we have placed all our failure to live up to our own expectations on the backs of strangers and tried to live the virtuous life through them I guess.
Tiger Woods appears to be an expert at this. He has courted the celebrity spotlight, becoming probably the highest paid endorser of products, all the while, until now, keeping his private life just that, private. But alas, once the genie is out of the jar, well, the dam burst and the torrent of rumor and innuendo seems endless now. And sadly, it’s all so very predictable.
Predictable to us mere mortals who seem to know instinctively that sooner or later media mega stars are going to get caught if there is anything to be caught about. Too many eyes peering at you Tiger, from the housekeeper in the posh hotel to the guy pumping gas at the local station. They are all watching, and once the talk begins, they add their voices to what becomes a crescendo of accusation.
I guess I wonder when we will learn to pick better role models or not expect what cannot be lived by them. It seems mostly a function of ours and their immaturity.
Speaking of the Contrarian, he’s in rare form these days. I suspect you may not have realized it, but the Contrarian specializes in commercial examination. He has done a considerable study and has pondered the evidence with care. He concludes that the Victoria’s Secret commercials remain the standard by which all other commercials should be judged. They somehow have this amazing ability to never get old, never bore, never objectify, never offend.
I leave that to others to decide. I’m his wife after all, and I tend to think he is always right. Well, at least unless I’m more right. Then he’s wrong. But publicly, we keep a strong unassailable front.
He figures that all his ogling research into scantily clad women certainly puts him him high on the list for his next interest: namely that he has heard that there is a profession known as “sexual anthropology.”
He would like to inquire into becoming one. He offers that he’s amenable to a work study program. I said I would check out the opportunities for him, via the computer. Yeah, and pigs fly and it’s don’t rain in Indianapolis in the summertime.
Oh, just in case anyone is asking, his strength is returning. After a bout with wild eyebrow hair, he’s recovering nicely. Let me just explain briefly.
“I have these hairs from my eyebrow and they are hanging within view, and I need them cut.”
“Go get the spoon dear.”
Yes, yes, the masculine bohemoth I am married to, needs to cover his eye with a spoon as I approach with manicure scissors to clip a couple of stray hairs. With a dose of OCD that would curl the nose of even Howie Mandel, the Contrarian man’s up to the occasion when he must expose his jugular eyebrow, to the ever aging and shaking hands of his wife, the “Butcher of Troy.”
Within moments as I snip away, he is screaming like a girl, “I heard that, I HEARD that, you hit the spoon with the scissors! Be CAREFUL!” I nod, and shake my head, roll my eyes, and comfort him like a child getting his first cavity filled, “There there now, relax, we’re almost done.” Welcome to my world.