My pal Michael Lewis is getting married tomorrow. I’m thrilled to be in the wedding party; thrilled to be there for he and Shelley. He wrote a lovely post on the big day.
This isn’t the first time a friend has gotten married, obviously. I’ve witnessed my fair share of nuptials though, certainly, as one ages he’s invited to fewer and fewer of these events.
What’s crossing my mind today is the power of a good marriage, and what constitutes such.
I happen to have a good marriage. A great marriage. Honestly, as excellent and wonderful a marriage as I could ever hope for. Some of this comes from the seemingly simple task of getting along and liking one another. The wife and I are buds. We hang together; roll together; truly relish passing the time together. I love lying in bed with her, and I love—when the sun is shining and the birds are chirping—kicking back in the swing and chatting away. We both dig tasty meals, intense movies, long trips, the classic music of Elton John, etc … etc.
But that’s not enough. People like one another, and their marriages still fail. Often.
What the wife and I have is an understanding. We pretty much raise the kids 50/50, and while she dominates some tasks (cooking) and I dominate others (laundry), there’s a ton of crossover and handing off and swappage (a word I just invented). We share a pretty identical parenting philosophy, and are open to learning from the other. We also make allowances—I buy the kids more treats than the wife would like; the wife doesn’t buy the kids as many treats as I would like (ha).
A good marriage allows things to slide. Stuff that used to irk me no longer irks me, and stuff that still irks me often goes unmentioned (this works both ways, I can assure you). You realize the little shit is, well, little shit; unimportant and immaterial and fleeting. Cabinets get left open. Dishes go uncleaned. The laundry isn’t done promptly. Not a big deal.
I’ve been married 11 years (holy shit), and come day’s end I’m still the puppy at the door, excited to see the wife. It’s true. She remains incredibly beautiful to my eyes; more beautiful than when we first met and when we married. That sounds like fluff nonsense, but in this case it’s not. Eleven years ago, she was still something of an empty ideal. We knew one another, but … did we REALLY know one another? Through the decade, we’ve experienced life together. 9.11. Two children. Death. Life. Tragedy. Jobs. House. Hardships. Highs. There’s value to the ol’ John Lennon line–”Life is what you’re doing while you’re busy making plans.” Much of our life has been driving kids to school, washing to cars, mowing the lawn, stopping for an ice cream cone, writing in coffee shops. Truth is, I cherish those moments. Cherish them. I wouldn’t trade them for money or exotic trips, because they’ve forged our relationship; our bond.
I’m babbling, obviously. The point is: Marriage is great.
This photograph appeared in today’s New York Times. It’s of Allison Mackery and her five sons.
Four of the Mackery boys are enrolled in Scouts. Because of the organization’s decision to allow gay members, Mrs. Mackery—pride of Hanover, Pa.—will likely have her children quit.
Look at the picture. Look at it again. It could have been taken yesterday, it could have been taken 50 years ago. It’s the classic American photograph—house, bushes, everyone perfectly straight. The image very much reminds me of similar ones from yesterday, when families stood up against school desegregation, thereby beginning the private Christian school craze that overtook much of the south. Kids were used as props; were pushed forward; were asked their opinions even as their opinions were being formed by the ignorant minds surrounding them.
It’s happening again.
I don’t know the Mackery family, but it’s a lock that, one day, some (if not all) of the boys will come to regret this photo, and what it stood for. Maybe one of the kids will be gay. Maybe they’ll have gay friends, gay co-workers, gay bosses. Whatever the case, they will come to know gay Americans, and they will come to see it is, plainly, no big deal.
Not trying to brag here, but earlier today the woman pictured above sent me this message, via Facebook …
Hello my dear, My Name is Zanab, I am a beautiful young girl, I saw your profile in this site (facebook.com) and became interested in you. Please send me a mail with my email address so that I can give you my nice pictures and also tell you more about myself. Here is my email address (zanabbuasy@ yahoo.co.uk) I will be waiting for your reply. Yours Zanab (zanabbuasy@ yahoo.co.uk)
Admittedly, some might read such a note and immediately think, “Scam.” Those individuals, however, are glass-half-empty types. I looked over Zanab’s lovely note and figured the obvious: I’m irresistible.
Hell, just look at me, sitting here in the Swirl Coffee and Tea Room, decked out in $8 Marshall’s basketball shorts, a faded Target T-shirt and a wrinkled Seattle Mariners cap. Just look at me, poison ivy covering my fingers, a half-burnt wart on my right wrist. Maybe Zanab is drawn to my shaved head. I did it myself, without using a mirror. There are a couple of hair chunks emerging from the back of my scalp. But, hey, it’s sexy.
Truth be told, I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone like Zanab Achim to come along and acknowledge my radiance.
I’m in the wedding. It’s on Long Island. There will be pretty flowers and men in tuxedos and a big white cake. A band will play loud music, folks will clamor for the bride and groom to kiss. I’m thrilled—great guy, great bride.
I haven’t been in much contact with my friend who’s dying. She’s pretty hard to reach these days. The cancer has spread throughout her body. She recently acknowledged the inevitable—that drugs and operations won’t save her; that he life is coming to an end.
I was walking to Starbucks this morning, thinking about the contrasting highs and lows. On Saturday night, I will present the bride and groom with a gift. It’ll be, perhaps, a wood salad bowl. Or an ice cream maker. Or some wine glasses. This is what we do when people wed, and I’m by no means bemoaning the ritual. It’s what we should do. Celebrate life. Celebrate love. Lather ourselves in the excitement; in the feelings. Mazel tov.
And yet, at the same time I’ll be eating my poached salmon, where will my other friend be? What will she be thinking? How will she be feeling? How are we, as a people, able to celebrate as others suffer? How can we dance to a Black Eyed Peas’ song as others we know can’t muster the strength to climb five steps?
I don’t have an answer. People always say, “Life must go on” and “Honor those who can’t do by living fully,” and I agree. But it’s not easy, and shouldn’t be easy. These things are complex and complicated, and the guilt I feel isn’t swayed by the joy I feel. They’re battling emotions.
* Welcome to the 103rd installment of The Quaz Q&A. This feature—a question-and-answer session with a person from sports/entertainment/politics/whatever—will appear every week on jeffpearlman.com. If you have any suggestions/ideas for people to speak with, hit me up at anngold22@gmail.com. I’m listening.
Sarah Spain is a SportsCenter anchor for Chicago’s ESPN 1000 and a reporter for ESPNChicago.com.
Cool.
Sarah Spain is tall and athletic and was a heptathlete at Cornell.
Cool.
Sarah Spain is one of my two or three favorite Twitter follows.
Cool.
Sarah Spain once auctioned herself off on eBay for Super Bowl tickets.
WHAT?!
It’s true. Sarah, one of the best young reporters in the business, gave her blooming career a kick in the ass in 2007 when she placed an ad on eBay that read, “Take me as your date to the Super Bowl” The response was overwhelming; the reaction was shock and dread and praise and commendation and, ultimately, success. Lots and lots of success.
Here, Sarah talks about that odd-yet-magical experience. She explains what it is to be a woman in sports media; why she’s (mostly) OK with journalists pitching product and how she still gets a charge out of covering games. Oh, she also gives herself little hope in a boxing match vs. Mr. T.
JEFF PEARLMAN:Sarah, you’re pretty, and you’ve done a lot of television. Truth is, every woman I see doing sports on TV is pretty—almost without exception. Meanwhile, there are dozens of guys who look like mashed potatoes standing before the cameras. My question is this—if there’s a young heavy-set girl who wants to go into sports television, and she asks for blunt advice, is one thing she needs to know, “In this business, as a woman, you’ll be judged differently. And, sadly, you have to be thin and attractive?”
SARAH SPAIN: First, thanks for saying I’m pretty, that’s very kind of you. As for the aspiring broadcaster, yes, sadly, it appears it’s much more difficult for a woman who isn’t traditionally pretty to work on camera in sports. It’s more difficult, but it’s not impossible. If she starts out. as most on-camera talent does, behind the scenes, she can prove her worth to potential employers. If she’s a talented writer, a great radio host or a tremendous analyst, she can eventually get those TV gigs, regardless of whether she’s the prettiest one up for the job, because people will respect her knowledge and her unique take. Think of Doris Burke and Beth Mowins—many might say women won’t be hired as analysts for men’s sports, but they’re among those who have proven that theory wrong.
My main advice for this fictional woman—or anyone would wants to get into the uber-competitive field of sports broadcasting—is to figure out what she does better than anyone else or what qualities she has that it would be impossible for a potential employer to overlook or turn away. I would say try to work those and play those up as much as she can. Try to stand out from the mess of pretty women trying to make it and find a way to make people see that she’s worth taking a chance on.
When I first moved to L.A. hoping to do acting and comedy, a book I read talked about owning who you are, rather than trying to fit into an idea of what you think people want. One of the examples of a unique person who broke the mold and defied expectations of Hollywood stardom was Bobcat Goldthwait. (It’s a very dated reference now, but people over 30 will probably remember him.) There was never a demand for someone like him, or, say, Pee-wee Herman, but he proved to be a unique and fresh comedian that people embraced for his weirdness. I’ve remembered that ever since and tried to be uniquely me throughout my career, rather than attempting to fit a mold of what’s expected for females in the sports industry.
Oh, and I would also tell this imaginary gal to not to get too wrapped up in the goal of being on-camera, as it can often prevent people from taking gigs that turn out to be very rewarding (and that could one day lead to those on-camera gigs). I never had my sights set on radio but I absolutely love it.
J.P.: You’re a Chicago native. Last year, as you know, I wrote a book on Walter Payton that, in your city, was greeted, well, eh, hmm … not warmly. Frankly, the backlash took me by surprise, because the book (I believe) was very balance and, more often than not, positive. I’m hoping you can explain the Chicago sports fan to me. The mentality. The passion.
S.S.: Chicago fans are not all the same, but I’ll humor you by speaking in mostly generalities for this question. For the most part, Chicago fans are fiercely loyal and almost unhealthily devoted to their favorite teams and athletes, to the point of making past stars heroes and past teams lifelong legends. The great ’85 Bears, well that team is uniquely positioned to become more and more legendary and infallible with each passing year until a Bears team wins it all again.
Saying anything negative about Walter Payton, arguably one of the greatest and most beloved NFL players of all time, was bound to get you some hate mail and some serious trolling on Twitter. Truth is, few had ever heard anyone talk badly about Walter the person or the player, so to hear that he had flaws just like anyone else was tough for many. Plus the snippets chosen for publication were decidedly salacious and, for the most part, negative, leaving anyone who hadn’t read the book to presume the whole thing was a hack job. They should have read the book before lashing out at you, but like any other sports fans in any other city, many Chicago fans can’t read. (Just kidding.)
J.P.:You’re obviously smart—Cornell, National Society of Collegiate Scholars, etc. But why sports-entertainment as a career? As in, what was your path to being here? And why in the world did you choose it?
S.S.: Long story short—I grew up wanting to be a Broadway actress, a talk show host like David Letterman or a cast member on Saturday Night Live. (Still holding out hope for the last two, actually.) I did sports (basketball, field hockey and track) year-round in high school and AAU, Junior Olympics, Nationals, etc. so I didn’t have time to pursue acting and comedy beyond one-offs like the school Talent Show. Same with college—play rehearsals and performances were always at the same time as track practice and meets. I’d always been very into writing so I majored in English and took theatre classes on the side. After school I decided to move to LA and give it a fair shot. If I sucked or I hated it, I could say I tried and move on.
I always loved sports and my first job out of college was in sports PR, but there just weren’t very many women in the industry when I grew up so it didn’t seem like a viable career choice. Also, I’ve always preferred to cover sports as entertainment, not as news, and the few women I saw that weren’t sidelines reporters were very serious. I think that’s because in the past in order for people to respect a female anchor’s knowledge, she had to be very serious about her delivery. Now with great women like Michelle Beadle out there, you can be respected for your chops and be funny and sarcastic, too.
Anyway, while out in L.A. I took a hosting class where we had to host a fake show. Other people were experts in interior design, gardening, etc. but my expertise had always been sports, so I hosted a fake Chicago Bears show. I knew right then that’s what I wanted to do. I switched my focus to hosting and sports broadcasting and got a job working as a PA and then associate producer at Fox Sports, completed the conservatory at Second City to get my improv chops and started writing stories for various sports blogs. It just took off from there.
J.P.:I just read the sentence on your website, “If you know Sarah Spain as ‘that girl who auctioned herself on eBay for Super Bowl tickets …’” Uh, I don’t know you as “that girl.” Please explain …
S.S.: Very long story that almost nobody ever gets right. In fact, I still get hate mail for this from people (almost always jealous bloggers who get three hits a week on their terrible sites or people who hate their jobs and say I got my jobs—in radio and writing, mind you—because of my looks).
Here’s the truth: I had no idea what I was setting into motion when I put up an eBay ad saying “Take me as your date to the Super Bowl” in 2007. About five minutes after the Bears beat the Saints that year, I had gone online and bought a flight to Miami—I figured I could get tickets, lodging, etc. with my friends who had agreed to head down to the game if the Bears made it. Unfortunately, all my friends bailed because we were broke early 20-somethings. I was on my own, but determined to go. I’d heard about the ’85 Bears my whole life but wasn’t old enough to watch that game, so I wasn’t going to miss it this time if my Bears won it all.
I needed to find a way to either raise the $4,000 (or more) for a ticket or win one somehow. After seeing Screech from “Saved By The Bell” make a website to have fans help pay off his mortgage, I thought maybe I could make a “help me go to the Super Bowl” website and try to get people to donate a dollar each or something. Unfortunately, I didn’t know html, nor did I know how to promote a site like than in the span of three or four days. Plus, why would strangers give me money?
So I was at work a few days later talking to my boss at Fox Sports about how much I wanted to go the game and I mentioned the website idea. He jokingly suggested, “Why don’t you just go on eBay instead?” I’d never used eBay and I thought maybe I could put up the post and just tell a couple local radio stations about it to see if they’d give me a ticket through a contest or something. The previous Halloween my very tiny, blond friend and I decided it would be funny to go as a football player and cheerleader, but reverse the expected roles. The six-foot brickhouse (me) would be the cheerleader and the 5’3″ cute blond would be the player. So I made a Chicago Bears cheerleader costume. Fast-forward to January, and I used a picture of me in the costume for the eBay ad. Not only was it attention-grabbing but it proved I was a diehard fan and made the ad stand out alongside all the posts of people selling tickets. That was at 11 pm.
The next morning at 9 am I had more than 500 e-mails in my inbox. That’s when I realized that I’d gotten myself into something way bigger than I thought. If you look at the wording I made it clear that I was not an escort—that it was just a “date” and nothing more. I told people I didn’t want to be bought—so they shouldn’t “bid”—I had no “buy it now” price so no one could claim to have won, and the day the auction ended was after the game. Clearly I didn’t intend to actually go to the game with a stranger. While some people thought I truly wanted to be “bought” by someone or that I thought I somehow deserved to have someone pay to take me to the game, the truth was, I was just hoping some company with a box would have an extra unclaimed ticket or, like I said, that the eBay stunt would lead to a radio station giving me a ticket or something.
I had emailed a few stations in both L.A. and Chicago saying “look at this crazy girl on eBay, you should help her get a ticket,” and they immediately got in touch to put me on the air. I did a few radio interviews and newspaper interviews and then, just two days later, the people from Axe men’s grooming products called and offered me tickets to the game and a chance to turn things around and see how many guys would do the same thing for a chance to see their team play. There were lots of people on blogs calling me an attention whore (or just a plain whore) and we wanted to show that diehard fans are willing to do crazy things to see their team—that my stunt wasn’t about anything salacious or unsavory.
Anyway, in the end I got to take two girlfriends and the guy who we hand-picked in our contest (who we’re still friends with), we got free airfare, hotel and sweet tickets to the game. To this day people still try to bring it up as an insult but it’s pretty much universally heralded as a very smart and creative stunt. Not to mention I did more than 40 interviews and kept all the info of the people I spoke with—program directors, producers, hosts, etc—and stayed in touch with them as a I continued to pursue a career in sports. In every interview I pushed the host or interviewer to talk about the Bears and my take on the team. It ended being a big help for me in getting in touch with people, impressing people in a position to hire me down the road, and taking that next step in my career. (It also earned Edelman, the PR folks behind the Axe pitch, the runner-up award for the PR Week promotional event of the year as I got them more than $2 million of exposure for the price of $17,000.)
J.P.:I have a problem with journalists working as pitchmen. When I see Chris Berman doing Applebees commercials or so-and-so appearing in Sketchers ads, it really irks me—because it seems to cross the line between journalist and subject. You’ve worked for different corporations (Nike, for example) simultaneously being a paid journalist. Tell me why I’m wrong. Or not.
S.S.: When it comes to journalists as pitchmen, I usually just look at each case individually and don’t draw a hard line in the sand about what they mean for a journalist’s career. Most of the time I’m not bothered at all by a broadcaster doing outside stuff like that. Their work usually won’t in any way be affected by those affiliations. I don’t see any reason why a guy like Chris Berman can’t do ads for Applebees.
As for me, I’ve worked with Nike as an emcee for their events or as an attendee for stuff like new product releases or store openings. I’ve always been a big fan of the brand and enjoy working with them on events that promote childhood health or female empowerment, or events that connect female fans with inspiring athletes like Shawn Johnson or Paula Radcliffe. It doesn’t effect the way I cover sports or Nike—in fact I was very outspoken about my hatred for the Tiger Woods campaign that featured his deceased father’s voice. If it became a conflict, I would stop working with them. Until then, I very much enjoy the relationship and think it positively influences my writing and understanding of our espnW audience, which is similar to the target market for a lot of Nike’s events and products.
J.P.:I always tell people that celebrities are 8,000 times less interesting than the dude at the bar, or the person buying Pampers in the A&P. Inevitably, someone says, “Shut up—that’s stupid.” You agree, or disagree? And why?
S.S.:Celebrities of what kind? I betcha Barack Obama, Tina Fey and Neil deGrasse Tyson are pretty damn interesting. If you’re talking athletes, I’d venture to say most probably have better stories than your average diaper-buyer but aren’t necessarily very well-rounded, cultured or nuanced. Not all, of course. Interesting is a tough word, too. Dennis Rodman is sure more interesting than most.
J.P.:How do you think having been a pretty high-level athlete impacts your career? What I mean is, does it give you a sense of empathy or understanding that, perhaps, non-jocks in the business lack?
S.S.: Absolutely, without a doubt. When I walk into a locker room or interview a player I know what to ask in part because I’ve been there before. I spent more than my fair share of time in ice baths, on trainers tables, running wind sprints, feeling heartbreak over a loss, rehabbing from injury, feuding with crappy teammates and learning how that time in the locker room and on the court can shape you into the person you become. It’s invaluable for me now as a reporter.
Players get fined for racist and homophobic slurs but degrading women is A-Okay for athletes and broadcasters alike. The Chicago Tribune even ran a picture of Chris Pronger with a skirt photoshopped on him during the Stanley Cup Finals between the Flyers and Blackhawks. When my story came out Osi got word of it and actually Tweeted out about how I was right, and how he had never thought about what using those words meant. His response caused the piece to get picked up and linked to by a handful of major-market papers and sites and I loved that my words and the impact of what I was trying to say reached even more people and made them think about it differently.
The first time I ever made the front page of ESPN.com was pretty cool, getting to ride on top of the one of the buses in the Blackhawks Stanley Cup parade with over a million people screaming back at me was awesome and getting tweets and emails and letters from young women who say that I’m an inspiration to them is really, truly extraordinary. I hope I’m giving them an example of what I lacked as a youth—a funny, smart, sarcastic, confident woman who doesn’t feel like she has to be a bubbly sideline reporter or a serious anchor in order to get respect and make her way in the industry.
My lowest point is the lack of respect I got in two separate pro team’s clubhouses when I first started. I had inside sources at both who told me the B.S. that came out of the mouths of reporters from other papers who were threatened by my presence (“She must be sleeping with someone, ’cause the players give her better stories than me”) or PR staffs (“Her boobs are very distracting, we don’t want that around our players”). To whom it may concern, I’ve never slept with a player and I can’t do much about the ol’ rack of lamb—it’s there even when I’m wearing a big old bulky sweatshirt. Anyway, all I could do was put my head down and keep working and I think my continued success has been the best revenge. It’s truly sad in this day and age that women still have to go through that stuff, though.
J.P.:How do sports maintain your interest? What I mean is, it often gets excruciatingly repetitive to me. Same uniforms, different names, pretty much the same storylines—the underdog with the heart of gold, the fading veteran hanging on, etc. Aren’t you ever like, “Dang, I’d sure love to cover a drug bust right now?”
S.S.: I don’t think I’ve been doing this long enough to get sick of things, yet. The players change, the coaches change, the storylines and games are always different. I also have a lot of freedom at espnW to write about what I’m interested in, so one day that could mean a disabled Iraq war veteran who’s training for the Ironman, the next a sarcastic take on the Grammy Awards and the next a look at which NFL draft busts are like which Blockbuster movie busts. If you look, you can always find a new story to tell—or at least a new take on an old one.
J.P.:I know 100 male reporters who resent women reporters because they feel male athletes are more likely to give you time because, plainly, you’re a woman. A. Have you sensed this? B. Is it true?
S.S.: It goes both ways. A guy might be more willing to talk to you because you’re a woman and you’re cute, but he might not give you the depth of answer he gives a male reporter because he’s either too busy flirting or he doesn’t respect that you have the knowledge to take in his thoughts on the Xs and Os of the game. In the locker room, it seems like everyone gets a fair shake as far as time goes—with a few exceptions, of course. There are definitely still athletes who’d prefer not to speak to female reporters and don’t think they belong in the locker room.
Out in the regular world of charity events or otherwise, it’s up to you to be someone worth talking to. Whether that’s because they’re attracted to you or because you’re kind or insightful or powerful or interesting or have a big following—the why is immaterial.
QUAZ EXPRESS WITH SARAH SPAIN:
• Would you hug or tackle Tony Romo? How about Jessica Simpson?: Hug both. Tony seems like a good guy who’s had some bad luck and Jessica is harmless.
• Ever thought you were about to die in a plane crash? If so, details: Nope.
• Rank in order (favorite to least): Larry Bird, giant mugs of coffee, Emanuel Steward, Chuck D , Stuart Scott, Esquire Magazine, “Monster’s Ball,” PED debates, Brittany Payton, canned peas, the number 22, my dad Stan: Esquire Magazine, Brittany Payton, Larry Bird, Chuck D, giant mugs of coffee, Stuart Scott, the number 22, PED debates, Emanuel Steward, your dad Stan, “Monster’s Ball” (never saw it), canned peas.
• Five things you carry in your purse: Phone, wallet, lip gloss, ESPN 1000 badge, gum.
• One question you’d ask Tim Foli were he here right now?: “Why do you think Quazmaster Jeff Pearlman chose you, of all people, to ask me about?”
• Celine Dion offers you $500,000 to serve as the nightly MC of her new Las Vegas Show, “I’m Celine Dion—you’re not.” However, you have to smoke three cigarettes per night and do a nightly solo of Tupac’s, “Dear Mama.” You in?: The Tupac solo would be fine. Love that jam and I’m not only a solid singer, I’m a tremendous rapper. The cigarettes would be a serious, serious problem, though. I’ve never even taken a single drag of a cigarette and I hate them with every fiber of my being. That being said, I’d do the job for two weeks and then take the money and run.
• 20 words or less: Am I right or wrong to detest Skip Bayless debating people on ESPN?: Not a matter of right or wrong, it’s a matter of opinion. Ratings support him, Twitter echo chamber supports you.
• Biggest negative of working in sports?: Sports never take a day off—nights, weekends and holidays are all fair game.
• Who would win in a 12-round fight between you and Mr. T? How long would it go?: He’s 60 but he would definitely destroy me. I’ve never been in a fight and the ring isn’t big enough for me to just run away for a while and tire him out. I’d be knocked out in less than one minute.
QUAZ DATABASE:
Quaz 1: Wendy Hagen (Former child actress, The Wonder Years)
Quaz 2: Chris Burgess (Professional basketball player)
In the aftermath of yesterday’s awful tornado in Oklahoma, tons of politicians, celebrities, regular folk took to the airwaves and Facebook and Twitter to express their “hopes and prayers” for the victims.
This infuriates me.
I hate the phrase, “hopes and prayers.” I really, really hate it. Why? Because it’s empty and cliched and—I’m guessing, 96 percent of the time—unaccompanied by actual prayer. It’s something people say, because people need to say something. It’s something politicians says because, well, they’re politicians. Does it heal? Help? Assist? No.
Again, I consider “hopes and prayers” to be, with rare exception, nonsense. In times of great tragedy, we can do better than uttering trite lines that fade as soon as they’re spoken. Right now, the people in Oklahoma need help. Real help. There are myriad agencies—beginning with the Red Cross—that provide genuine on-the-ground services, and operate with integrity and conviction. That, to me, is significantly more profound than saying some words that have been blathered 1,000,000 times before.
Plus—if we can be blunt here—where’s the logic? I know … I know: God works in mysterious ways. But wouldn’t the hopes and prayers have been significantly more useful before the tornado? And, along those lines, how powerful can post-disaster hopes and prayers really be when innocent people (including innocent children, who will never be able to live fully) were killed. You send your “hopes and prayers” to the survivors? Well, what about those who died? Did God not particularly worry himself over their fates? Was it just “their time,” as the line goes? Sigh.
We humans are strange creatures. Too often, we place our fortunes in the unproven and unknown; hoping faith and wonderment can save the day.
Meanwhile, in a small Oklahoma town, there are piles of rubble and miles of destruction. To hell with “hopes and prayers.”
I’ve voted in many elections, almost all of which were bigger, grander, more covered than the one I voted in today.
Never, however, has an election had me more … baffled.
I live in New Rochelle, N.Y. It’s a lovely town with lovely people, and it features everything one would want in a home. Good people, safe streets, proximity to New York City, excellent schools …
Excellent schools. That’s the thing everyone is talking about today, as we vote on a vacant seat for the school board. Right now, New Rochelle (like many places) is having real fiscal difficulties involving its school system. Classes are becoming overcrowded, teacher cuts are looming, there’s uneven student achievement, the money doesn’t match the needs.
Oy.
There are two candidates. One, Pamela Davis, is a former teacher. In any other year, I probably wouldn’t consider her. She hasn’t really been involved in the school board, her experience is sorta, well, thin and her performance at a recent debate was—to be polite—underwhelming.
And yet … as uninspiring and unexceptional and meh as Davis leaves me, I just couldn’t get myself to vote for her opponent—a thorough, knowledgeable man named Robert Cox who I believe to me, well, pretty damn awful.
Cox has attended tons upon tons of meetings. He knows his stuff; understands the facts; can cite details few others in this town grasp. His main professional experience, however, is that of the founder and editor and writer for a website called Talk of the Sound, which covers New Rochelle politics and happenings with a certain National Enquirer-meets-New York Post gusto. Since starting the site, Cox has mastered the art of slanted reporting; of damning those he disagrees with while utilizing thin (if any) research to make sure multiple sides are rarely covered. He accuses people of lying when—it’s quite possible—they’re simply inept; he goes out of his way to condemn those who don’t share his values. There are multiple times when I read his digital rag and think, “How is this guy not getting sued … by someone?”
For me, the turning point came two summers ago, when Cox once again targeted Noam Bramson, the city’s mayor. I have no problem with someone ripping an elected official; hell, I’ve done it many times. On July 8, 2011, however, Talk of the Sound ran a headline, New Rochelle Summer Camps Not Good Enough for Mayor Noam Bramson. The piece—about how the mayor was being a hypocrite in sending his children to an out-of-town summer camp—featured a photograph of Noam, his wife and one of their children at camp drop off. Not only does this mean Cox felt comfortable running such a photo; it means he went out of his way to get it; that—literally—someone was sent to the camp to secretly snap a photo of a man, his wife and his child at summer camp.
What kind of person does this?
Truth is, I wanted to vote for Cox. I really, really did. And as I stared at the lever in the voting booth, I paused, thought, paused again, thought.
Then, reluctantly, I voted for Davis.
Because, while I can certainly tolerate thugs, I prefer they not represent my interests.
Several years ago, HBO seemed to air the movie, What A Girl Wants at least 73 times per day.
The film, which originally came out in 2003, starred Amanda Bynes as “Daphne,” an American girl who learns her father (played, inexplicably, by Colin Firth) is a wealthy British politician. Wackiness ensues, as Daphne goes to England, teaches those stodgy Brits how to have fun, meets a cute musician boy (smoochy smoochy) and, ultimately, reunites her parents. It’s one of those movies that sucks so insanely badly that, when it’s on, I find myself absorbed by the awful lines and killer cliches. Think From Justin to Kelly, minus the excruciating soundtrack.
Anyhow, the thing about What a Girl Wants is that Amanda Bynes, not a good actor by any measure, has something snappy going on. She reminds me of the sort of girl I had crushes on when I was a teen—pretty, but not sexy; cool, but not arrogant; engaging, but not annoyingly so. There’s a warmth to her; a genuine … something to her character that shines through all the dogshit. It was enough that, come movie’s end, I sorta thought, “Maybe, just maybe, this kid has a chance …”
Earlier this week I Googled “Amanda Bynes,” just to see what’s cooking. On the bright side, she has 1,131,297 Twitter followers. On the dark side, I’m guessing they’re following her to watch the train wreck unfold stage by stage. Amanda Bynes, age 27, has been arrested multiple times. She smokes. She has these metal things coming out of both sides of her face. She has a really bad tattoo on one of her arms, She hasn’t had an acting career in years. She seems to like—no, need—attention.
In short, Amanda Bynes is example No. 432,345,432 why parents who turn their little kids into TV/movie stars are selfish fools. It just doesn’t work out, and even when it does work out, it doesn’t work out. You’re damned to be a lost soul, searching for the buzz that came at age 9, then vanished with the development of breasts and self-realization. The money is gone. The opportunities are gone.
And here you are. On Twitter. Showing the world photos of your boobs.
Was talking with a friend this morning. Her son is a college junior, just came home for the summer.
Earlier this year he applied for an internship at a large network. The gig would have been in human resources, his preferred field. He flew to New York for the interview (from his college down south), felt it went well. A couple of weeks later he was offered the position—dream achieved. It was paid, intensive; certainly—with a well-done summer—a job offer could have awaited.
“He was thrilled,” my friend said. “Just thrilled.”
Shortly after being offered the job, my friend’s son wrote his soon-to-be supervisor a quick “Thank You” note. He wrote it on his iPhone. He failed to capitalize the word, “Thursday.”
The next day, the soon-to-be-supervisor called. She was no longer his soon-to-be supervisor. “We don’t think you’re right for this,” she told him, citing the sloppiness. They spoke, and the company ultimately picked someone else.
Because of this …
Surprisingly, I have mixed thoughts.
On the one hand—what a remarkably dick move. This is a college kid, and you’re helping to crush a dream. He was your top candidate—until he failed to capitalized “Thursday” in a message? Really? As my friend noted, it’s entirely possible someone else came along, or a supervisor called in a favor, and this was a convenient excuse.
And yet …
I also get it. I warn my students about this shit all the time. All. The. Time. The comfort and ease and laziness that accompanies texting should not—and cannot—make its way into your professional work. I’ve had myriad papers submitted without the I capitalized; with ‘u’ instead of ‘you.’ It’s maddening, and screams to me, “I don’t really care enough to think this over.”
If nothing else, the lesson should be not to send professional e-mails via your phone.
American Idol has become an awful television show.
What once was fresh and lively is now stale and dull. The ever-rotating cast of judges is more frustrating than refreshing. There was, in the first four or five seasons, a genuinely magical chemistry between Simon, Paula and Randy. They felt like buds—the angry one, the kooky one, the cool one. It worked, and it worked very well.
No longer.
I can count on one hand the number of people I know who still tune in. There are other things to watch, other activities to do. Idol feels very 2005. Nobody likes feeling 2005.
That said …
Tonight’s final episode offered something cool enough that it warrants mentioning. Namely, two two last singers—Candice Glover (the winner) and Kree Harrison—are both big. Not obese, but certainly plus-sized. They don’t have hour-glass figures; don’t fit neatly into leather pants or mini skirts. Why, Candice only showed her legs on the show’s second-to-last episode, prompting delightful shock from Nicki Minaj.
It’s a good thing, because Idol seems—primarily—to be a show for younger people, and I like that they’re not merely supporting the hottest of the hotties.
Anyhow, it’s over. Candice can sing, Kree can sing, the show is terrible.
My pal Michael Lewis is getting married tomorrow. I’m thrilled to be in the wedding party; thrilled to be there for he and Shelley. He wrote a lovely post on the big day.
