A moment of silence for Pat Morita, whose film presence was significant in my childhood and who will definitely be missed.
This analysis (re-posted in tribute to Mr. Morita) of the Karate Kid movies is quite possible one of the funniest things I have ever read - ever. Or at least to any child of the late 80's/early 90's.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Saturday, November 26, 2005
For Lack of a Better Phrase: It is What it is
I am at an impasse. Or perhaps I am at a crossroads. It is so hard to tell. These days perspective seems to be in such short supply.
I have been silent lately. I wondered about it. Perhaps I had run out of things to say. Perhaps I had tired of weeping at the same old wall. Perhaps my light had, due to neglect, snuffed itself out. But I still wondered, and I worried and I searched. I found that the stirrings of words, a mish-mash of syllables, were still somewhere within. But as of late, I cannot bring them to the surface with any coherence. It is as though the mouth which holds my inner voice is filled with pebbles. Its' progeny hard. Clunky. Without natural rhythm. Falling - cast out - upon the ground. Destined to lie there. Shining. Smooth. Almost steely. Perhaps beautiful, however, more persuasively characterized as disjointed and immovable. Reflective of the character that bore it.
What stopped me dead in my tracks and made me a pouchy-cheeked mute? A few weeks ago, through the course of my self actualization, I decided to attempt to describe "my pain." This may not seem like something that is new, innovative or even particularly helpful, but I thought that in writing it, in giving it voice, I might finally be able to purge it from my life. The letters carrying it away in the blogosphere.
At first I thought I might be trying to describe it for everyone else ("well, it is bigger than a breadbox, but smaller than a dog house... or in other words, approximately the size of my head") and to that end set upon a number of silly metaphors, including the oft-used, "this is like trying to describe the color blue to a blind man." It all felt disingenuous. The very use of the word "pain" seemed disingenuous. This "pain" I carry with me does not physically hurt, sear, stab, spindle or mutilate. It is not active enough to be "pain." It is not tangible enough to be "pain." My dear friend with fibromyalgia is one who really has pain. She has pain that has robbed her of so much time and experience. Her energy is sapped. The simplest tasks seemingly unending and unreachable. Even on good days, so much of the world seems to be closed off to her. When described this way, I see a commonality in our experiences, and immediately, the observation shames me. My own subconscious trying, through metaphor, to elevate and legitimize my inner failings as "pain." To the extent I am limited, it is my own making. The argument for the issues of brain chemistry and resonance of early nurturing (or lack thereof) can - and should - be made, but at the end of the day, as the saying goes, "the past is merely prologue." I have to live my life today, and it seems to me, that I should be able to surmount this dysfunctional relationship I have with myself.
I realize that the last year has been so hard because I have been giving up the fight. The metaphysical shortcomings I may have - organically-based and otherwise - will always be there. It won't matter how many HappyPills I take, how supportive others are around me, how little stress there is in my life, I will always have to fight for myself. I will have to be vigilant, to defend the position of the people and the things in my life that I love. To protect them against being swallowed up by the inner-angst.
In some ways, I think that, like the wily welter-weight, this requires that I keep moving. I have to keep myself moving towards a goal, however, small. Ironically, the movement keeps me grounded. The difference going forward, or rather, the difference now must be that I am moving closer to myself, to my true desires, rather than past them.
Direct discussion of all of my this, that and the other has always left me jumpy. Uncomfortable in the supreme. Better to riff on the eccentricities born of the "pain" and laugh all the way around the problem. Keep'em from finding out how much of a failure at the little things that you really are. Keep yourself from taking that long hard look, at last, in the right direction. It is a narcissism and and a blessing in and of itself, this "pain" of mine. Clearly, were my life tracked by true tragedy, loss, pain and difficulty, I wouldn't have nearly the time to dote and nurse my misery. I wouldn't have hours to mentally encircle it, to pace in ever deepening grooves around it. To discuss it ad uber-nauseum.
I am smart; but I use it to obsess and worry the outer edges of my life. My work can be emotionally taxing, but it keeps my hands soft and a silver spoon in my mouth (and designer shoes on my feet). So many work so much harder, for so much less. The good people who populate my life - related to me by blood and/or by inexplicable, indellible love - are a blessing to me, and they have their health, and the support and joy they bring are immeasurable; but I worry about losing my place in their lives. As though my presence is not substantial enough to leave an imprint - that I am merely a placemarker, to be filled by someone more substantial, more deserving. They all tell me differently; I will not be dissuaded from my draconian point of view. The shoe will always drop, I feel it.
In all of this time to think, this comfort to explore, that the circumstances (the blessings) of my life have afforded me, I have created the perfect portrait of myself. The reflection I wish I had. The one to which I will never measure up. And as the portrait gains in layers and complexity as the years go on, I have umwittingly continued to blur and distort the woman beneath. A not-very-subconscious effort to erase her. Or to never allow her to form.
And so it is that I am 28 years old, and the fatigue of my worry has made me feel older, and the narcissism and insecurity borne of my anxiety has often made me act far younger. But the real me, the person I am and who I need to learn to be, is actually just 28, she is smart, her two feet touch the ground, and she is always a scared little girl, but she does her best and she appreciates the bravery of her own efforts to never stop trying to be as good as she can, and no worse than she is - nothing more, nothing less.
I have been silent lately. I wondered about it. Perhaps I had run out of things to say. Perhaps I had tired of weeping at the same old wall. Perhaps my light had, due to neglect, snuffed itself out. But I still wondered, and I worried and I searched. I found that the stirrings of words, a mish-mash of syllables, were still somewhere within. But as of late, I cannot bring them to the surface with any coherence. It is as though the mouth which holds my inner voice is filled with pebbles. Its' progeny hard. Clunky. Without natural rhythm. Falling - cast out - upon the ground. Destined to lie there. Shining. Smooth. Almost steely. Perhaps beautiful, however, more persuasively characterized as disjointed and immovable. Reflective of the character that bore it.
What stopped me dead in my tracks and made me a pouchy-cheeked mute? A few weeks ago, through the course of my self actualization, I decided to attempt to describe "my pain." This may not seem like something that is new, innovative or even particularly helpful, but I thought that in writing it, in giving it voice, I might finally be able to purge it from my life. The letters carrying it away in the blogosphere.
At first I thought I might be trying to describe it for everyone else ("well, it is bigger than a breadbox, but smaller than a dog house... or in other words, approximately the size of my head") and to that end set upon a number of silly metaphors, including the oft-used, "this is like trying to describe the color blue to a blind man." It all felt disingenuous. The very use of the word "pain" seemed disingenuous. This "pain" I carry with me does not physically hurt, sear, stab, spindle or mutilate. It is not active enough to be "pain." It is not tangible enough to be "pain." My dear friend with fibromyalgia is one who really has pain. She has pain that has robbed her of so much time and experience. Her energy is sapped. The simplest tasks seemingly unending and unreachable. Even on good days, so much of the world seems to be closed off to her. When described this way, I see a commonality in our experiences, and immediately, the observation shames me. My own subconscious trying, through metaphor, to elevate and legitimize my inner failings as "pain." To the extent I am limited, it is my own making. The argument for the issues of brain chemistry and resonance of early nurturing (or lack thereof) can - and should - be made, but at the end of the day, as the saying goes, "the past is merely prologue." I have to live my life today, and it seems to me, that I should be able to surmount this dysfunctional relationship I have with myself.
I realize that the last year has been so hard because I have been giving up the fight. The metaphysical shortcomings I may have - organically-based and otherwise - will always be there. It won't matter how many HappyPills I take, how supportive others are around me, how little stress there is in my life, I will always have to fight for myself. I will have to be vigilant, to defend the position of the people and the things in my life that I love. To protect them against being swallowed up by the inner-angst.
In some ways, I think that, like the wily welter-weight, this requires that I keep moving. I have to keep myself moving towards a goal, however, small. Ironically, the movement keeps me grounded. The difference going forward, or rather, the difference now must be that I am moving closer to myself, to my true desires, rather than past them.
Direct discussion of all of my this, that and the other has always left me jumpy. Uncomfortable in the supreme. Better to riff on the eccentricities born of the "pain" and laugh all the way around the problem. Keep'em from finding out how much of a failure at the little things that you really are. Keep yourself from taking that long hard look, at last, in the right direction. It is a narcissism and and a blessing in and of itself, this "pain" of mine. Clearly, were my life tracked by true tragedy, loss, pain and difficulty, I wouldn't have nearly the time to dote and nurse my misery. I wouldn't have hours to mentally encircle it, to pace in ever deepening grooves around it. To discuss it ad uber-nauseum.
I am smart; but I use it to obsess and worry the outer edges of my life. My work can be emotionally taxing, but it keeps my hands soft and a silver spoon in my mouth (and designer shoes on my feet). So many work so much harder, for so much less. The good people who populate my life - related to me by blood and/or by inexplicable, indellible love - are a blessing to me, and they have their health, and the support and joy they bring are immeasurable; but I worry about losing my place in their lives. As though my presence is not substantial enough to leave an imprint - that I am merely a placemarker, to be filled by someone more substantial, more deserving. They all tell me differently; I will not be dissuaded from my draconian point of view. The shoe will always drop, I feel it.
In all of this time to think, this comfort to explore, that the circumstances (the blessings) of my life have afforded me, I have created the perfect portrait of myself. The reflection I wish I had. The one to which I will never measure up. And as the portrait gains in layers and complexity as the years go on, I have umwittingly continued to blur and distort the woman beneath. A not-very-subconscious effort to erase her. Or to never allow her to form.
And so it is that I am 28 years old, and the fatigue of my worry has made me feel older, and the narcissism and insecurity borne of my anxiety has often made me act far younger. But the real me, the person I am and who I need to learn to be, is actually just 28, she is smart, her two feet touch the ground, and she is always a scared little girl, but she does her best and she appreciates the bravery of her own efforts to never stop trying to be as good as she can, and no worse than she is - nothing more, nothing less.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Tales of a Sick Law(&Order)yer
I have been sick. In my world, this means, among other things, I become extremely grumpy and resentful of the spiteful germs that have infiltrated my body and made themselves at home. Early and often, I decry them. Without shame or remorse, I shout out rude things about their mothers. I make less than subtle insinuations about their dubious parentage. I question their moral fiber, their patriotism and their sanity. I hold them responsible for, among other things, the rise of gasoline prices, the lowering of American children's test scores and the continuing (mind boggling) popularity of Ashlee Simpson. After all these years, I should know better. All this kvetching serves one singular purpose: It pisses them off. And this time, I must have really stepped in it, as antibiotics were required for a toppling of the attempted coup d'etat.
In a feverish haze, I picked up the phone a few days ago and found my mother on the other line. Due to aforesaid feverish haze, I actually told her I was ill. As a further result of the feverish haze, I found myself readily agreeing to her coming to pick me up from my apartment to take me "home" so I could get better. While this does not sound like a Defcon 4 type scenario - chicken soup, or rather sopa de pollo (which is from a can, regardless of how you say it), tea and honey, and ready access to someone who can help you if you have fallen and can't get up cannot be all bad, right? - I usually try to avoid it. First, because of the previously discussed grumpiness on my part, and second, because the grumpiness compounded with the way illness makes my mother automatically begin to channel her inner Linus Pauling, can lead to a Level Orange state. My mother is a rigid believer in the healing properties of Vitamin C. Undoubtedly, the onset of any illness from the sniffles to a bad case of poison oak is greeted with a "Oh you haven't been taking your Vitamin C have you?" And the inevitable interrogation as to how much Vitamin C I have on-hand and how much I have ingested over the previous 45 day period. Side note: When I had mono in college, she sent me a bottle of Vitamin C every other day for six weeks. I had so many white tablets floating around my dorm room, it is shocking that no one suspected me of illicit dealings.
There were some minor scrapes this time around, but mostly they were headed off by my ultimate trip to the doctor and the antibiotic prescription.
Upshot is, I got to miss 3 days of work and lay around on the couch and watch TV (shamefully, one of my favorite leisure activities - between hiking Mount Everest and reading Kierkegaard, I swear) - but I didn't get to enjoy it. My mom kept asking if I wanted to get up and walk around. I think she was afraid I was going to get bed sores.
In any event, in logging all this convalescing-couch time (and consuming megadoses of Vitamin C), I think I may have watched too many Law & Order reruns. I know, I know. Believe me, it is more shocking for me to type it, than for you to read it. As every red blooded american should, I believe wholeheartedly in the palliative powers of the syndicated TV show in time of illness, the national treasure that is the one hour crime drama, and the right of Dick Wolf to dominate the airwaves at every hour of the day on every day of the week year after year. However, I really think that this week I may have crossed a threshold between recreational viewer to hardcore addict. By virtue of the matrix created by the collective broadcasting powers of NBC, TNT, USA, and BRAVO, cross-referenced with the content of the L&O, the original, L&O: Special Victims Unit, L&O: Criminal Intent, and the bonus cross-overs to the now defunct L&O: Trial by Jury and Homicide: Life of the Streets, I have determined that it is indeed possible to spend nearly every waking hour of your day (and some of the dozing, if not outright sleeping ones) watching some iteration of the L&O. After a while they all start to blend, literally: cross-over episodes.
A few things of which I took note during my L&O ultra-marathon:
* I think I know why Bobby Goren (detective from L&O: CI, played literally to the point of exhaustion - his and ours - by Vincent D'Onofrio) cannot get a date. Though popular media continually champions the rise of the lonely driven nerd as sex symbol (in the Gil Grissom type mold), I don't buy it. Not that the nerdy driven nerd doesn't hold a certain allure for me, but personal proclivities aside, I think Bobby Goren could get himself hitched as he has the tall self-supporting guy who can put together compound sentences with polysyllabic words thing going for him. Except for one thing: The latex gloves. The damn latex gloves. I can understand wearing them at a crime scene - forensics, forensics, forensics - but this man - regardless of whether he is wearing them - always has latex gloves on his person. Always pulling them out of his pocket to pick something up for further scrutiny. An effective approach when dealing with evidence? Perhaps. When socially dealing with women? Not so much. In the world of male-female relations, latex is appropriate in a very select number of situations and formats - the glove never being one of them. Of course all of this is irrelevant as L&O characters generally don't have personal lives - but during my feverish haze I felt free to free associate, so bear with me.
* Christopher Meloni (Det. Stabler on L&O: SVU). He plays Stabler in varying shades of simmering rage - and then occasionally (more often in more recent seasons, esp. since Stabler's wife left him) he actually lashes out and hits something or someone. Usually a locker or a corkboard or a wall, but occasionally a perp. Yes, I said perp. Forgive me. As I said, I have logged many, many, many hours of L&O as of late... I can't decide if this is because the character is written too simply or if Meloni has absolutely no range as an actor. Ultimately, I must confesss: I don't care. Why? Because he is pretty. So sue me. I am undyingly devoted to him. Oh Elliot, I wuv you! I am such a sucker for the big baby blues. (Did I mention that he - the character - is a former marine?)
* Serena Southerlyn (played by the automaton-like Elizabeth Rohm) who has the distinction of being the first (and likely the last) assistant ADA on the the original L&O that is not brunette. The failed blonde left the show last year in a stunning last minute reveal when, seconds after her dismissal, she poses the question: "Is this because I'm a lesbian?" It might have made for a compelling story line, (as opposed to inducing peals of laughter) if (1) the line had been delivered with more emotion than that of an oak tree, and (2) if it didn't look like Dick Wolfe was trying to shirk promises he made to the gay community about resolving the little matter of the absolute dearth of gay characters of any one of his (at the time) four shows. As media commentators noted, there had never been any indication whatsoever that Serena was gay, so the argument goes, Sr. Wolfe was trying to dodge the criticism by creating a gay character and then giving her all of 5 seconds of airtime once she was out. As I seemed to be getting a disproporationate amount of Serena Southerlyn-vintage L&O's, I thought about looking for indications that Serena was out prior to this big reveal and thereby defend Mr. Wolfe's honor and win a victory for diversity on TV, but I quickly was thwarted. She is just so painfully boring, I couldn't watch. I began taking to flipping over to the L&O:CI episode running opposite to avoid having to even see her on screen. Long story short: I miss Angie Harmon.
* Mariska Hargitay (Det. Olivia Benson on L&O: SVU). Bad page-boy haircut adopted in second season. Kept hoping it would grow back. Still waiting. It has however gotten blonder. Not helpful.
* Richard Belzer (Det. John Munch) gets all the tender-moment reveals on L&O: SVU. This just seems odd.
* I would discuss the irony of Ice-T playing a cop (Det. Finn Tutuola on SVU), but as I refuse to ever agree with Omarosa on anything. I won't. And generally, and it could just be the massive quantities of Vitamin C coursing through my veins talking, but he really isn't half bad as an actor. Certainly not any worse that the previously discussed Roehm-y.
* Bradley Cooper was a guest star on a L&O: SVU/L&O: TBJ cross-over. Mmmm, nice. Very nice.
* I wonder why people are so comfortable just chattering away in those police interrogation rooms that always have those big mirrors in them. Doesn't everyone in the world know that the A.D.A. and the police chief are always standing behind them watching?
* In the first episode of L&O: Original where ADA Claire Kinkaid (played by Jill Hennessy) appears, she walks into Jack McCoy's office to have a work related conversation with him towards the end of the work day. Through the course of this conversation, he gets up, opens his door, stands sort of catty corner behind it, takes off his pants and changes into jeans. And no one ever says a thing! I know that, ultimately, a season or so later, they end up getting together as a couple, but jeez. First day on the job + Boss taking off his pants = Screams sexual harassment claim, or at least, an extremely awkward situation. Brings a whole new meaning to prosecutorial discretion.
* Sign #7934 of the coming apocalypse: L&O: The Dianne Wiest years. *Shudder*
* My marathon confirmed that every iteration of the series has had one character at one time or another say, when confronted with the fact that some witness, suspect or other party has given a false address, "Well, if that was the case, they would be living in the middle of the East River." Hands down, it is most charming when Lenny Briscoe says it. Question: This could just be the ignorance of a native Californian, but given the fairly straightforward grid system in which Manhattan is laid out, why is it that only the police seem to know which addresses could not possibly exist?
Okay. Enough. Time to go. Need to pick up my phone. I hear the L&O ringtone sounding.
In a feverish haze, I picked up the phone a few days ago and found my mother on the other line. Due to aforesaid feverish haze, I actually told her I was ill. As a further result of the feverish haze, I found myself readily agreeing to her coming to pick me up from my apartment to take me "home" so I could get better. While this does not sound like a Defcon 4 type scenario - chicken soup, or rather sopa de pollo (which is from a can, regardless of how you say it), tea and honey, and ready access to someone who can help you if you have fallen and can't get up cannot be all bad, right? - I usually try to avoid it. First, because of the previously discussed grumpiness on my part, and second, because the grumpiness compounded with the way illness makes my mother automatically begin to channel her inner Linus Pauling, can lead to a Level Orange state. My mother is a rigid believer in the healing properties of Vitamin C. Undoubtedly, the onset of any illness from the sniffles to a bad case of poison oak is greeted with a "Oh you haven't been taking your Vitamin C have you?" And the inevitable interrogation as to how much Vitamin C I have on-hand and how much I have ingested over the previous 45 day period. Side note: When I had mono in college, she sent me a bottle of Vitamin C every other day for six weeks. I had so many white tablets floating around my dorm room, it is shocking that no one suspected me of illicit dealings.
There were some minor scrapes this time around, but mostly they were headed off by my ultimate trip to the doctor and the antibiotic prescription.
Upshot is, I got to miss 3 days of work and lay around on the couch and watch TV (shamefully, one of my favorite leisure activities - between hiking Mount Everest and reading Kierkegaard, I swear) - but I didn't get to enjoy it. My mom kept asking if I wanted to get up and walk around. I think she was afraid I was going to get bed sores.
In any event, in logging all this convalescing-couch time (and consuming megadoses of Vitamin C), I think I may have watched too many Law & Order reruns. I know, I know. Believe me, it is more shocking for me to type it, than for you to read it. As every red blooded american should, I believe wholeheartedly in the palliative powers of the syndicated TV show in time of illness, the national treasure that is the one hour crime drama, and the right of Dick Wolf to dominate the airwaves at every hour of the day on every day of the week year after year. However, I really think that this week I may have crossed a threshold between recreational viewer to hardcore addict. By virtue of the matrix created by the collective broadcasting powers of NBC, TNT, USA, and BRAVO, cross-referenced with the content of the L&O, the original, L&O: Special Victims Unit, L&O: Criminal Intent, and the bonus cross-overs to the now defunct L&O: Trial by Jury and Homicide: Life of the Streets, I have determined that it is indeed possible to spend nearly every waking hour of your day (and some of the dozing, if not outright sleeping ones) watching some iteration of the L&O. After a while they all start to blend, literally: cross-over episodes.
A few things of which I took note during my L&O ultra-marathon:
* I think I know why Bobby Goren (detective from L&O: CI, played literally to the point of exhaustion - his and ours - by Vincent D'Onofrio) cannot get a date. Though popular media continually champions the rise of the lonely driven nerd as sex symbol (in the Gil Grissom type mold), I don't buy it. Not that the nerdy driven nerd doesn't hold a certain allure for me, but personal proclivities aside, I think Bobby Goren could get himself hitched as he has the tall self-supporting guy who can put together compound sentences with polysyllabic words thing going for him. Except for one thing: The latex gloves. The damn latex gloves. I can understand wearing them at a crime scene - forensics, forensics, forensics - but this man - regardless of whether he is wearing them - always has latex gloves on his person. Always pulling them out of his pocket to pick something up for further scrutiny. An effective approach when dealing with evidence? Perhaps. When socially dealing with women? Not so much. In the world of male-female relations, latex is appropriate in a very select number of situations and formats - the glove never being one of them. Of course all of this is irrelevant as L&O characters generally don't have personal lives - but during my feverish haze I felt free to free associate, so bear with me.
* Christopher Meloni (Det. Stabler on L&O: SVU). He plays Stabler in varying shades of simmering rage - and then occasionally (more often in more recent seasons, esp. since Stabler's wife left him) he actually lashes out and hits something or someone. Usually a locker or a corkboard or a wall, but occasionally a perp. Yes, I said perp. Forgive me. As I said, I have logged many, many, many hours of L&O as of late... I can't decide if this is because the character is written too simply or if Meloni has absolutely no range as an actor. Ultimately, I must confesss: I don't care. Why? Because he is pretty. So sue me. I am undyingly devoted to him. Oh Elliot, I wuv you! I am such a sucker for the big baby blues. (Did I mention that he - the character - is a former marine?)
* Serena Southerlyn (played by the automaton-like Elizabeth Rohm) who has the distinction of being the first (and likely the last) assistant ADA on the the original L&O that is not brunette. The failed blonde left the show last year in a stunning last minute reveal when, seconds after her dismissal, she poses the question: "Is this because I'm a lesbian?" It might have made for a compelling story line, (as opposed to inducing peals of laughter) if (1) the line had been delivered with more emotion than that of an oak tree, and (2) if it didn't look like Dick Wolfe was trying to shirk promises he made to the gay community about resolving the little matter of the absolute dearth of gay characters of any one of his (at the time) four shows. As media commentators noted, there had never been any indication whatsoever that Serena was gay, so the argument goes, Sr. Wolfe was trying to dodge the criticism by creating a gay character and then giving her all of 5 seconds of airtime once she was out. As I seemed to be getting a disproporationate amount of Serena Southerlyn-vintage L&O's, I thought about looking for indications that Serena was out prior to this big reveal and thereby defend Mr. Wolfe's honor and win a victory for diversity on TV, but I quickly was thwarted. She is just so painfully boring, I couldn't watch. I began taking to flipping over to the L&O:CI episode running opposite to avoid having to even see her on screen. Long story short: I miss Angie Harmon.
* Mariska Hargitay (Det. Olivia Benson on L&O: SVU). Bad page-boy haircut adopted in second season. Kept hoping it would grow back. Still waiting. It has however gotten blonder. Not helpful.
* Richard Belzer (Det. John Munch) gets all the tender-moment reveals on L&O: SVU. This just seems odd.
* I would discuss the irony of Ice-T playing a cop (Det. Finn Tutuola on SVU), but as I refuse to ever agree with Omarosa on anything. I won't. And generally, and it could just be the massive quantities of Vitamin C coursing through my veins talking, but he really isn't half bad as an actor. Certainly not any worse that the previously discussed Roehm-y.
* Bradley Cooper was a guest star on a L&O: SVU/L&O: TBJ cross-over. Mmmm, nice. Very nice.
* I wonder why people are so comfortable just chattering away in those police interrogation rooms that always have those big mirrors in them. Doesn't everyone in the world know that the A.D.A. and the police chief are always standing behind them watching?
* In the first episode of L&O: Original where ADA Claire Kinkaid (played by Jill Hennessy) appears, she walks into Jack McCoy's office to have a work related conversation with him towards the end of the work day. Through the course of this conversation, he gets up, opens his door, stands sort of catty corner behind it, takes off his pants and changes into jeans. And no one ever says a thing! I know that, ultimately, a season or so later, they end up getting together as a couple, but jeez. First day on the job + Boss taking off his pants = Screams sexual harassment claim, or at least, an extremely awkward situation. Brings a whole new meaning to prosecutorial discretion.
* Sign #7934 of the coming apocalypse: L&O: The Dianne Wiest years. *Shudder*
* My marathon confirmed that every iteration of the series has had one character at one time or another say, when confronted with the fact that some witness, suspect or other party has given a false address, "Well, if that was the case, they would be living in the middle of the East River." Hands down, it is most charming when Lenny Briscoe says it. Question: This could just be the ignorance of a native Californian, but given the fairly straightforward grid system in which Manhattan is laid out, why is it that only the police seem to know which addresses could not possibly exist?
Okay. Enough. Time to go. Need to pick up my phone. I hear the L&O ringtone sounding.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Truth
Truth: Telling the truth. Being honest. Expressing what is real. All of these are bedrock principles of the moral person, or so I choose to believe. It occurs to me however, that much more than these being the immutable cornerstones of life, these concepts - truth, honesty, reality - are, more than anything aspirational goals.
My truth, is not necessarily your truth. My honesty, not necessarily your honesty. My reality, not necessarily yours.
And this dissonance has nothing to do with intent to deceive. It just is.
The philosopher scoffs at the relativist, but some things are simply that: relative.
My objection to the dissonance is not the intractable space between the reality of you and me, or the truth and honesty of our perceptions. My objection is this: I have a hard time discerning my own truth, being honest with myself, discovering my own reality. I hide behind a multitude of words and platitudes; snarky comments and paeans of popular culture and professional sports. I rant and I rave about my pain and my dissatisfactions, but I try to be artful about it, I attempt to be funny. Whether it is actually amusing or potentially heartbreaking or simply boring, I try to package my pain to please. I had long convinced myself that I did so in order to keep everyone else from finding out how freakish I was, to spare them the torrential nature of my pain, but I think I do it in order to spare myself from really looking at it.
This year I am truly sad that baseball season is over. Every year, I lament the passing of the season, but this year is different. It really upset me, and not in a sentimental way. More than any year before it, this year baseball had become a crutch for me - the daily ritual, the continuous event, that, even in its disappointments, brought me nothing but pleasure, because it was the one thing that reminded me that I am still capable of feeling. That a range of emotions are mine.
And now, as the Bart Giamatti quote goes, I am left to face the winter alone. And I am scared because now there is nothing but the pain, and all of the uncertainty, anxiety, anger and disappointment it brings with it.
My therapist tells me that I am adept at a witty, self-deprecating cynicism about my pain. She says it makes it hard to see what really hurts and what is profoundly moving to me, one way or the other, because there is always "a show" going on. I am nothing if not an excellent raconteuse of my pain. Sepaking with my hands, animated movements of the face, well-timed pauses and lilts the voice, so much of it is funny, if only because it is so ridiculous. My paper-machiere ventriloquist dummy of myself is adept at fooling people I don't know very well or whom I am only limited in my exposure to. Or so, I have always believed. People who know me better, and who spend more time with me, recognize some sort of scrambling of the signals. At least the effort towards, if not the achievement of, the artistry of storytelling. Once upon a time, a friend of mine recognized this as "obfuscation" and told me so. She of the wisdom of this observation, at a point down the road chose to set down the burden than was trying to see through this obfuscation, thus freeing herself of any commitment to me. I always thought I was being honest with my friends about my pain: I do talk about it, if only in the obfuscating manner. But, even more importantly (or so I thought), as the energy that goes into the act of obfuscating is just so demanding, and eventually the wellspring always runs dry (sooner and sooner it seems), eventually, I always cry. I weep. Weep inconsolable tears. And then I apologize, profusely, for the burdening, the lack of control, the ugliness of it all.
And I thought in the salt water of my tears there was truth. But they bring no illumination. They are further obfuscation. Indications of my lack of language for all that hurts me, for the profound disappointments I feel, for the control that eludes me, for the anger I am unable to express, for the frustration at feeling so powerless all the time. They may be honest, but they are not truth.
Even now, I don't know that I am using the words correctly: Truth, reality, honesty, pain, feeling. They all seem to be a further layer of misnomer. Close, but not quite right. Even now, I obfuscate to myself.
The big words, the cumbersome sentence structure. All tools of the obfuscations trade. I cannot seem to put them down.
Pain is a misnomer, because more than anything, I really do not feel anything. But I am not numb. I just feel very removed from myself.
Trying to describe how I feel - to everyone, to anyone, to myself - is like trying to describe the color of the sky to a man who has been blind his entire life. It can only be spoken is fragmented approximations.
I imagine the palette of human emotion running across a spectrum from happy to sad (with whatever choice adjectives you want to stick in between them). For nearly a year now, I have been stuck with half a palette, so to speak. I have moments of relief, brought on by time spent with good friends, ballgames, and the initial months of the Happy Pill. But it seems that, at best, these get me to the middle of the spectrum, past "eh" but not quite to "pleased." They do help me forget, granting me a moment of reprieve, and for that I am ever-grateful. A measure of relief from an internal battle that is constant and draining. Post-Happy Pill, I don't worry so much anymore, at least not so much that hyperventilation seems like a daily and routine option, but like the ending of baseball season, without my little worries mounting and accumulating and drawing away of my attention, I am left to face the winter of my discontent - alone. And it is here that I have been mired for the last four or five months.
In the meantime, I have now transferred my anxiety - obfuscating to myself, it seems - entirely to my arch-nemesis in life, my body. The extent to which I hate my body is described best only in saying that it is "to an extent indescribable." It fills entire days for me - an eternal cat and mouse game, round and round, of anger and shame directed at it. And the more this spiral turns and turns, the more I eat to relieve the weight of it all, the more exhausted I feel, the less inclined I am to exercise and the more I want to hide from the world. My corpulence is the signal to the world that I am out of control. These days, anyone who has seen more than one Lifetime movie or afternoon special, knows that eating disorders are tied to control issues. It is utterly cliche to say so, but it is true. The irony of course, apparent to everyone around me, and not lost on me, is that I didn't really feel any better when I was thin. Or so it seems. But there were differences. The physical weight I carry now pains me - in a literal sense. The extra flesh hurts. I feel bulgy and protuberant, as though I might pop at any moment. The other thing is the distortion makes it worse. I am not in any sense obese. I know this. I probably am not anything beyond mildly overweight. But every room I am in, every time I walk down the street, every person I watch on TV, I compare myself to, and I fall short. Or rather I fall fat. I feel like a neanderthal, linebacker, moose-like person. It was to my shock and horror that I found that I was larger than a couple of friends I have that are both in their second trimester of pregnancy. They are growing entire other human beings within their bodies, what is my excuse? I am so embarassed for myself. For how I look, for my instinct to hide. For the implicit narcissism of such action. I have only ever been told I was beautiful when I was thin. But it is not about having to be complimented or trying to be beautiful. It is about being accepted. When I am fat, I am ignored, if not disdained. When I am fat, I am unacceptable. I would say that I hate myself, my physical self, but hate is not a strong enough word either. And I know that this is wrong, that my body should be my temple. I know that if I were to become afflicted with a debilitating health condition, I would long for my body as it is now. But even armer with this knowledge (the implicit recognition of the blessing that is health), I still hate it. I have been involved in a blood feud with myself for so long that I am not sure I know how to stop.
I am lucky in this life as I know that I have been/am loved by numerous people, but I am unable to shake that haunting feeling that the space in people's hearts carved out for love for me is impermanent: that they will know who I am, who I really am, and they will walk away. That they will have more important people and things come along that would make better use of the space. That it was always a secondary space to begin with - a love of convenience. The truth is, however, even if I was ever someone primary love, their priority in life, I wouldn't know what to do with it. The attention, the responsibility would be too much. I have always been so used to receiving love in meted out increments (both in a familial and a romantic sense) that I would be drowned by direct affection I think. I fear it, yet I want nothing more.
It seems so absurd to me that I cannot solve the problems in my head.
My truth, is not necessarily your truth. My honesty, not necessarily your honesty. My reality, not necessarily yours.
And this dissonance has nothing to do with intent to deceive. It just is.
The philosopher scoffs at the relativist, but some things are simply that: relative.
My objection to the dissonance is not the intractable space between the reality of you and me, or the truth and honesty of our perceptions. My objection is this: I have a hard time discerning my own truth, being honest with myself, discovering my own reality. I hide behind a multitude of words and platitudes; snarky comments and paeans of popular culture and professional sports. I rant and I rave about my pain and my dissatisfactions, but I try to be artful about it, I attempt to be funny. Whether it is actually amusing or potentially heartbreaking or simply boring, I try to package my pain to please. I had long convinced myself that I did so in order to keep everyone else from finding out how freakish I was, to spare them the torrential nature of my pain, but I think I do it in order to spare myself from really looking at it.
This year I am truly sad that baseball season is over. Every year, I lament the passing of the season, but this year is different. It really upset me, and not in a sentimental way. More than any year before it, this year baseball had become a crutch for me - the daily ritual, the continuous event, that, even in its disappointments, brought me nothing but pleasure, because it was the one thing that reminded me that I am still capable of feeling. That a range of emotions are mine.
And now, as the Bart Giamatti quote goes, I am left to face the winter alone. And I am scared because now there is nothing but the pain, and all of the uncertainty, anxiety, anger and disappointment it brings with it.
My therapist tells me that I am adept at a witty, self-deprecating cynicism about my pain. She says it makes it hard to see what really hurts and what is profoundly moving to me, one way or the other, because there is always "a show" going on. I am nothing if not an excellent raconteuse of my pain. Sepaking with my hands, animated movements of the face, well-timed pauses and lilts the voice, so much of it is funny, if only because it is so ridiculous. My paper-machiere ventriloquist dummy of myself is adept at fooling people I don't know very well or whom I am only limited in my exposure to. Or so, I have always believed. People who know me better, and who spend more time with me, recognize some sort of scrambling of the signals. At least the effort towards, if not the achievement of, the artistry of storytelling. Once upon a time, a friend of mine recognized this as "obfuscation" and told me so. She of the wisdom of this observation, at a point down the road chose to set down the burden than was trying to see through this obfuscation, thus freeing herself of any commitment to me. I always thought I was being honest with my friends about my pain: I do talk about it, if only in the obfuscating manner. But, even more importantly (or so I thought), as the energy that goes into the act of obfuscating is just so demanding, and eventually the wellspring always runs dry (sooner and sooner it seems), eventually, I always cry. I weep. Weep inconsolable tears. And then I apologize, profusely, for the burdening, the lack of control, the ugliness of it all.
And I thought in the salt water of my tears there was truth. But they bring no illumination. They are further obfuscation. Indications of my lack of language for all that hurts me, for the profound disappointments I feel, for the control that eludes me, for the anger I am unable to express, for the frustration at feeling so powerless all the time. They may be honest, but they are not truth.
Even now, I don't know that I am using the words correctly: Truth, reality, honesty, pain, feeling. They all seem to be a further layer of misnomer. Close, but not quite right. Even now, I obfuscate to myself.
The big words, the cumbersome sentence structure. All tools of the obfuscations trade. I cannot seem to put them down.
Pain is a misnomer, because more than anything, I really do not feel anything. But I am not numb. I just feel very removed from myself.
Trying to describe how I feel - to everyone, to anyone, to myself - is like trying to describe the color of the sky to a man who has been blind his entire life. It can only be spoken is fragmented approximations.
I imagine the palette of human emotion running across a spectrum from happy to sad (with whatever choice adjectives you want to stick in between them). For nearly a year now, I have been stuck with half a palette, so to speak. I have moments of relief, brought on by time spent with good friends, ballgames, and the initial months of the Happy Pill. But it seems that, at best, these get me to the middle of the spectrum, past "eh" but not quite to "pleased." They do help me forget, granting me a moment of reprieve, and for that I am ever-grateful. A measure of relief from an internal battle that is constant and draining. Post-Happy Pill, I don't worry so much anymore, at least not so much that hyperventilation seems like a daily and routine option, but like the ending of baseball season, without my little worries mounting and accumulating and drawing away of my attention, I am left to face the winter of my discontent - alone. And it is here that I have been mired for the last four or five months.
In the meantime, I have now transferred my anxiety - obfuscating to myself, it seems - entirely to my arch-nemesis in life, my body. The extent to which I hate my body is described best only in saying that it is "to an extent indescribable." It fills entire days for me - an eternal cat and mouse game, round and round, of anger and shame directed at it. And the more this spiral turns and turns, the more I eat to relieve the weight of it all, the more exhausted I feel, the less inclined I am to exercise and the more I want to hide from the world. My corpulence is the signal to the world that I am out of control. These days, anyone who has seen more than one Lifetime movie or afternoon special, knows that eating disorders are tied to control issues. It is utterly cliche to say so, but it is true. The irony of course, apparent to everyone around me, and not lost on me, is that I didn't really feel any better when I was thin. Or so it seems. But there were differences. The physical weight I carry now pains me - in a literal sense. The extra flesh hurts. I feel bulgy and protuberant, as though I might pop at any moment. The other thing is the distortion makes it worse. I am not in any sense obese. I know this. I probably am not anything beyond mildly overweight. But every room I am in, every time I walk down the street, every person I watch on TV, I compare myself to, and I fall short. Or rather I fall fat. I feel like a neanderthal, linebacker, moose-like person. It was to my shock and horror that I found that I was larger than a couple of friends I have that are both in their second trimester of pregnancy. They are growing entire other human beings within their bodies, what is my excuse? I am so embarassed for myself. For how I look, for my instinct to hide. For the implicit narcissism of such action. I have only ever been told I was beautiful when I was thin. But it is not about having to be complimented or trying to be beautiful. It is about being accepted. When I am fat, I am ignored, if not disdained. When I am fat, I am unacceptable. I would say that I hate myself, my physical self, but hate is not a strong enough word either. And I know that this is wrong, that my body should be my temple. I know that if I were to become afflicted with a debilitating health condition, I would long for my body as it is now. But even armer with this knowledge (the implicit recognition of the blessing that is health), I still hate it. I have been involved in a blood feud with myself for so long that I am not sure I know how to stop.
I am lucky in this life as I know that I have been/am loved by numerous people, but I am unable to shake that haunting feeling that the space in people's hearts carved out for love for me is impermanent: that they will know who I am, who I really am, and they will walk away. That they will have more important people and things come along that would make better use of the space. That it was always a secondary space to begin with - a love of convenience. The truth is, however, even if I was ever someone primary love, their priority in life, I wouldn't know what to do with it. The attention, the responsibility would be too much. I have always been so used to receiving love in meted out increments (both in a familial and a romantic sense) that I would be drowned by direct affection I think. I fear it, yet I want nothing more.
It seems so absurd to me that I cannot solve the problems in my head.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Questions Were Asked and Full Discussion Ensued
I have started about 20 (read: 6) different posts since I last made myself known in this forum. Each one has absolutely nothing in common with the other except for two,okay, three things: None of them manage to develop past paragraph two, the quality of the writing is, to be kind, not fit for human consumption, and, lastly, each and every one of them opens with a grand pronouncement about how, to the relief of many (and the chagrin of few) I will not be writing about baseball as the season has (sadly) come to a close.
Grand pronouncement, yes. Truth, no.
Baseball season is indeed over, but even though there are no innings being logged on diamonds from the Bay to the Bronx; there are games still being played. What I forgot is the most important axiom of all: Baseball is a game of boys, and that such truism is not limited to those personnel on the field of play. The off-season is when the true children come out to play, and they don't play fair. No sirreee. Welcome to the wild and unpredictable world which mixes the volatile characteristics of narcissism, insurmountable insecurity, and wads of cash. Prostititution ring you say? No - welcome to the world of the baseball owner.
I could riff and rip on baseball owners till the cows came home (if I didn't think that such it might incite some PETA member to come to my office and throw a tofu pie on me or something for so callously using a statement that clearly hurts displaced cows feeling. Happy cows are NOT in California!) - for instance the mess the McCourts have made in L.A. (so they have no manager and no GM, they lost 91 games, their star pitcher is disgruntled, another one left his wife for a member of the local media, yet another is dating Alyssa Milano, and they have a psychotic player named after a board game. But they have renewed Tommy Lasorda's consulting/license to be a sycophant contract and they hired a new PR person. So yeah, good luck with that) or the continuing disaster that is The Boss and The Tampa Cabal (Does anyone wonder why Brian Cashman has not been seen smiling for years now? They say he has wrested control back; Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it) - but as I began at the beginning of this very, very, very long sentence, I am not here to rip on the owners, not really. After all, what more could be said: their acts of sand-kicking, hair pulling and gum spitting clearly speak for themselves.
I am here to talk about one thing, or rather, one person: Theo. Not he of the Huxtable fame, but he of the Wunderkind Formerly Known As The Red Sox General Manager fame. For the less baseball inclined out there, this might be where this post actually gets interesting/bordering on relevant: Theo actually has more than one name. He is Theo Epstein, a Yale graduate + J.D., who at the tender age of 28 (then the youngest ever) became the general manager (which is the guy who runs day to day operation - e.g. makes trades, negotiates contracts etc. - basically does what everyone does in their fantasy leagues, but for real, so he gets paid for it) for the Red Sox (who, annoying as they may be, either for having been so dour and put upon all these years or for buying into their own hype after 2004's World Series Victory and/or appearing on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, are still a storied franchise nonetheless).
This is a dream job in its own right. That the Red Sox were Theo's childhood team of choice (of destiny?) makes the opportunity even more amazing. The fact that in year 2, he pulled off what had not been done in 86 years and which most people had dismissed as ever being able to see in their lifetimes - The Red Sox Win The World Series! (Sign #598 of the coming of the Apocalypse?) - makes it no less than fan-fucking-tastic.
You are a 30 year old guy (good looking - for the most part, I do think so, but ESPN's man-crush on him is pretty funny too), you have a kick-ass job, you have just achieved the impossible at an impossible time at an impossible age, and what do you do? You go right back to work. We can debate whether you did a good job in going back (The Renteria signing - oooh) but the fact is, you just went back to doing your job. No self promotion. No hanging out with rock stars and being pictured dancing on table tops with Paris or doing shots with L.Lo. Just nothing but Theo. Plain and simple. Kind and straighforward. As always.
The word actually came to me today as I watched his remarks about leaving the Red Sox. He is classy. A rarity to be sure.
I always assumed that 31 year olds were all grown up and therefore self assuming and humble and kind. But now that I get closer to the age and spend my time with nothing but such folks, I find that there do tend to be a lot of exceptions. More than I would have expected. Then again, I expected to have it all together by now. Ummm, yeah, good luck with that.
But back to what I was saying: Theo. This was the year that his contract was up. There were negotiations, it appeared the deal was (nearly) sealed. And then it was clear - ownership's insecurities and narcissism and self-importance strewn throughout the media accounts: Backbiting. Snowjob. Undercutting. Disrespect.
And so what did he do?
He walked away. From it all. From everything. The swarm of accounts that followed this shocking news have varied, but for the most part, see-sawing between the speculation that he had a breach of trust, a falling out, with one of the team's owners, his mentor of sorts and the notion that Theo had "issues" that he needed to resolve. (Quote from Peter Gammons, who I was sorely disappointed to see this from: "Lucchino was willing to pay Epstein $4.5 million over the next three years, but Theo had a number of issues -- some, admittedly, with the spin-doctoring that pervades elements of the organization -- that caused him to make what another general manager called "a life, value-based decision, which never is all bad." .... Theo is extremely intense. His working hours were legendary, and he brooded over decisions. But what drove him to distraction might not bother someone else, ...") Either perspective was couched in utter disbelief: How could he just walk away? The job was perfect. It was his. He was revered by the fanbase as a god. The players all liked him. He would have been making a cool million five each year for doing this job of dreams. But he walked.
Why they whir and wonder? Over petty disagreements? Over fatigue? Because he is not strong enough to be a "good little soldier" and deal with office politics? Because he is a fool?
They may never know. In his press conference today, he was clear to place no blame on anyone.
He may never say, but I get it.
Epstein said he and the Red Sox' hierarchy had "turned the microscope" on themselves and had "excruciatingly honest" discussions. He said those conversations yielded results that proved he needed to leave.
"A lot of things happened during the end of the negotiation that caused me to think more closely about the situation, think about myself, think about the organization and whether it was the right fit," said Epstein, who made a reported $350,000 last season and was one of the lowest-paid executives in the major leagues. "In the end, I decided the right thing to do was move on."
....
"I never really foresaw the day when I'd leave the Red Sox organization," Epstein said. "But, sometimes, choices in life aren't easy. Sometimes, you have to take the difficult path because it's the right path. That's what I believe I did."
Those are choice quotes excerpted from a NYT piece on the matter titled: "Epstein Explains, But He Doesn't Tell All."
They may remain befuddled, but I get it.
At the end of the day, what do you do when it hurts more than it helps? You walk away. You must, to protect that which is most important. You.
Babyboomers are left shaking their heads. You keep going, you keep muddling through. You internalize, you rationalize, you do what they expect you to do.
But I get it.
Even in the most perfect situation - the ideal, the dream job - there are difficulties. Indeed, the bad should be taken with the good. But in a dream job, or any job for that matter, if the bad strips you of the good, if, as in this case, it appears that it robs you of that which is most precious (be it a love of the game or the joy of accomplishment), then it is no good. Dream or not. The price is to high. The pay is too low. The long term blurry - a Hobbesian choice of pay-off versus damage.
I get it.
No matter how lucky they say you are, or how talented they don't, or what they expect, or what they require: At some point you must walk away. And it doesn't make you crazy. And it doesn't make you weak. And it doesn't make you foolish. And, it doesn't make you scared.
It simply makes you.
Run, Theo, run.
Grand pronouncement, yes. Truth, no.
Baseball season is indeed over, but even though there are no innings being logged on diamonds from the Bay to the Bronx; there are games still being played. What I forgot is the most important axiom of all: Baseball is a game of boys, and that such truism is not limited to those personnel on the field of play. The off-season is when the true children come out to play, and they don't play fair. No sirreee. Welcome to the wild and unpredictable world which mixes the volatile characteristics of narcissism, insurmountable insecurity, and wads of cash. Prostititution ring you say? No - welcome to the world of the baseball owner.
I could riff and rip on baseball owners till the cows came home (if I didn't think that such it might incite some PETA member to come to my office and throw a tofu pie on me or something for so callously using a statement that clearly hurts displaced cows feeling. Happy cows are NOT in California!) - for instance the mess the McCourts have made in L.A. (so they have no manager and no GM, they lost 91 games, their star pitcher is disgruntled, another one left his wife for a member of the local media, yet another is dating Alyssa Milano, and they have a psychotic player named after a board game. But they have renewed Tommy Lasorda's consulting/license to be a sycophant contract and they hired a new PR person. So yeah, good luck with that) or the continuing disaster that is The Boss and The Tampa Cabal (Does anyone wonder why Brian Cashman has not been seen smiling for years now? They say he has wrested control back; Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it) - but as I began at the beginning of this very, very, very long sentence, I am not here to rip on the owners, not really. After all, what more could be said: their acts of sand-kicking, hair pulling and gum spitting clearly speak for themselves.
I am here to talk about one thing, or rather, one person: Theo. Not he of the Huxtable fame, but he of the Wunderkind Formerly Known As The Red Sox General Manager fame. For the less baseball inclined out there, this might be where this post actually gets interesting/bordering on relevant: Theo actually has more than one name. He is Theo Epstein, a Yale graduate + J.D., who at the tender age of 28 (then the youngest ever) became the general manager (which is the guy who runs day to day operation - e.g. makes trades, negotiates contracts etc. - basically does what everyone does in their fantasy leagues, but for real, so he gets paid for it) for the Red Sox (who, annoying as they may be, either for having been so dour and put upon all these years or for buying into their own hype after 2004's World Series Victory and/or appearing on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, are still a storied franchise nonetheless).
This is a dream job in its own right. That the Red Sox were Theo's childhood team of choice (of destiny?) makes the opportunity even more amazing. The fact that in year 2, he pulled off what had not been done in 86 years and which most people had dismissed as ever being able to see in their lifetimes - The Red Sox Win The World Series! (Sign #598 of the coming of the Apocalypse?) - makes it no less than fan-fucking-tastic.
You are a 30 year old guy (good looking - for the most part, I do think so, but ESPN's man-crush on him is pretty funny too), you have a kick-ass job, you have just achieved the impossible at an impossible time at an impossible age, and what do you do? You go right back to work. We can debate whether you did a good job in going back (The Renteria signing - oooh) but the fact is, you just went back to doing your job. No self promotion. No hanging out with rock stars and being pictured dancing on table tops with Paris or doing shots with L.Lo. Just nothing but Theo. Plain and simple. Kind and straighforward. As always.
The word actually came to me today as I watched his remarks about leaving the Red Sox. He is classy. A rarity to be sure.
I always assumed that 31 year olds were all grown up and therefore self assuming and humble and kind. But now that I get closer to the age and spend my time with nothing but such folks, I find that there do tend to be a lot of exceptions. More than I would have expected. Then again, I expected to have it all together by now. Ummm, yeah, good luck with that.
But back to what I was saying: Theo. This was the year that his contract was up. There were negotiations, it appeared the deal was (nearly) sealed. And then it was clear - ownership's insecurities and narcissism and self-importance strewn throughout the media accounts: Backbiting. Snowjob. Undercutting. Disrespect.
And so what did he do?
He walked away. From it all. From everything. The swarm of accounts that followed this shocking news have varied, but for the most part, see-sawing between the speculation that he had a breach of trust, a falling out, with one of the team's owners, his mentor of sorts and the notion that Theo had "issues" that he needed to resolve. (Quote from Peter Gammons, who I was sorely disappointed to see this from: "Lucchino was willing to pay Epstein $4.5 million over the next three years, but Theo had a number of issues -- some, admittedly, with the spin-doctoring that pervades elements of the organization -- that caused him to make what another general manager called "a life, value-based decision, which never is all bad." .... Theo is extremely intense. His working hours were legendary, and he brooded over decisions. But what drove him to distraction might not bother someone else, ...") Either perspective was couched in utter disbelief: How could he just walk away? The job was perfect. It was his. He was revered by the fanbase as a god. The players all liked him. He would have been making a cool million five each year for doing this job of dreams. But he walked.
Why they whir and wonder? Over petty disagreements? Over fatigue? Because he is not strong enough to be a "good little soldier" and deal with office politics? Because he is a fool?
They may never know. In his press conference today, he was clear to place no blame on anyone.
He may never say, but I get it.
Epstein said he and the Red Sox' hierarchy had "turned the microscope" on themselves and had "excruciatingly honest" discussions. He said those conversations yielded results that proved he needed to leave.
"A lot of things happened during the end of the negotiation that caused me to think more closely about the situation, think about myself, think about the organization and whether it was the right fit," said Epstein, who made a reported $350,000 last season and was one of the lowest-paid executives in the major leagues. "In the end, I decided the right thing to do was move on."
....
"I never really foresaw the day when I'd leave the Red Sox organization," Epstein said. "But, sometimes, choices in life aren't easy. Sometimes, you have to take the difficult path because it's the right path. That's what I believe I did."
Those are choice quotes excerpted from a NYT piece on the matter titled: "Epstein Explains, But He Doesn't Tell All."
They may remain befuddled, but I get it.
At the end of the day, what do you do when it hurts more than it helps? You walk away. You must, to protect that which is most important. You.
Babyboomers are left shaking their heads. You keep going, you keep muddling through. You internalize, you rationalize, you do what they expect you to do.
But I get it.
Even in the most perfect situation - the ideal, the dream job - there are difficulties. Indeed, the bad should be taken with the good. But in a dream job, or any job for that matter, if the bad strips you of the good, if, as in this case, it appears that it robs you of that which is most precious (be it a love of the game or the joy of accomplishment), then it is no good. Dream or not. The price is to high. The pay is too low. The long term blurry - a Hobbesian choice of pay-off versus damage.
I get it.
No matter how lucky they say you are, or how talented they don't, or what they expect, or what they require: At some point you must walk away. And it doesn't make you crazy. And it doesn't make you weak. And it doesn't make you foolish. And, it doesn't make you scared.
It simply makes you.
Run, Theo, run.
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