Dispatches from the Culture War
So there we are were, America, basking as one in the warming glow of our televised rally of national identity and solidarity1Unless you’re a fan of that other team, you filthy splitter., and what before our wondering eyes should appear, but, this.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKUy-tfrIHY
References
The athletics-entertainment machine, especially at the professional level, never fails to bring us a parade of behaviors that, if it were our own children acting out so, would make us want to crawl behind the nearest rock in shame and disgrace. Every game from bouncing balls to twirling on the ice to driving around in circles real fast has its Hall of Shame inductees. Go back at least to Ty Cobb1At least…we have no way of knowing, but I’m willing to bet that the guys who were winning marathons in ancient Greece were probably over-indulged boobs themselves. and bring it on up to today.
References
A Monday has come and nearly gone, and the Writer remains chained in the dankness of his scribbler’s warren, seized by the bitter darkness that attends the cold winds of hopelessness and despair.1These are metaphors, you know. And yet, as the daylight wanes and the hoarfrost descends, there is no post. No hope. Only a bleak, suffocating sense of emptiness.
References
The holidays are nearly through. I have enjoyed a sufficiency of great food, good cheer, spiked nog, family, wrapping paper, tinsel, and close quarters. And I got the new John Cleese memoir, a most perfect gift.
I have also endured a scarcity of time alone to think, to walk, to sit, to stare aimlessly. In short, the time to do the things necessary to write something that doesn’t suck.
