Fools

March 31, 2014

Greetings from the Dupe,

Tomorrow is the first day of April, and carries with it a unique burden.  It is April Fool’s day.  It’s not exactly mandatory, not a legal holiday, but nobody has had the guts to call it off.

April Fool has a heritage over a 1000 years old.  The Romans, back when they were franchising the world, created the festival of ‘Hilaria’.  (‘Hilaria’sounds so much more dignified.)  Since then nearly every country in the world has developed their own holiday devoted to practical jokes and pranks.  The Scottish created ‘Hunt the Gowk Day.’  Not a really catchy phrase; Scots not being known for their marketing skills, hence the strictly regional success of haggis and bagpipes.

It occurs to me that somebody should eventually say: “All right, all right, enough is enough.  Really.  No more whoopee cushions.” 

None of our political leaders will touch it.  They would rather eviscerate Social Security than mess with April Fool’s Day.  There is no social uprising to quell the tomfoolery and monkeyshines.  No community organizers or neighborhood watch groups to staunch the shenanigans.

I have had a few practical jokes played on me, but I am not a fan.  I think I must give off that crotchety vibe, because lately no one has tried to surprise me with a hand buzzer or tape a ‘kick me’ sign on my back.

I will admit to a weakness here.  It really bothers me to be fooled.  I will instantly lose my sense of humor, my perspective.   I become defensive, or worse, I retaliate.

At the heart of this flaw is ego. It is the unwillingness to appear stupid, or weak.  It is some version of vanity that prevents us from being ‘taken advantage of’.  Something inside me says this is a huge waste of energy.  Something tells me that when you recognize that you are unable to laugh at your own expense, you might need to lighten up.

Associated with this fear of being a fool, is a fear of making a mistake and revealing that foolishness.  For some people this means not taking risks or putting themselves in a position of being potentially embarrassed.  Unfortunately, that also limits new experiences and growth.  “A man learns to skate by staggering about and making a fool of himself. Indeed he progresses in all things by resolutely making a fool of himself.”  George Bernard Shaw

 In order to succumb to being foolish, you must first set aside your fear.  Ironically, the most self-confident people I know are comfortable with revealing their foolish side, because they know it is not a tragedy, just part of the patchwork of living. 

“Every man is a damn fool for at least five minutes every day; wisdom consists in not exceeding the limit.”  Elbert Hubbard

There are probably really wise people who have figured out a 12 step plan to embrace your Inner Fool, but my guess is that is some practical joke in itself.  I have thought about it this morning, and the path to foolishness is easy, and hard.  It is simple to see the way; the challenge is to allow ourselves the experience.

Samuel Butler said: “The greatest pleasure of a dog is that you make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself too.” 

I looked at my dog and decided this was not the direction for me.  He is too formal and reserved, too constrained to act foolish.  He does not like pranks either.  It’s possible I learned this from him.

A better place to begin is to observe children.  Yesterday I watched a little boy try to answer a question that was way beyond his comprehension. Smiling, he dove in with courage and complete lack of self-consciousness.  He expected to get it right, or at least try, and in his good nature, and his trusting innocence, he would allow himself to miss perfection. 

None of us like to be teased or to have our faults ridiculed, but outside of that mean spirited realm there is a healthy friction in having our foolishness revealed. 

In the end, we are all fools.  The only thing that prevents us from showing it to each other is conceit and self-importance.  It is possible that April Fool’s Day serves a purpose in reminding us of who we are, and gives us the chance to practice dealing with it. 

“Ah, well, I am a great and sublime fool. But then I am God's fool, and all His works must be contemplated with respect.”  Mark Twain

Hope this finds you actin a fool,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Mayan Madness

March 24, 2014

Greetings from the apocalypse,

For thousands of years, the Mayan civilization thrived; creating international trade, inventing a written language, developing mathematics and astronomy.  They developed successful agriculture to support millions.  They built enormous, complex feats of architectural genius.  They were successful in virtually every aspect of a large civilization.  Then they vanished.

It wasn’t until recently that archaeologists discovered the reason for the Mayan’s demise.  A group of explorers found elaborate etchings on a temple wall.

It was 64 brackets.  March Madness ended the Mayan civilization.

The NCAA, (not affiliated with MCAA, ASCAP or the NAACP) has launched another session of the final competition for the title of greatest college basketball team in the U.S.  64 teams, (68 technically, if you count the First Four) will progress through the Sweet Sixteen, the Elite Eight, the Final Four, and possibly other alliterations involving even numbers.  Eventually one team will claim the championship trophy, a large iconic idol they keep in a sacred place.  Then celebrate by vandalizing their home town.  

It is an exciting process.  Not the basketball games.  Talking about the Brackets.  Some people spend so much time filling out the Brackets they can actually claim them as dependents on their tax return.

Every year the media wheels out statistics that describe the loss of productivity due to March Madness that presumably costs American business billions of dollars.  This is a made up number.  In fact, March Madness only breaks up the loss of productivity due to Facebook and playing ‘Flappy Bird’.  In order actually measure loss of productivity we would have to use Pre-Columbian standards which was the last time anyone was doing anything other than busy work in between water cooler gossip.

The main activity during March Madness involves the Brackets.  Poring over information, history, predictions, sports news about who is coaching, injured, or on double secret suspension.  And then filling in the prediction for how each team will vanquish its various opponents and advance to ultimate victory.  It’s estimated that more people fill out March Madness Brackets than vote in presidential elections or attend Daddy-Daughter Dances.  Combined.

Integral in the competition is the issue of ‘seeding’.  Each team is assigned a seemingly random status which allows the organizers to create a more confusing schedule of games and gives the sports commentators something to talk about between commercials.  The list of ‘adjectives for ‘upstart’’ is the third highest Google search during March, following ‘pizza delivery’ and ‘how to pronounce ‘Gonzaga’, (which is not a cheese; that’s ‘gorgonzola’).

Seeding is critical. There is a committee who selects teams from each conference and ranks them according to an arcane and unfathomable system that includes charts with circles and arrows and perhaps human sacrifice.  Originally the name of each team was printed on a grid and laid in a cage.  A sunflower seed was placed on each name.  A Coastal Carolina Chanticleer was released into the cage, and whatever kernel he pecked first, that team becomes first seed.  Hence the term.

Unlike other events of this sort, gambling is not allowed in college sports.  Captain Renault would be shocked, shocked.

The big news this year was a contest (not gambling) that had little to do with basketball.  Warren Buffett, a professional billionaire, offered a billion dollars to the person who could predict the perfect March Madness bracket.  (I don’t know how he got so rich singing ‘Wasted Away in Margaritaville’. )  The odds of actually winning were 9 quintillion to one.  (A quintillion is a billion-billion, not a formal dance where debutantes go.) 

In spite of the daunting odds, millions of sports fans took a shot, hoping to be the upstart/dark horse/underdog/Cinderella story.  The Mayans, first to create the concept of ‘Zero’ could have predicted the number of winners in this contest.

All of this is fun of course.  It is a basketball tournament meant to entertain, to distract us from Obamacare and the price of propane and that funny aftertaste from aspartame.  It is just a game.  Well, a lot of games. 

The reason it is called March Madness is: a) It causes people to get angry when a favored team loses.  b) The hysteria around the sport resembles insanity.  c) The term ‘April Asininity’ couldn’t clear CBS’s censors.  d) ‘End of Civilization’ doesn’t sell t-shirts.

Try not to worry about what happened to the Mayans.  I’m sure that bracketology did not destroy one of the world’s most progressive societies.  There’s no reason to think that we are at risk of extinction just because we paint our bodies, wear festive headdresses, dance maniacally, or gather together in large stadiums to watch games and worship idols.

After all, it’s not like we are a primitive culture; we’ve got Wifi.

As Jimmy V once said, parenthetically; “The real demise of our society will not come from brackets, but from parentheses.”  (Attributed)

Hope this finds you still in the game,

David

Birthday Color

March 17, 2014

Greetings from the wavelength,

Science tells us that the pure, white light we see all around us has a spectrum of color in it.  The color in our world is revealed when the light strikes various things, or passes through them. 

Last night the sun made a last minute appearance, pushing aside the grey curtain on the western stage long enough to shine a golden ribbon along the row of pines outside my den window.  The light glowed on the trees, the needles seem to come to life, showing off deep green against the snowy background, celebrating St Patrick’s Day I think.

Light on its own is fascinating, but its true value is in what it reveals, what it brings us as it illuminates what we see each day.  As I woke this morning I realized what a difference the light, and the color it brings, makes in our lives.

Carson, Harrison and Sawyer, my sons, each filter light through their own prism. Their lives, who they are, what they offer the world, is expressed in unique ways, each a spectrum of hues and shades and tones that shows who they are.

Right now they are scattered across this mitten shaped peninsula, scratching the first marks in what will be their third decade.  In this quiet moment, without the distraction of other things, I can fully sense the depth of color they add to my life, and I am in awe of the potential they bring.

When they were first born, each of them was assigned a color; Blue for Carson, Green for Harrison, Red for Sawyer.  It was a thing of convenience, a survival tool really, but even now, twenty years later, there are a few remnants of those colors for people to see.

Nothing is as simple now, of course.  They are not labelled so we can tell who is who, they provide their own appearance, personalities, gifts, that express that easily.  What has developed in them is a band of colors; broad, rich, complex. 

Life, light, reaches them in the same way, and each of them produces something different from it.  Each reflects what comes to them in their individual manner, generating a range of hues, some intense, some soft, but each their own.

My sons are distinctly different, each with their own strengths and gifts.  They are each on their own trajectory, their lives filled with unique potential that they will act on.  But they have a great deal in common.

They are kind, creative, talented, expressive.  They each are curious, intelligent, and possess a sense of humor to balance their ambitions.  All three are loyal friends, dedicated to principle, and have in them a passion for living.  And each of them bring color to wherever they are.

And they all celebrate their birthday today.

They also have another element in common, a brother who we will celebrate with when we are joined on the other side of this light.  My son Alexander is never too far from my thoughts, but never closer than on this date.  I have thought about him in a variety of shades.  The yellow gold in the morning sunrise, the pale rosy grey in the moon, the green and blue and red that shows in creation in between sunrise and sunset.  And in the colors of his brothers.

A great deal of light has shined on these boys, these men.  I can see them differently now, always my sons, but now under their own power, mixing their own palette.  They are on a very good path, each in their own direction.  I am excited to see what color they create in their own lives and how that enriches the lives of those around them.  Join me in wishing them Happy Birthday.

Hope this finds you soaking in the color,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Missing

March 10, 2014

Greetings from another way,

The two of them sat on the ledge, waiting for the door to open.  It was hot, both of them sweltering in the stifling closeness.  They were sitting close trying to keep their voices from being overheard.

“I’m serious,” he said “I can’t take one more day like this.”
Lefty looked at him.  His brother was dark, like himself, and it was hard to see him in this light.  But he could make out his shape.  He knew him well enough to sense the tension in his body.

They were the same size, roughly, and while they weren’t twins they were often mistaken for one another.  He had been by his brother’s side all of their lives, and they had learned to adapt for one another.  It was second nature to work together.  Now he was leaving.  He had talked about it before, and Lefty had convinced him to stay, but this was different.

“There’s no place for you,…out there.  You won’t know how to deal with things.  You have been in here too long.”  Lefty had heard stories of others who had escaped, myths perhaps, but the end was always the same.

His brother made a short grunt and said: “You don’t know.  You assume that because you are afraid.”

“You can’t go.  We have to stay together.” Lefty whispered, trying not to be heard by the others.

“Stop saying that.  I wish you would be more supportive.  There is nothing anywhere that says we have to stay together.  And nothing says we have to stay here.”

“It is the RULES.” snapped Lefty, his voice echoing dully against the steel walls.  “More than that, it is what is expected of us.  What is needed of us.”

His brother shrugged, barely visible in the dim light.  “Where I’m headed there’s different rules.”

He slid off the ledge and disappeared in the darkness below.  Lefty leaned forward, straining to hear the sound of his brother moving among the others.  It was as quiet as a tomb.  There was no good bye.

I lay awake in the early hours, this scene playing out in my head.  I am positive this is what has happened because there is no other explanation for it.

I called the local CSI team and had them come to my house and scour every inch of the laundry room.  And then the kitchen.  And the hall.  The stairs.  Every place that made sense, and then all the places that did not.  They found things but not what I was looking for.  A key I can’t identify, a battery I am not sure has any juice, a scratch-off lottery ticket.  Twist ties, gum wrappers, a business card, a safety pin. I feel like I’ve been living someone’s junk drawer.

They packed up their lasers and UV lights and fingerprint powder.  They hauled their nylon-sensing scanners back to their black sedans and crept, empty handed, out of my neighborhood in CSI shame.

The only possible explanation is that one sock has escaped.  I know how it was done; the same way I imagine doing it if I were trapped its place.  I would wriggle to the vent and then make my way along the flexible metal tube that leads to the outside.  Slide through the plastic louvered thing that flutters in the hot air and drop into the world outside.

I understand why it’s gone.  Not a very satisfying existence; stretched over a sweaty foot and shoved inside a leather shoe.  I blame myself, of course.  I took them both for granted, assumed they would do what is expected of them without any acknowledgement. 

The other sock seems forlorn and lonely, stuffed in with the other orphans, no doubt mourning his brother.  Perhaps resenting him, or who knows, envying him.

I am left in odd sock chaos.  I can’t very well start pairing them up with strangers of another kind now.  It wouldn’t be right.  The world would never accept it.  I’ll admit it, I’m not ready for that kind of radical thinking either. 

There is a chance that it will come back.  I’ve heard of such things, months later just reappearing, caked with lint, clinging to a sweater, or rolled inside a pantleg.  Looking defeated, limp, a little smaller.  The reunion, if the partner is still around, is awkward.  But in time things even out.

But I am not going to give idea much that thought.  I guess I’d rather believe it has found a place in the world where it can enjoy real hosiery fulfillment.   Some sanctuary for rebellious mittens, defiant buttons, pen-caps that just don’t fit, cuff links in search of meaning.

 In the off chance this message should reach the prodigal sock, I send best wishes.  If a return is possible, I can only pledge to be more appreciative, and to trim my toe nails more diligently.

Hope this finds you darning,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Snow Day

March 3, 2014

Greetings from the drift,

For those of you who live anywhere above the 37^th parallel, the concept of winter is a familiar one.  Yes, there are varying degrees of the season, but we generally have some idea as to what to expect.  However, this year, no matter what version of winter you are accustomed to, almost all of us got something more robust.  More raw.  More frigid.  More windy.  And more snowy.

Here in the Mitten State, we expect snow in winter, it’s like a tradition.   Well, perhaps more like a curse.  And with that there is the Snow Day.  Capitalized here because it has been trademarked by Michiganians.

When I was growing up I would usually walk to school.  It was an uphill hike, through dangerous Snapping Thorntrees, past packs of Tyrannosaurus Rex.  And in the winter, it meant wading through waist-high banks of snow, often carrying an enormous backpack filled with heavy, inaccurate, social studies textbooks.

In those times we were required to go to school for 533 days per year, according to state law.  (This was before there was such a huge emphasis on math.)  Any days that were missed would have to be made up the following year.  The predominant thinking in that era was that the longer we were in school the less time we would be counted in the unemployment statistics.

School never closed.  Not for torrential rain, or fire, or insurrection, or icy roads, or the Bay of Pigs drama.  Not for lunar landings or lighting storms. And snow?  If schools were ever closed because of snow, it could only mean that the snow was so deep the custodians could not find the roof of the school to begin excavation.  Or they had been devoured by a T Rex.

Nowadays it seems that the schools are closed for almost any reason.  30 below zero?  Close the school.  Wind messing up student’s hair?  Close the school.  Power outage, flooding, or widespread chafing due to dry air: close the school. 

And snow?  I think the standard now is this: if the snow is higher than the soles of a student’s flip flops, then The Board of Education is required to close the schools or be charged under the Cruel and Unusual codicils in the Constitution.  (Teachers are still required to report: they are not protected from anything cruel or unusual in keeping with the You Wanted Summers Off Exemption)

 

Michigan kids climbing up to Math Class

Today, once school is cancelled, there are texts and emails and auto-calls and website announcements and TV reports to communicate the message.  When I was in my formative years I went to a Catholic school.  If we wanted to find out if school was closed we were required to walk the five miles uphill through the snow as penance, and it was still mandatory to attend church that morning.  The reason churches have tall bell towers was so that they would rise above the snowbanks and we would be able to find our way down into the sanctuary. 

For most parents, a snow day is chaos incarnate.  It means schedules are thrashed, work responsibilities subjugated, and appointments cancelled.  Picture juggling with your hair on fire and you get the gist.

For teenagers, a different perspective.  If you ever doubt the telepathic abilities of the American teen, I submit the Snow Day as proof.  The moment a school administrator thinks the words ‘close the school today’ teenagers everywhere in the district are already falling back onto the pillow for another eleven hour of sleep. 

But perhaps the most important cadre affected by the Snow Day is the Little Kids, capitalized here because it is a legally recognized entity with its own lobbyists.  Anyone who is young enough to have their mittens attached to their coat falls into this group.

To these, the snow day represents freedom.  On any other school day, it might be impossible to drag them from their beds without dramatic whining (mostly from parents).  But on a snow day, they are allowed to behave as nature intended.  Liberated from their daily bondage, freed from academic oppression, little kids suddenly possess the energy and enthusiasm normally subdued by learning stuff.

It is for Little Kids that the Snow Day was invented.  In part because once the snow is four feet deep it’s easier to lose a Little Kid, but also because they need the respite.  There is something in their spirit that calls out to be excused from the responsibilities for a day, even for arbitrary reasons like a little too much snow. 

Little Kids need to make snowmen, and go sledding.  They need to have snowball fights and tunnel into banks left by the surly snowplow drivers.  Little Kids need to waddle through the white, red faced, runny nosed, as they explore the world made new by snow.

I’ll admit I am envious that part of the world still says “We should stay home.”

I will grumble and behave like a curmudgeon, befitting my age, but in my heart I am secretly smiling at the thought of a day off from school.  That’s the Little Kid in me.

Hope this finds you making snow angels,

David

Anonymity

February 24, 2014

Greetings from my I.D.,

I grew up in a time when neighborhoods were like Facebook pages.  Well, like low quality Facebook pages; without the excellent graphics, the pictures of kittens, and the pithy quotations overprinted on dramatic scenery.  So, not really like Facebook.  But what the heck, I already started the analogy.

When something was going on with a family in the neighborhood, the news was ‘posted’ in a variety of ways.  There was ‘sharing’ at the back fence, or while walking the dog. 

There were party lines, which transmitted news directly and indirectly, depending on who was listening in.  Gossiping almost always included ‘tagging’ someone who lived down the street.   It was a social network which was astounding in its intricacy and vitality.

And ‘Friending’?  That was invented by kids on my street.  And we ‘Liked’ things all the time.  Record keeping wasn’t as rigorous, but we got the general impression of what was getting thumbs up or not.  Eskimo pie from the ice cream cart?  Like.  Mr. Berry yelling at us to get out of his cherry tree?  Not so much.

Everyone knew everyone else’s business, which was in part because people cared about what happened in the neighborhood.  And in part because we didn’t have Facebook to distract us from the real life drama happening next door.  The result was that most of the details of the lives of the families on our street were pretty much public knowledge.  It was a forecast of one of the challenges that Facebook would present.

It was that era when communications were primitive, but somehow information was transmitted at lightning speed.  Ask any kid in my neighborhood who got in trouble at school, and somehow the news made it up and down both sides of the street before they got home.

As quaint as that is, there became a time when it felt a little claustrophobic. 

Most of my formative years were spent wishing I was someone mysterious.  So many of my heroes were secret agents or super beings with hidden identities.  And here I was trapped on a street where everyone knew about my last cavity or my D in math.  I envied the few friends I had that came from different neighborhoods.  They arrived on my street like celebrities. 

And so there was this great liberation in going other places, faraway places, where anonymity was a luxurious cloak I could pull on.  There was mixed results.  I remember one particularly humiliating moment when I tried to effect a believable British accent while were camping in Canada.  There are more embarrassing stories, but I will save those for the biographic Broadway play.

The desire was less about misleading people and more about just being interesting, which I mistakenly assumed meant being someone I hadn’t been yet.  Being anonymous allowed that.  It was part of maturing, of shedding insecurity about who I was, which has largely faded, thankfully. 

There is an interesting tightrope that we walk between privacy, anonymity, and being public, the desire to be expressive, and known and even famous. It is not just a battle of ego and humility, it has to do with how we view that valuable part of ourselves we choose to share. 

What we reveal of ourselves is a function of our personality, our history, the environment, the level of trust we have in our audience, and time.   There are other effects, other pressures, but that’s the short list. 

I know that this is a commodity that is taken for granted.  There is the cliché about celebrities who fought to become famous and now long for normal anonymity.  We might all learn from that example before we post our next morsel on Facebook. 

One of the great pleasures of life is being comfortable in your self.  I will admit that, for me, some days that still doesn’t fit, but most days it does.  There are still times I fantasize about being James Bond, and luckily I have the opportunity to travel to places where I am unknown and can practice my accent.

The new, powerful influence in this struggle is the internet.  Anonymity often leads to a lack of responsibility and civility.  It also provides a freedom of expression, including good ideas, that is not found elsewhere.  The argument online today is about privacy about the risk of ‘persistent identity’, about the loss of authentic intimacy, replaced by this new connection we make with untold millions in the ether.

Quite often, anonymity and its cousin, privacy, is simply the space to which you retreat to reflect, to examine, to change, under your own terms.  When we give that up we lose something important, so it’s critical that it be a choice.

The beauty of my old neighborhood was the element of community.  The challenges brought to a struggling secret agent notwithstanding, it was a supportive, encouraging, safe place to spend the early years of my life.  It also provided some inspiration to look at wider horizons, for new possibilities, for new places to explore who I was to become.

If nothing else Chandler Street provided this lesson for me; it is important to be known, to be part of a community, to share yourself in a way that allows others to share themselves with you, to the benefit of all.  I learned I would rather be open, aware and heard, expressive and attentive.  And I know that is really good to have that as a choice, not forced upon me by circumstance.

What you give away of yourself is not a commodity to be treated cheaply.   I believe when we make acquaintance, trade friendship and intimacy, we are best served to see the exchange as a valuable, irreplaceable connection.  Each time you slide aside the curtain of anonymity to reveal more of you, to allow others in, you walk a new tightrope between opportunity and risk.  I believe it is always worth doing, not recklessly, but by using the gifts of balance we have been given.

Hope this finds you known,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith

Vladolympics

February 17, 2014

Greetings from between the rings,

I think at some point when I was a little boy I may have wanted to be king of the world.  I couldn’t have known then that what I was dreaming of was to be Vladimir Putin.

First, allow me to say that I am not qualified to comment on foreign leaders, global politics, or for that matter, sports.  However, if I only wrote about subjects in which I have any informed opinion, this column would be called “Coffee”.

There is a sentiment among certain international cynics that the Sochi Olympics are largely a ‘vanity project’ for the Russian President, Vladimir Putin.  Granted, he managed to somehow convince the Olympic Committee to stage the winter Olympics in his favorite seaside resort, a somewhat tropical spot for that venue.  But that could have just to make it convenient for people to travel to.  What with it being only just one exit past Youcantgettherefromhere.

Never mind the whispers of corruption and the vast amounts of the $50 billion being spent remaking Sochi being siphoned off to the Russian mafia.  Pay no attention to the reports of substandard housing in the Olympic village, along with putrid water, power outages, and dangerous conditions on the slopes.  What is really important is how President Putin will be remembered.  The medals for all those activities in Sochi are sort of a footnote.

If you look up the word ‘swagger’ in the dictionary you will find a reference to how that move was perfected by the current President of Russia.  He has a reputation for a somewhat strong-handed style of governing, not unbefitting a real czar, and you can’t fault him for that; he’s the king of the world.  And give him props: he turned a fishing village into a bazillion dollar Olympic Village.

President Putin and I have some things in common, so I feel comfortable making ill- informed commentary.  We both have similar hair styles.  We both are of slightly below average height; he slightly less than average than me.  We both like to go shirtless for the media.  We both speak English.  We are both men of significant egos, mine more

‘-centric’ his more ‘-maniacal’.

I think if I were President Putin I would go all the way with it.  Really put my mark on the games.  If I were Bad Vlad, I wouldn’t stop at putting the Olympics in my back yard.  I would make the games more macho and Russian.  More Putin.

For starters, these Superhero spandex costumes that seem to be all the rage by the skiers and skaters?  Swap them for tunics and big fur hats.  There would be shots of vodka before each run down the giant slalom.  There would be Cossack dancing by the athletes during every event.  Olympic medals would be replaced by Matryoshka nesting dolls.

 

If I were Vlad, I would definitely make the events more macho.  Send the speed skaters down the luge track and then let the Curling teams hurl their ‘stones’ down after them.  Whoever gets to the bottom wins. 

I would have the hockey teams and figure skaters compete on the ice at the same time.

Send the biathletes into every event just to spice things up.  Or maybe just give everyone a rifle. Have the skeleton racers use real skeletons.  Snowboarding would include jumping over bobsled teams, riding flaming bobsleighs.

My guess is that NBC would love this.  The Winter Olympics are a huge gamble for the network, and anything that would raise viewership would be welcome, so Putinizing the games would probably be cheered. 

I know this sounds a little snarky and jingoistic.  To be fair, wherever the Olympics are held there will be influence by politics and culture.  I guess it’s possible this could become a trend of some kind, where the leaders of other countries who are hosting the Olympics could use the event as a personal expression.

France’s President Hollande: “Come to the Paris Olympics: we promise not to judge who you bring with you.”

U.S. President Obama: “Come to the Chicago Olympics.  If you like your coach, you can keep your coach.”

King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia   “Come to the desert for the 2018 Winter Olympics and we will make the price of oil so low that you will sell your Prius.”

Cuban President Raul Castro: “Cigars for everyone! My brother said it was ok!”

Supreme Leader Kim Jong-un, North Korea: “Winter Olympics in Pyonyang! Our official mascot of the Games will be Dennis Rodman.  New events will include ‘Missile Launch’ and ‘DMZ Slalom’”

Hope this finds you rolling your eyes,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith