Thierry Sagnier's Blog, page 51
March 14, 2014
Thanks
How many times a day do you say “thank you?” You thank the barista who hands you a morning coffee, the waiter and busperson, the parking lot guy, the woman who holds the elevator for you, and you hand-signal a thanks to the driver who lets you cut in. By doing so, you establish a momentary relationship. You, the thank-giver, and the other person, the thank-recipient, have done something together that benefitted both parties--one gave, the other took, with gratitude--and was promptly forgotten. For a brief moment, the two of you reverted to an earlier age when the culture of thanking was well-established, at least among peers. Thanking now is largely automatic. If it’s accompanied by a smile, we might smile back, or not. We’ll note a lack of manners when letting someone cut in line doesn’t elicit the basic thanks… Me, I’ve always been fascinated by the phrase, “Thank God.” Thank God? Why? Does God need our thanks for moving, as he/she/it does, in mysterious ways? More to the point, will God get pissed off if we don’t thank him/she/it for whatever we think he thinks (not a typo) we should thank him for (if he does, which I doubt), and anyway, how are we supposed to know what to thank him for in the first place. Think about this long enough and you’ll get a migraine. Suddenly, thanking becomes a massively complex undertaking. And what if God suddenly realizes we’re just hypocrites (which, being an all-knowing God, he/she/it was aware of all along) giving thanks simply to cover out asses, because really, are we sure about thanking a Higher Power for all the strange stuff going on? What about Aunt Myrtle’s cancer, or Uncle Jim’s gout? Should we be thankful we don’t have the same afflictions? And doesn’t that make us really crappy people, thinking thoughts like that? So I don’t have any answers. I seldom do. But I welcome other people’s thoughts. Thanks. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
March 10, 2014
Memory
I’m a lot smarter early in the morning than at any other time of the day. At 5:45 a.m., I excel at crossword puzzles, recall names from decades past, hum tunes from my childhood in Paris and remember the name of the President of Bulgaria (Rosen Plevneiev). By late evening I can barely spell Bulgaria, I forget my cell phone number, and don’t know what I ate for lunch.
This, I suspect, has something to do with Arthur Conan Doyle’s theory of memory, once vastly ridiculed but now coming back into fashion. The creator of Sherlock Homes believed our brains housed what is essentially a limited number of pigeonholes. These get filled as time passes--whether days, years, or an entire life--and if we are to make new memories, we must make space by ridding ourselves of old ones. Thus, in order to recall the name of a favorite new brand of quinoa, we have to abandon the name of Mrs. Winthrop, who taught Sunday school when we were eight years old and whom we never really liked much anyway. The email address of our faraway cousin will be sacrificed to the oil viscosity rating of the family SUV. The boss’ birthday will give way to the wife’s shoe size.
What really intrigues me is the short-term memory which enables us to remember a piece of information that may be useful for only very brief period. A good example of this is the memory needed to walk from point A to point B in your house to retrieve a cell phone or piece of paper. According to Simply Psychology.org, “Short term memory has three key aspects:
1. limited capacity (only about 7 items can be stored at a time)
2. limited duration (storage is very fragile and information can be lost with distraction or passage of time)
3. encoding (primarily acoustic, even translating visual information into sounds).
There are two ways in which capacity is tested, one being span, the other being what is called the ‘recency effect.’
Most adults can store between 5 and 9 items in their short-term memory.”
This idea was put forward by psychologist G. Miller in 1956, who thought that short term memory could hold 7 (plus or minus 2 items) because it only had a certain number of “slots” in which items could be stored. Miller didn’t specify the amount of information that can be held in each slot, but it has been demonstrated that if we put together a block of information, we’ll be able to store considerably more material in our short term memory.
Miller’s theory is supported by evidence from various studies, one of which used the “digit span test,” which examines the ability to recall every letter in the alphabet and numbers apart from “w” and “7,” because these had two syllables. Tests found that people find it easier to recall numbers rather than letters.
The duration of short term memory seems to be between 15 and 30 seconds, though items can be kept in short term memory by repeating them verbally (acoustic encoding), a process known as rehearsal.
The 15 to 30 second rule explains why I forget why I came downstairs. Typically, it takes me a minute to get from point A to point B, because between the two, I find a dozen things that need my attention: the cat must be fed, the coffee needs warming, the laundry had to be tossed into the dryer and the garbage can rolled to the street before the giant dump truck arrives.
Now I need to remember to post this.
This, I suspect, has something to do with Arthur Conan Doyle’s theory of memory, once vastly ridiculed but now coming back into fashion. The creator of Sherlock Homes believed our brains housed what is essentially a limited number of pigeonholes. These get filled as time passes--whether days, years, or an entire life--and if we are to make new memories, we must make space by ridding ourselves of old ones. Thus, in order to recall the name of a favorite new brand of quinoa, we have to abandon the name of Mrs. Winthrop, who taught Sunday school when we were eight years old and whom we never really liked much anyway. The email address of our faraway cousin will be sacrificed to the oil viscosity rating of the family SUV. The boss’ birthday will give way to the wife’s shoe size.
What really intrigues me is the short-term memory which enables us to remember a piece of information that may be useful for only very brief period. A good example of this is the memory needed to walk from point A to point B in your house to retrieve a cell phone or piece of paper. According to Simply Psychology.org, “Short term memory has three key aspects:
1. limited capacity (only about 7 items can be stored at a time)
2. limited duration (storage is very fragile and information can be lost with distraction or passage of time)
3. encoding (primarily acoustic, even translating visual information into sounds).
There are two ways in which capacity is tested, one being span, the other being what is called the ‘recency effect.’
Most adults can store between 5 and 9 items in their short-term memory.”
This idea was put forward by psychologist G. Miller in 1956, who thought that short term memory could hold 7 (plus or minus 2 items) because it only had a certain number of “slots” in which items could be stored. Miller didn’t specify the amount of information that can be held in each slot, but it has been demonstrated that if we put together a block of information, we’ll be able to store considerably more material in our short term memory.
Miller’s theory is supported by evidence from various studies, one of which used the “digit span test,” which examines the ability to recall every letter in the alphabet and numbers apart from “w” and “7,” because these had two syllables. Tests found that people find it easier to recall numbers rather than letters.
The duration of short term memory seems to be between 15 and 30 seconds, though items can be kept in short term memory by repeating them verbally (acoustic encoding), a process known as rehearsal.
The 15 to 30 second rule explains why I forget why I came downstairs. Typically, it takes me a minute to get from point A to point B, because between the two, I find a dozen things that need my attention: the cat must be fed, the coffee needs warming, the laundry had to be tossed into the dryer and the garbage can rolled to the street before the giant dump truck arrives.
Now I need to remember to post this.
Memory
I’m a lot smarter early in the morning than at any other time of the day. At 5:45 a.m., I excel at crossword puzzles, recall names from decades past, hum tunes from my childhood in Paris and remember the name of the President of Bulgaria (Rosen Plevneiev). By late evening I can barely spell Bulgaria, I forget my cell phone number, and don’t know what I ate for lunch. This, I suspect, has something to do with Arthur Conan Doyle’s theory of memory, once vastly ridiculed but now coming back into fashion. The creator of Sherlock Homes believed our brains housed what is essentially a limited number of pigeonholes. These get filled as time passes--whether days, years, or an entire life--and if we are to make new memories, we must make space by ridding ourselves of old ones. Thus, in order to recall the name of a favorite new brand of quinoa, we have to abandon the name of Mrs. Winthrop, who taught Sunday school when we were eight years old and whom we never really liked much anyway. The email address of our faraway cousin will be sacrificed to the oil viscosity rating of the family SUV. The boss’ birthday will give way to the wife’s shoe size. What really intrigues me is the short-term memory which enables us to remember a piece of information that may be useful for only very brief period. A good example of this is the memory needed to walk from point A to point B in your house to retrieve a cell phone or piece of paper. According to Simply Psychology.org, “Short term memory has three key aspects:1. limited capacity (only about 7 items can be stored at a time)2. limited duration (storage is very fragile and information can be lost with distraction or passage of time)3. encoding (primarily acoustic, even translating visual information into sounds).There are two ways in which capacity is tested, one being span, the other being what is called the ‘recency effect.’Most adults can store between 5 and 9 items in their short-term memory.” This idea was put forward by psychologist G. Miller in 1956, who thought that short term memory could hold 7 (plus or minus 2 items) because it only had a certain number of “slots” in which items could be stored. Miller didn’t specify the amount of information that can be held in each slot, but it has been demonstrated that if we put together a block of information, we’ll be able to store considerably more material in our short term memory.Miller’s theory is supported by evidence from various studies, one of which used the “digit span test,” which examines the ability to recall every letter in the alphabet and numbers apart from “w” and “7,” because these had two syllables. Tests found that people find it easier to recall numbers rather than letters. The duration of short term memory seems to be between 15 and 30 seconds, though items can be kept in short term memory by repeating them verbally (acoustic encoding), a process known as rehearsal. The 15 to 30 second rule explains why I forget why I came downstairs. Typically, it takes me a minute to get from point A to point B, because between the two, I find a dozen things that need my attention: the cat must be fed, the coffee needs warming, the laundry had to be tossed into the dryer and the garbage can rolled to the street before the giant dump truck arrives. Now I need to remember to post this. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
March 9, 2014
Assets & Shortcomings
For decades now I’ve been fascinated by the assets and shortcomings that establish a personality. It’s only been in the past few years that I’ve come to realize these pluses and minuses are actually closely related. In fact, a positive trait can, in a heartbeat, become a deficiency. For the most part we’re not aware of when this change occurs--it simply does, sometimes as a function of age, often as the result of a particularly demanding life experience.
With that in mind, I started cataloguing the character traits we all possess, and their relationship to one another, good and bad. This is what I’ve come up so far. Any thoughts?
ASSETS SHORTCOMINGS
Am I: Or:
1. Passionate Obsessive
2. Assertive Aggressive
3. Honest Abusive
4. Responsible Controlling
5. Accepting Resigned
6. Factual Dramatic
7. Persevering Stubborn
8. Giving Victimized
9. Serene Ignorant
10. Solitary Isolationist
11. Hectic Chaotic
12. Trusting Expecting
13. Ethical Obstinate
14. Respectful Demanding
More and more, I’ve come to realize that most of us are complex amalgams of all of the above. This is simply a starter list and I’m sure not all will agree with it. I’d love to get your thoughts!
With that in mind, I started cataloguing the character traits we all possess, and their relationship to one another, good and bad. This is what I’ve come up so far. Any thoughts?
ASSETS SHORTCOMINGS
Am I: Or:
1. Passionate Obsessive
2. Assertive Aggressive
3. Honest Abusive
4. Responsible Controlling
5. Accepting Resigned
6. Factual Dramatic
7. Persevering Stubborn
8. Giving Victimized
9. Serene Ignorant
10. Solitary Isolationist
11. Hectic Chaotic
12. Trusting Expecting
13. Ethical Obstinate
14. Respectful Demanding
More and more, I’ve come to realize that most of us are complex amalgams of all of the above. This is simply a starter list and I’m sure not all will agree with it. I’d love to get your thoughts!
Assets & Shortcomings
For decades now I’ve been fascinated by the assets and shortcomings that establish a personality. It’s only been in the past few years that I’ve come to realize these pluses and minuses are actually closely related. In fact, a positive trait can, in a heartbeat, become a deficiency. For the most part we’re not aware of when this change occurs--it simply does, sometimes as a function of age, often as the result of a particularly demanding life experience. With that in mind, I started cataloguing the character traits we all possess, and their relationship to one another, good and bad. This is what I’ve come up so far. Any thoughts? ASSETS SHORTCOMINGS Am I: Or: Passionate ObsessiveAssertive AggressiveHonest AbusiveResponsible ControllingAccepting ResignedFactual DramaticPersevering StubbornGiving VictimizedSerene IgnorantSolitary IsolationistHectic ChaoticTrusting ExpectingEthical ObstinateRespectful Demanding More and more, I’ve come to realize that most of us are complex amalgams of all of the above. This is simply a starter list and I’m sure not all will agree with it. I’d love to get your thoughts! I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 27, 2014
Surgery No. 7
“Do you need to empty your bladder?”
No, but thanks. This is the seventh time I’m having surgery for a particularly resistant form of bladder cancer and I know the drill. Nothing to drink after midnight, which was nine hours ago.
“Do you need to empty your bladder?” This is another nurse, 15 minutes later. She is cute, Asian, smiling, and what she actually says is pladdah, as in do I need to empty my pladdah.
No, really. I don’t.
“Batroom ovah da,” she points down the hallway.
I am waiting for the surgeon to appear. We are friends by now, sort of. He knows my pladdah intimately well.
Surgery was supposed to be on Valentine’s Day but it snowed and the world shut down, which was too bad because I had written a little Valentine poem for him, which I was going to recite before the surgery.
I’m glad that I know you
I surely feel better
Secure in the thought
That you care for my bladder
The surgery was performed about five hours ago; it went well and the latest tumor was excised successfully. It was, I believe, non-cancerous, but I’ll find out for sure next week. All told, good news.
My friend P drove me to the clinic, then back after the procedure, and he too knows the drill.
I’m home now, feeling woozy. The anesthetic cocktail that knocked me out so the doctor could do his work contains opiates and Xanax, a frightful combination for someone who once used those drugs far too often. Now I am drinking quarts of liquid trying to flush them out of my system. It’s weird. I have taken neither opiates nor benzodiazepines in almost a quarter of a century, but my body fully remembers their effects and is telling me, “Yowzah! Party time! This is good!!!” But it’s not. The quicker these addictive substances are out of my system, the better, so I am ruthlessly chugging bottled water, espresso and fruit juice.
It’s gonna be OK.
I’ll get checked out again in a few months and who knows, maybe there won’t be a recurrence!
That would be neat.
No, but thanks. This is the seventh time I’m having surgery for a particularly resistant form of bladder cancer and I know the drill. Nothing to drink after midnight, which was nine hours ago.
“Do you need to empty your bladder?” This is another nurse, 15 minutes later. She is cute, Asian, smiling, and what she actually says is pladdah, as in do I need to empty my pladdah.
No, really. I don’t.
“Batroom ovah da,” she points down the hallway.
I am waiting for the surgeon to appear. We are friends by now, sort of. He knows my pladdah intimately well.
Surgery was supposed to be on Valentine’s Day but it snowed and the world shut down, which was too bad because I had written a little Valentine poem for him, which I was going to recite before the surgery.
I’m glad that I know you
I surely feel better
Secure in the thought
That you care for my bladder
The surgery was performed about five hours ago; it went well and the latest tumor was excised successfully. It was, I believe, non-cancerous, but I’ll find out for sure next week. All told, good news.
My friend P drove me to the clinic, then back after the procedure, and he too knows the drill.
I’m home now, feeling woozy. The anesthetic cocktail that knocked me out so the doctor could do his work contains opiates and Xanax, a frightful combination for someone who once used those drugs far too often. Now I am drinking quarts of liquid trying to flush them out of my system. It’s weird. I have taken neither opiates nor benzodiazepines in almost a quarter of a century, but my body fully remembers their effects and is telling me, “Yowzah! Party time! This is good!!!” But it’s not. The quicker these addictive substances are out of my system, the better, so I am ruthlessly chugging bottled water, espresso and fruit juice.
It’s gonna be OK.
I’ll get checked out again in a few months and who knows, maybe there won’t be a recurrence!
That would be neat.
Surgery No. 7
“Do you need to empty your bladder?” No, but thanks. This is the seventh time I’m having surgery for a particularly resistant form of bladder cancer and I know the drill. Nothing to drink after midnight, which was nine hours ago. “Do you need to empty your bladder?” This is another nurse, 15 minutes later. She is cute, Asian, smiling, and what she actually says is pladdah, as in do I need to empty my pladdah. No, really. I don’t. “Batroom ovah da,” she points down the hallway. I am waiting for the surgeon to appear. We are friends by now, sort of. He knows my pladdah intimately well. Surgery was supposed to be on Valentine’s Day but it snowed and the world shut down, which was too bad because I had written a little Valentine poem for him, which I was going to recite before the surgery. I’m glad that I know youI surely feel betterSecure in the thoughtThat you care for my bladder The surgery was performed about five hours ago; it went well and the latest tumor was excised successfully. It was, I believe, non-cancerous, but I’ll find out for sure next week. All told, good news. My friend P drove me to the clinic, then back after the procedure, and he too knows the drill. I’m home now, feeling woozy. The anesthetic cocktail that knocked me out so the doctor could do his work contains opiates and Xanax, a frightful combination for someone who once used those drugs far too often. Now I am drinking quarts of liquid trying to flush them out of my system. It’s weird. I have taken neither opiates nor benzodiazepines in almost a quarter of a century, but my body fully remembers their effects and is telling me, “Yowzah! Party time! This is good!!!” But it’s not. The quicker these addictive substances are out of my system, the better, so I am ruthlessly chugging bottled water, espresso and fruit juice. It’s gonna be OK. I’ll get checked out again in a few months and who knows, maybe there won’t be a recurrence! That would be neat. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 26, 2014
A Caddy? No Thanks
I have always hated television ads. Always. The more sophisticated the lie, the angrier I tend to get.
I suspect that, secretly, I’m embarrassed by my own gullibility--I actually purchased Sham-Wows several years ago. You remember Sham-Wows; a really unattractive man with a funny haircut talking a mile-a-minute about how his product could suck up 100 times its weight in water? They would save me thousands of dollars by replacing the single roll of paper towels I use up every week? Yes, those Sham-Wows.
Anyway. I found a recent Cadillac ad run during the Olympics to be particularly offensive and stupid, leaving me wondering who in the world would be taken in by the assumptions made.
You may have seen it. Good-looking grey-haired man in early middle-age is strolling through his (fabulous) home, tousling the hair of his attractive if androgynous offspring. He lectures as he walks, telling us why the American work ethics trumps all others, and informs us that other nations take all of the month of August off! Holy cow! How lazy and indolent can you get? Also, Americans got to the moon by not taking the month of August off, and left the moon because they got bored.
Me, I’m thinking this guy is a moron, a handsome moron, mind you, not only sadly uninformed about things like NASA budget cuts, but obviously ignorant of the recent research that shows the American work ethic:
1. has changed drastically in the past few years, and sadly, not for the better;
2. is generally not that healthy physically or emotionally, and
3. is considered by the majority of workers to be generally unrewarding.
After his chauvinistic soliloquy, the guy climbs into a Cadillac--his reward, I assume, for being incredibly ill-informed.
A Caddy? Really? That’s what we should aspire to for not taking vacation? Personally, were I a full-of-bucks executive making a half-a-mil-or-so a year, as the ad would like us to believe this particular guy is, I’d buy something better than a Caddy, a car that right now looks sort of like a luxury Toyota with fatter tires and better interior lighting. Give me an Aston-Martin, a high-end Mercedes, a Maserati, something with a little class and not completely mass-manufactured\, something with good resale value that will not lose 30 percent of its worth when driven off the lot;
Unless the guy is planning to buy a collection of white shoes and move to Florida. I suppose that’s a possibility.
I have a feeling this ad will backfire. It stupidly insults other cultures, talks down to potential buyers, misstates facts, and allows a glimpse at the type of smug and condescending American truly not much liked the world over
A Cadillac. Sheesh.
I suspect that, secretly, I’m embarrassed by my own gullibility--I actually purchased Sham-Wows several years ago. You remember Sham-Wows; a really unattractive man with a funny haircut talking a mile-a-minute about how his product could suck up 100 times its weight in water? They would save me thousands of dollars by replacing the single roll of paper towels I use up every week? Yes, those Sham-Wows.
Anyway. I found a recent Cadillac ad run during the Olympics to be particularly offensive and stupid, leaving me wondering who in the world would be taken in by the assumptions made.
You may have seen it. Good-looking grey-haired man in early middle-age is strolling through his (fabulous) home, tousling the hair of his attractive if androgynous offspring. He lectures as he walks, telling us why the American work ethics trumps all others, and informs us that other nations take all of the month of August off! Holy cow! How lazy and indolent can you get? Also, Americans got to the moon by not taking the month of August off, and left the moon because they got bored.
Me, I’m thinking this guy is a moron, a handsome moron, mind you, not only sadly uninformed about things like NASA budget cuts, but obviously ignorant of the recent research that shows the American work ethic:
1. has changed drastically in the past few years, and sadly, not for the better;
2. is generally not that healthy physically or emotionally, and
3. is considered by the majority of workers to be generally unrewarding.
After his chauvinistic soliloquy, the guy climbs into a Cadillac--his reward, I assume, for being incredibly ill-informed.
A Caddy? Really? That’s what we should aspire to for not taking vacation? Personally, were I a full-of-bucks executive making a half-a-mil-or-so a year, as the ad would like us to believe this particular guy is, I’d buy something better than a Caddy, a car that right now looks sort of like a luxury Toyota with fatter tires and better interior lighting. Give me an Aston-Martin, a high-end Mercedes, a Maserati, something with a little class and not completely mass-manufactured\, something with good resale value that will not lose 30 percent of its worth when driven off the lot;
Unless the guy is planning to buy a collection of white shoes and move to Florida. I suppose that’s a possibility.
I have a feeling this ad will backfire. It stupidly insults other cultures, talks down to potential buyers, misstates facts, and allows a glimpse at the type of smug and condescending American truly not much liked the world over
A Cadillac. Sheesh.
A Caddy? No Thanks
I have always hated television ads. Always. The more sophisticated the lie, the angrier I tend to get. I suspect that, secretly, I’m embarrassed by my own gullibility--I actually purchased Sham-Wows several years ago. You remember Sham-Wows; a really unattractive man with a funny haircut talking a mile-a-minute about how his product could suck up 100 times its weight in water? They would save me thousands of dollars by replacing the single roll of paper towels I use up every week? Yes, those Sham-Wows. Anyway. I found a recent Cadillac ad run during the Olympics to be particularly offensive and stupid, leaving me wondering who in the world would be taken in by the assumptions made. You may have seen it. Good-looking grey-haired man in early middle-age is strolling through his (fabulous) home, tousling the hair of his attractive if androgynous offspring. He lectures as he walks, telling us why the American work ethics trumps all others, and informs us that other nations take all of the month of August off! Holy cow! How lazy and indolent can you get? Also, Americans got to the moon by not taking the month of August off, and left the moon because they got bored. Me, I’m thinking this guy is a moron, a handsome moron, mind you, not only sadly uninformed about things like NASA budget cuts, but obviously ignorant of the recent research that shows the American work ethic:has changed drastically in the past few years, and sadly, not for the better; is generally not that healthy physically or emotionally, and is considered by the majority of workers to be generally unrewarding. After his chauvinistic soliloquy, the guy climbs into a Cadillac--his reward, I assume, for being incredibly ill-informed. A Caddy? Really? That’s what we should aspire to for not taking vacation? Personally, were I a full-of-bucks executive making a half-a-mil-or-so a year, as the ad would like us to believe this particular guy is, I’d buy something better than a Caddy, a car that right now looks sort of like a luxury Toyota with fatter tires and better interior lighting. Give me an Aston-Martin, a high-end Mercedes, a Maserati, something with a little class and not completely mass-manufactured\, something with good resale value that will not lose 30 percent of its worth when driven off the lot; Unless the guy is planning to buy a collection of white shoes and move to Florida. I suppose that’s a possibility. I have a feeling this ad will backfire. It stupidly insults other cultures, talks down to potential buyers, misstates facts, and allows a glimpse at the type of smug and condescending American truly not much liked the world over A Cadillac. Sheesh. I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man who had no hat.
February 17, 2014
Booooring
I am watching this year’s winter Olympics with a distressingly deep lack of interest. In fact, I am plainly bored by the spectacle of young men and women racing down hills at breakneck speed, cavorting in the air while wearing lethally sharp blades, or snowboarding and spinning mindlessly backwards while negotiating a man-made obstacle courses. Watching, of course, is a relative term. The TV set is on, the sound is not, and colors flitter by silently. I am reading a book and occasionally glancing up to see impossibly fit young athletes with names that have too many Ks and Ys in them, display skills that have no bearing in real life.
Never mind the basic hypocrisy of this year’s games, ringed as they are by a cordon sanitaire of machine-gun-wielding security forces, and held in one of the world’s most repressive country. Never mind Vladimir Putin, and his rendition of Strawberry Hill on YouTube. Never mind the terrorist threat, the Islamic Black Widows who, we are told, have infiltrated Sochi, the crappy and dangerous snow, the puerile new contests remindful of 1990 Nintendo video games. What I really object to is the provincialism of it all, the national chauvinism that pervades the broadcasts. It seems that, if there are no Americans participating, and preferably in a position to score medals, NBC will simply pretend an event doesn’t exist. As a result, unless I’m willing to stay glued to my set all day, I’m not going to see a lot of biathlon or curling, but I will be ice-danced to death. More so now than ever, it’s all about medal counts, and that’s boring too.
I don’t understand why viewers are no longer allowed to see the judges and the scores they give during ice-skating competition. Well, let me take that back. I do understand it has something to do with the 2002 Winter Games when a French judge cheated (the shame. The shame!) But still. Opaque judging is simply silly. Figure skating and scandal are Olympic synonyms. Bring back the judge who gives a perfect score to the skater from his country who has fallen three times during his performance. I want someone to boo at from time to time.
Here’s another whiff of silliness. Does winning a contest by mere hundredths of a second really show that one athlete is significantly better than another? In four years, the time-keeping technology will be such that it will be possible to accurately clock an event to the millionth of a second, which will allow the commentators to gush, “Imagine that, Brad! Three microseconds! Isn’t that thrilling?” Nah. Not really.
And here’s the last thing. All these young virile athletes are living together largely unsupervised. I want the dirt. I want to know who’s sleeping with whom. Give me gossip, innuendos, impropriety, and shameless behavior, for god’s sake! I live in America! I want to be entertained!
Never mind the basic hypocrisy of this year’s games, ringed as they are by a cordon sanitaire of machine-gun-wielding security forces, and held in one of the world’s most repressive country. Never mind Vladimir Putin, and his rendition of Strawberry Hill on YouTube. Never mind the terrorist threat, the Islamic Black Widows who, we are told, have infiltrated Sochi, the crappy and dangerous snow, the puerile new contests remindful of 1990 Nintendo video games. What I really object to is the provincialism of it all, the national chauvinism that pervades the broadcasts. It seems that, if there are no Americans participating, and preferably in a position to score medals, NBC will simply pretend an event doesn’t exist. As a result, unless I’m willing to stay glued to my set all day, I’m not going to see a lot of biathlon or curling, but I will be ice-danced to death. More so now than ever, it’s all about medal counts, and that’s boring too.
I don’t understand why viewers are no longer allowed to see the judges and the scores they give during ice-skating competition. Well, let me take that back. I do understand it has something to do with the 2002 Winter Games when a French judge cheated (the shame. The shame!) But still. Opaque judging is simply silly. Figure skating and scandal are Olympic synonyms. Bring back the judge who gives a perfect score to the skater from his country who has fallen three times during his performance. I want someone to boo at from time to time.
Here’s another whiff of silliness. Does winning a contest by mere hundredths of a second really show that one athlete is significantly better than another? In four years, the time-keeping technology will be such that it will be possible to accurately clock an event to the millionth of a second, which will allow the commentators to gush, “Imagine that, Brad! Three microseconds! Isn’t that thrilling?” Nah. Not really.
And here’s the last thing. All these young virile athletes are living together largely unsupervised. I want the dirt. I want to know who’s sleeping with whom. Give me gossip, innuendos, impropriety, and shameless behavior, for god’s sake! I live in America! I want to be entertained!
