Manhood Support Group: the Political Edition

I read this editorial a while back: The cheap collateral damage of sex scandals

Four boys for Steve McNair. Four boys for Mark Sanford. Four children for David Vitter. Three daughters for Eliot Spitzer. Three children for John Ensign. Three children for John Edwards. Three children for Kwame Kilpatrick. Those two dozen children are enough, without even reaching back a decade for Chelsea Clinton, to demonstrate the impressive swath of psychological destruction for the dalliances of dads.

Even assuming that we all make mistakes, it never ceases to boggle the mind how men, particularly those who stake out high moral ground in politics or build a pristine image in the community as athletes, lay waste to it all in an act of passion. …

And it just came to me that the Republican and Democratic National Committees should establish Manhood Support Groups just as the NFL is doing.

Of course, picking the right mentors will be important. Like, Bill Clinton isn’t the first guy you’d call ….

Yo, Dog: The Michael Vick Fan Club

Not.

Way too cute:

Reader Dog Photos

When the Vick dogfighting story broke I heard and read over and over that people needed to understand Vick’s background and his culture, which condoned dogfighting. That kind of “culture” I don’t need.

This is my culture: People who go ga-ga over puppies and poor Pakistanis who will help an American reporter search for her lost dog in Islamabad —

The Puppy Diaries

That soft fur, those floppy ears, that quizzical look that draws an “awww” from the most hardened cynic. Yes, puppies are cute.

They are also a project that can require the patience of Job and the stamina of the most selfless parent.

Puppies tie you down, drag you out for a walk even when it’s sleeting and sink their tiny teeth into your favorite shoes. They offer boundless love, granted unconditionally. They also provide their share of frustrations.

But in a nation where more than 45 million households own dogs as pets, raising a puppy has become an essential part of American life.

In a series of columns, Jill Abramson chronicles the ups and downs of a puppy’s first year. Scout, a golden retriever, arrived at the household in early June. Follow along through the columns, photographs and videos as she and her husband, Henry Griggs, take Scout from puppyhood to her first birthday.

Ahu & Me: A Dog Is Lost, Hope Is Found In Pakistan

The inhabitants were astonished and amused to see us, but they were neither rude nor threatening. Dirt-streaked boys surrounded us and eagerly took the fliers; shopkeepers listened politely to our story. “Madam, do not worry, we find your dog,” one old man selling a pile of eggplants promised gallantly.

Rashomon in Cambridge

And maybe with a side of testosterone, too.

Now, I’ve — I don’t know, not having been there and not seeing all the facts …

And while I have not read a whole lot about the situation I don’t see why I shouldn’t spout off on it. I mean, heck, everyone else is.

Indignant declarations abound regarding the situation between Henry Louis Gates, Jr. (aka: oppressed black man, uppity nigger, etc.) and Sgt. James Crowley (aka: law enforcement officer, racist white pig, etc.) President Obama chiming in didn’t help things. Yo, dude, sticking up for a pal is fine, but you’re the Prez. You gotta watch what you say.

Every word that comes out of your mouth, you’re responsible for.

(I always wondered what happened to Tony Kubek.)

I’m glad President Obama apologized for his comment. Some feel that he shouldn’t have, but considering that he made it without knowing the facts of the matter an apology was in order. Saying “my bad” doesn’t make him less of a man, it doesn’t mean he’s giving in to whitey.

(But since he didn’t actually use the word “apologize” did he really apologize? At least he didn’t give one of those lame If-I-offended-anyone-I-am-sorry nonapologetic apologies.)

I volunteer with an organization that provides services for the elderly. A while back my task was to deliver a Thanksgiving meal to a gentleman in the northeast section of town. The northeast section of town here is, to put it gently, the “bad” part of town. And — can I say this without sounding like a racist? — it’s the black part of town. I guess it does sound better if I say “The neighborhood has a high proportion of African Americans.” (That’s what I would write if I were writing for the New York Times.) At any rate, I’ve seen worse, like the South Bronx. But the northeast part of town here is where a lot of poor people live and consequently it is a neighborhood beset with a lot of crime. My initial reaction, upon learning where I was to deliver the dinner, was “Oh, great.” But I would be driving up there at about noon, so I figured “Hey, it’ll be broad daylight” and that made me feel safer. And as I drove to the man’s home on Thanksgiving I saw a police car a few blocks ahead of me and that made me feel safer, too. But then this thought came to me: “I wonder if the people who live in this neighborhood feel safer when they see a police car.”

I guess just about everyone’s awareness level goes up when they see a police car in their neighborhood. I know mine does. Heck, it means that something is going on. But I’ve never had a bad experience with the police, so seeing a police officer doesn’t raise my hackles. I feel secure knowing that if something indeed is going on then there’s a police officer nearby. I certainly don’t know what it’s like to live in fear of the police, as seems to be the case for many minorities.

So I can’t say I truly understand what Professor Gates felt when he came face-to-face with Sgt. Crowley. And never having been in such a situation where I am face-to-face with a very mad guy I can’t say I understand what Sgt. Crowley felt. The only people who know what happened are those two men. And, as Dowd mentions in her column, what the two men “know” about the situation is filtered through the prisms of race, class, and testosterone.

And as Rashomon shows, no one really does “know.”

(It looks like the whole movie is posted here. If you’ve never seen it before, you really should.)

The Testosterone Follies

In the N.F.L., What It Means to Be a Man:

We are clueless as far as what manhood really is.

I didn’t realize it was such a mystery.

I mean, every season — every NFL season, every NBA season — you hear athletes declare: “I’m a man.”

I don’t recall ever hearing golfers say it. Or tennis players.

For the first time, two N.F.L. teams — the Giants and the Baltimore Ravens — have instituted player-driven mentorship programs in which rookies are paired with a team of veterans. The idea is that the veterans will shepherd young players through the minefield as if they were younger brothers and even sons. This means sharing triumphs and failures, painful experiences and embarrassments, and generally engaging in a level of discourse that is rare, not simply among athletes, but between men.

OK, so it’s not a bad idea.

But the idea that they even have to have Manhood Support Groups is pretty sad.

Still, a Manhood Support Group may have:

• Kept Michael Vick from bankrolling a dogfighting ring
• Made Pacman Jones understand that making it rain was a bad idea
• Led Plaxico Burress to understand that sticking a gun into the waistband of his sweatpants was not a prudent maneuver
• Made Michael Phelps think twice before taking a hit from that bong (Maybe swimmers need a Manhood Support Group, too)

So, hey, if it works, great.

But pick those mentors carefully. Steve McNair seemed like quite a leader and a good role model, a family man with four children. But then he was murdered — by his 20-year-old girlfriend.

Yikes ….

Keith in Coventry?

Natalie R wrote in Sent to Coventry:

Where is Keith Olbermann…they say he has “the night off”. didn’t he just have a vacation…I worry he is sick or the suits are giving him a hard time. He is irreplaceable and Schuster is anemic. WE NEED KEITH get him back.

I will note that he has made recent posts to Baseball Nerd, so while KO has been gone from “Countdown” he hasn’t gone far. Probably not as far as Coventry.

KO has a lot of fans, and I am one of them. But I’m more a fan of the Sports Keith than the News Keith. I’ve never really cared for “Countdown” (is that blasphemous, or what?) and really miss him doing sports. Which is why I like his Baseball Nerd blog so much.

I grew up watching Walter Cronkite doing the CBS News and thus am used to the news straight-up. Not as entertainment, not delivered by a “personality,” just the news. Oh, of course the anchors had a personality and I realize that the news is never truly unadulterated by the network or writer or anchor. But the news was just the news in those days. And it pretty much still is, as far as the network news goes. “Countdown,” “The Daily Show,” Bill O’Reilly … Those are news-y but from a particular angle with a lot of commentary. Which is fine. If it floats your boat, have at it. But me, I like plain news. Vanilla news. Keith is pistachio, he is fudge twirl. With whipped cream and a cherry on top.

Several weeks ago I saw an item in the news that Walter Cronkite had been hospitalized. That made my heart leap, but he’d been released and so I felt better. But then one night I was following a Mets game on John Delcos’ blog and someone mentioned that Cronkite had died. Gosh, my heart sank. I checked the New York Times’ Web site and there it was on the homepage: Walter Cronkite, 92, Dies; Trusted Voice of TV News.

92 is a nice age and it sounds like he had a great life. But in certain ways it seems like he left too soon. Or maybe it’s just my feeling that he would be around forever.

Sent to Coventry

I love the turn of a good phrase and love stumbling upon gems, and I was rewarded with both as I came to the end of George Vecsey’s column in the Times:

Meantime, Michael Vick is legally entitled to earn a living. I cannot find it in myself to say he should never have another chance in the N.F.L., given some of the characters who have run afoul of the law without being suspended. Whenever Goodell gets around to clearing him — and what’s wrong with making him sweat a few more weeks? — club owners are going to be wary of the reaction from animal lovers, and the owners will remember what happened at the Bad Newz Kennels. Vick has put himself in Coventry. At least until a few quarterbacks go down.

    — Michael Vick’s Big Mistake, and It Wasn’t Dogfighting

I had absolutely no idea what the reference to Coventry meant, so of course I had to click the link.

Sent to Coventry

Meaning
To be ignored or shunned.

Origins
The origins of this phrase aren’t known, although it is quite probable that events in Coventry in the English Civil War in the 1640s play a part. For those not familiar with the UK, Coventry is an industrial city in Warwickshire, England. It is well-known for its two cathedrals; the modern cathedral being built in 1962 to replace the old cathedral, which had been destroyed during an intense German bombing raid 1940.

In the 17th century, when this phrase is supposed to have originated, Coventry was a small town. It is suggested that the phrase, although we now use it in an allusory sense, originated from people being actually sent there.

The story – and it is no more than that – is that Cromwell sent a group of Royalist soldiers to be imprisoned in Coventry, around 1648. The locals, who were parliamentary supporters, shunned them and refused to consort with them. …

Thank you, George Vecsey, for introducing me to such a great phrase. Even though I am rather sick of the Michael Vick story (the title of this one was intriguing and got me to read it, and seeing that it was authored by Vecsey didn’t hurt, either) I was glad I read it just to learn about Coventry.

It was 40 years ago today

The local classical station has been playing moon-themed music in honor of the Apollo 11 moon landing 40 years ago. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when it happened. I’ve always had a thing for the moon and I wonder if the space program has anything to do with it. NASA was a constant news item back in the day when I was growing up. Nowadays hardly anyone notices news about the space station or the space shuttle, unless there is some horrible accident.

At any rate, here is my homage to the moon, Apollo 11, and the entire U.S. space program:

La Lune Brille Pour Toi

Fermes les yeux
Et laisses les étoiles
S’accrocher à tes doigts
Comme des papillons, mon amour
La nuit est belle
Approches-toi de moi
Ouvres grand tes ailes
La lune est telle un ange
Veille sur toi

Si tu as peur d’apprendre à voler
Les battements de mon coeur
Disent je suis tout près
J’ai demandé un ciel parfait
Pour que tu puisses enfin rever
Fermes les yeux
La nuit sera ton amie

Sens comme le vent
Caresse ton visage
Gageons que le temps
Ne soit juste qu’un mirage
La nuit est belle
Approches-toi de moi
On ne voit plus qu’elle
La lune, mon amour
Brille pour toi

Fermes les yeux
Et laisses les étoiles
Briller de tout leurs feux
Comme d’immenses soleils, mon amour
La nuit est belle
Approches-toi de moi
Ouvres grand tes ailes
C’est toi, mon amour
Qui brille pour moi

C’est toi mon amour
Qui brille pour moi

———————————————
The Moon Shines for You

Close your eyes
And let the stars
Hook themselves to your fingers
Like butterflies, my love
The night is beautiful (pretty)
Come close to me
Open your wings
The moon is like an angel
Looks over you

If you’re afraid to learn how to fly
The beats of my heart
Say I’m near
I’ve asked a perfect sky
So that you can finally dream
Close your eyes
The night will be your friend

Feel how the wind
Caress your face
Wager that time
Is only a mirage
The night is beautiful (pretty)
Come close to me
We only see her
The moon, my love
Shines for you

Close your eyes
And let the stars
Shine of all their fire*
Like huge suns, my love
The night is beautiful (pretty)
Come close to me
Open wide your wings
It’s you, my love
Who shine for me

It’s you my love
Who shine for me

* “de tout leurs feux” is an expression meaning “bright”

4 + 1

I’m still working on mastering the art of the short, pithy post.

Actually, a lot of short, pithy ideas occur to me. It’s just a matter of finding the time to get something written and posted.

At any rate, I searched YouTube yesterday for a nice version of this song. I saw one that I liked, but now I can’t find it. But this one is dang good.

In other news:

I have had some short, pithy, and rather snarky thoughts on the whole Michael Jackson brouhaha. But the man is dead, for crying out loud. Plenty of snark is being flung about over it; I don’t feel the need to contribute to it.

Great Wimbledon men’s singles final today. I wanted Roger Federer to win, but I didn’t want Andy Roddick to lose. OK, so call me wishy-washy. Roddick has one major to his name (the U.S. Open a while back) and his resume is thin compared to Federer’s. But the man exhibits great sportsmanship and is fine gentleman.

Ditto Robin Soderling, who lost to Federer at the French Open. What a wonderful speech and post-match interview he gave at Roland Garros. Right after losing to Federer. After all the hand-wringing over LeBron James’ behavior after the Cleveland Cavaliers lost to the Orlando Magic in the NBA playoffs did anyone notice that in tennis the championship match losers remain on court to receive their trophy and address the spectators? And how gracious they are? And how the fans listen respectfully? Roddick looked like he was about to break down and cry today. Federer cried after losing to Rafael Nadal in this year’s Australian Open championship match.

The macho athlete likes to remind us “I’m a man.” Like we don’t have eyes. But they are not men. Oh sure, they have the Y chromosome and the associated male body parts and probably a lot of testosterone in their bloodstream. But they are not men. They are poseurs.