Idyll of the Prince

Idyll of the Prince

(Legend of Yuzuru Hanyu)

On Ice

O, young Yuzuru, when did Chione search

The plains of Sendai for a fragile soul

And strengthen it with cords of oak and birch

To send it forth upon an icy knoll?

And when upon this knoll did she bestow

Her blesséd gifts of fortitude and grace --

With patience for the wintry skills that grow

From hardships trimmed by virtue’s soft embrace?

A coruscating light ignites our time

With spins and turns and monumental leaps

With feats of artful elegance sublime

With grand jetés and arching, rink-long sweeps.

No man has graced the ice more fit or fair

Than young Yuzuru, prince of ice and air.  

On Air
 

Does strength propel Yuzuru to the sky?

Can confidence sufficiently defeat

A hundred windward forces to reply

In tilted turns where ice and vapor meet?

Does skill alone effect a faultless jump?

Is work sufficient for a flawless spin?

Are labor's tireless schemes enough to trump

The tread and toil of others groomed to win?

For noble gifts belong to others, too

(They aren’t restricted to a narrow lot)

And laurels of achievement will accrue

To those who struggle for the highest spot.

No, something even greater lies beyond

The valor witnessed on a frozen pond.

On Earth

Perhaps the answer lies across the rink

In shadows that demark the ice’s edge

Where sits a silent boy inclined to think

Of things he might not otherwise allege.

Not lofty things that lesser men would seize:

Medallions cast in silver, bronze, and gold

(For he, himself, has earned enough of these

To satisfy ambitions young and old).

But just to gaze upon the handsome prince

And have the gaze endearingly returned

And in that moment feel the frost evince

A universe of gilded joy unearned.

From Javier’s glance, a lesson to recall:

That life is love, and love uplifts us all.

A World No Less Sublime

Reflections on the events of winter 2007.

December is a good month to attend on the wards. Patients arrive with their respiratory ailments, and students discover unfamiliar lung sounds.  In thirteen years of teaching at the University of Oklahoma, I never complained about a December assignment, but this December was testing my resolve.

Winter was raging throughout the Great Plains, and Oklahoma was reeling from the icy assault.
Roads were empty, trees were broken, and neighbor-hoods, severed from power, were dark. At OU Medical Center, however, lights were aglow, bringing the sick to refuge from the seemingly Siberian cold. The city hibernated, but life in our medical fortress prevailed.

The weather had little effect on my mood because the month was going well:  The students were sharp, the residents were hard-working, and the nurses were accommodating. When time allowed, we reveled in "ice stories," never realizing that the most provocative story would be eclipsed by an intimate tale.

It began one morning during a break in the storm. I was scrubbing my head in the shower when I noticed my right arm faltering. I felt no pain or weakness and finished bathing without incident. That day at the hospital, I felt fine and later swam and lifted weights without difficulty. But the next morning, I found myself inexplicably using both hands to shave and brush my teeth.

I arranged to see my doctor but quickly postponed the appointment when the storm resurged. Several large trees had collapsed in the yard. I spent the weekend cutting, lifting, and removing debris. My arm held up well.

The following week, however, a colleague, seeing me walk, remarked that my arm was not swinging normally. Soon, I began having trouble writing prescriptions. And then, the coup the grace: While demonstrating a simple exercise to a patient -- the "itsy, bitsy spider" climbing the wall-- I struggled to move my fingers.

I visited my doctor that afternoon. He listened patiently and through careful examination tried to solve the mystery. He asked me to tap my fingers:  My right hand was slow and awkward. He checked alternating hand movements: The result was the same. Then, a final test:  foot-tapping. I expected this to be normal because I had no trouble running.  Astonishingly, my right foot faltered.

He looked at me sympathetically and said, "Your strength is fine."  Then cautiously, as if trying to avoid notice, he said, "Your findings are extrapyramidal. They are consistent ... with ... Parkinson's."

There was silence. I gazed at my feet. After a few moments, I tried tapping again. There was no change. One thought consumed me: I am only 45 years old.

Could Dr. Parkinson have foreseen the anguish his genial name would evoke? I canceled my clinic, drove home, and spent the evening staring at a wall. Every sound was magnified—the howling wind, the ticking clock. Breathless and bewildered, I imagined a bleak future. The struggle had begun; I was locked in health care's ravenous embrace. How would it end? Did I have disability insurance? Long-term care insurance? I was desolate. A happy life had ended without eulogy.  For two days, I ate and slept little.

Then came the day of my appointment with Dr. Bharucha, a neurologist who specialized in movement disorders. I arrived early and sat in the waiting room, reflecting on the stealth of my disease. When had it arrived? Was it a year ago, when my agility at the piano first declined? Or a month later, when "decon-ditioning" led me to the gym?

A nurse called my name and led me to the examination room.  She checked my vitals, scribbled a note, and left.  I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall.

Within minutes, Dr. Bharucha entered the room, presumably on a cat's paw.  He walked so softly that I barely noticed his arrival. He clung to his papers in one hand and to an old, black doctor's bag in the other. Placing them on a table, he turned slowly and, seeing me, smiled and gently nodded.

He was maybe in his early 50s and of medium build. His face was genteel; his eyes, though dark, were subdued. He squinted often, though the light was dim. A crescent of short, black hair marked the perimeter of his pate. He seemed comfortable in his gray wool jacket and monochrome tie. I tried to picture him in a starched, white coat, but could not: The angularity was off-putting.

He sat on a stool and rested his hands in his lap. Then he began to speak—slowly, sparingly. I could not place his accent, but it enriched the lush cadence of his voice. He asked for my story, which I gave in detail. He was motionless throughout the telling. When I finished, he stood and approached me. His movements were slow and deliberate.

During the physical, my attention veered toward his remarkably placid manner. He was so quiet. Afterward, he spoke in almost a whisper. His voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. His words, impeccably molded, seemed spaced to poetic meter. Occasionally, he would clear his throat, but with a discretion that left the lilt of his voice undisturbed.

He spoke of diet, exercise, rest, and medicine, but mainly he spoke encouragingly. Parkinson's disease was treatable. Medicine had greatly improved lives. The outlook was continually getting better. His words were anodyne; his manner, even more so. There was an irresistible timelessness about him. He was decidedly unmodern. And as he spoke -- and paused -- the gloom slowly lifted. Only serenity remained.

I left his office relieved—but why? Surely doctors are immune to the consolations of their own physicians. We do, after all, know the tricks of the trade. Are we so easily charmed by word and manner?

Driving home, I looked at the city. The storm had ended and the clean-up had begun. Mountains of debris were being removed, and power lines were being repaired. I turned on the radio and listened to the politicians trading banalities. As usual, "hope" was being dispensed as a balm for the nation's ills. I was accustomed to ignoring such talk. But not today. Hope -- even in the abstract—was tangible, measurable, sustaining.

Arriving home, I rushed to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and like Lazarus reborn, devoured everything. Replenished, I entered the library and pulled a book of poems from the shelf. Therein I discovered Tennyson's In Memoriam A.H.H., an elegy to a lost friend. I spent the evening lost in Tennyson's grand nostalgic vision. As my eyes tired, I turned to music. An old symphonic recording not heard in years occupied the same shelf. I put it on. The pathos was wrenching, despair ending in triumph. Finally, I turned to the window and opened the blinds. The clouds had receded and the room erupted in a glorious display of iridescent light. The moment transcended time and circumstance.

What had begun in hopeful silence had ended in epiphany—in the blissful and startling realization that a phrase was no less stirring, a melody no less radiant, a sunset no less sublime because of my affliction.

I opened the book of poems again and immersed myself in the inspired oration of Tennyson's Ulysses:

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,—
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Night had arrived. I crept into bed. The room glimmered with the sparkle of icicles beneath the eaves. Yesterday had brought despair; tomorrow might bring the same. But today, we were what we were: serene and content to have savored the joys of a bounteous world, and now to slip dreamily into God's wistful embrace.

Christmas and the Evil of Amazon.com

It was December 2006. I was enjoying a holiday lunch with my friends at the clinic. We were sitting around a beautifully decorated table covered with delicious items. Everyone was happy. We talked about our holiday plans. Toward the end of the meal, we talked about movies.

Someone asked me to name my favorite Christmas movie. I said Scrooge, the musical featuring Albert Finney and Alec Guinness. Everyone agreed this was a fine film. We then went around the table, each person naming his favorite movie. To my surprise, everyone's favorite was A Christmas Story, a movie I had not seen. When I mentioned that I hadn't seen it, my colleagues were dumbfounded. A nurse said, "I'm sure you've seen the movie. Maybe you've just forgotten." I explained that I rarely see movies. The dietician said, "You probably don't recognize the title. It's about a young boy who wants a BB Gun for Christmas." I replied that, sadly, I had not seen the movie. The physical therapist said, "But Dr. Blevins, it's a Christmas classic!"

Torrents of sympathy came my direction. My colleagues pitied me. The receptionist offered to lend me her DVD.  Then the social worker had an idea: One of the cable stations would be having a 24-hour movie marathon on Christmas Eve. A Christmas Story would be showing all day. I could watch it then. "That's great," I said. "I promise I'll watch it." Everyone was delighted, and I looked forward to an enjoyable evening. 

Two weeks passed and Christmas Eve arrived. I opened the TV Guide. Sure enough, one of the cable stations was having back-to-back showings. So I stretched out on the couch and watched the movie.

It was the worst movie I'd ever laid eyes on!


Here's a synopsis.

Ralphie is a nine-year old boy who lives in northern Indiana. He wants a BB gun for Christmas. His father is an asshole; his mother is a loser. He lives in a town populated by horrible children, horrible teachers, a horrible Santa Claus, and horrible elves. At the end of the movie, he gets the BB gun.

Consider yourself informed.  

I was stunned. How could my colleagues be so deluded? How could they have plunged me into this cinematic inferno? I was nauseated and angry. I didn't mind wasting two hours on a bad movie, but I did mind wasting those hours on Christmas Eve. Before watching the movie, I had been enjoying a lovely holiday. Now I was filled with revulsion.

Inexplicably, many of the movie's images have become iconic. In one scene, Ralphie's father is infatuated with a lamp shaped like a lady's leg. Today you can buy that lamp on ebay. Another scene shows a young boy with his tongue stuck to an icy pole.  This passes for Christmas humor!

    

The movie is considered an American classic -- and it is a classic, in the hemorrhoidal sense of the word. It abounds in cruelty and abuse. So why do people like it? Because instead of giving Christmas a glossy finish, it depicts the world "realistically." That's right, folks: peace and joy are no longer realistic; they are the products of a senile mind. Evil, by contrast, titillates the post-modern cortex, seducing us into the nihilistic horror of our dismal world. Well, I say "two thumbs down." The movie is deplorable and a desecration of Christmas.

Sickened by the movie, I decided to do something I had never done before: write a review on amazon.com. I turned on my computer and went to amazon. To my surprise, 300 reviews had already been written -- and all were glowing! I wrote a scathing review, not expecting anyone to find it, but that didn't matter: I wanted to vent by anger. After publishing it, I turned off my computer and went to bed.

On Christmas Day, I turned on my computer to check my review. To my astonishment, twenty people had already commented on it -- and all of them wanted to kill me. One wanted to drive a knife through my liver. Another wanted to drown me. A third wanted to pour acid down my throat. In twenty-four hours I had become the most hated man on amazon.com.

Never before had I been treated so insolently. I couldn't let these attacks go unanswered, so I inveighed against my tormentors. I attacked them ferociously, even threatening their pets. This led to a counter-insurgency. By the time Christmas was over, I was a certified cyber-felon.

Since that day, Christmas has been a living hell: I wake up, go to church, come home, and spew electronic bile on my enemies. This is not what Christmas was meant to be.

So today I'm throwing in the towel. That's right: I'm giving up. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of wasting my time online. Above all, I'm tired of behaving like a monster. I used to be warm and kind. I want to go back to being good again.

So here are my final words on A Christmas Story. Henceforth I shall remain silent on the subject.

---

  

If you like A Christmas Story and are tolerant of those who don't, thank you. I'm glad you like the movie. I want you to be happy. Just because I didn't like it doesn't mean you shouldn't. Maybe I'm wrong about the movie. In any case, I'm glad it has brought joy to millions.

If you'd like to discuss the movie with me, I welcome the opportunity. Let's have an honest and civil debate. As the President often says, we can disagree without being disagreeable.

BUT ... if you want to hang, quarter, and disembowel me for not liking this movie, then I hope that one night -- while dreams of sugar-plum fairies are dancing in your head -- an evil elf will break into your room, wrap your tongue around an icy pole, and shove a loaded BB gun up your colon, just long enough for Jesus Christ to crack your frickin' skull open with a leg lamp -- because that's exactly how I felt as I watched this execrable film.

To everyone else, may the blessings of peace, love, and joy be with you and your family -- today and all the years to come.

America Needs a New Anthem

  

America has a rich musical heritage.

Consider the adaptations of Protestant hymns -- the Negro spirituals -- that gave birth to blues, jazz, and gospel.  Consider "pop" music, beginning with Tin Pan Alley and ragtime luminaries like Scott Joplin. Consider jazz, born in New Orleans, which led to such greats as Louis Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie. Consider country music, a fusion of African-American blues and Appalachian folk music, raised to prominence by Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. Consider "soul," a combination of R&B and gospel, which produced Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin. Consider Rock & Roll, evangelized by Elvis Presley before the "British Invasion."

And look at the European classical music tradition in America. Czech composer, Antonin Dvorak, inspired American composers to create a distinctively American style. George Gershwin attracted enormous international attention with his unique, jazz-related style. And Aaron Copland brought immortality to American folk tunes.

So why does a nation with such a rich musical heritage tolerate the Star-Spangled Banner as its national anthem? The Star-Spangled Banner is musically and lyrically bankrupt. (Liberals and conservatives should agree on this. Even the late William F. Buckley, Jr., father of American conservatism, hated the anthem.)

Let's examine the first stanza. (There are four! Who knew?)

          Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
          What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
          Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
          O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
          And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
          Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
          Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
          O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Here are just some of the problems:

• Syntax. The anthem is studded with prepositional phrases that disrupt sentence flow. One wonders if they were inserted to fill musical space. Predicates often precede subjects. (The only person I know who speaks this way is Yoda). And there are three -- count them, three -- questions in the first stanza. An anthem should be declarative not inquisitive. 
• Pitch. The first four lines are sung with huge fluctuations in pitch, which is fine if you're a coloratura soprano, but dangerous if you're drinking beer at a football game.
• Accents. The lyrics and music are discordant. Consider "the bombs" in the fifth line. When spoken, the emphasis naturally falls on "bombs," but musically, the accent falls on "the."  Articles should not be accented.

Clearly, America needs a new anthem. Here are three options.

• Choose a familiar, traditional song. The best would be America the Beautiful, which stands leagues above the Star-Spangled Banner.  (Frankly, I prefer Shenandoah, but regional songs don't make good anthems).
• Commission a new work.  Why not ask John Williams to compose a new song? He composed the music to Star Wars. You want "bombs bursting in air?" Get John Williams. He's blown up whole galaxies. 
• Capitulate. Admit that our musical culture has hit rock bottom and go with gangsta rap (e.g. 2Pac's I Don't Give a Fuck)

Of course, Americans won't rid themselves of the Star-Spangled Banner, so there's only one real option: Keep the anthem and orchestrate the hell out of it. Even the worst song can be orchestrated into something palatable, even beautiful.

And that's exactly what happened in Atlanta, 1991, when Whitney Houston sang the National Anthem during the Super Bowl. Houston's stunning voice, combined with a magnificent orchestration, transformed an abysmal anthem into a musical masterpiece.

May this extraordinary rendition of the Star-Spangled Banner be the beginning of a peaceful, joyous, and patriotic holiday.

Whitney Houston and the National Anthem 

My Interview with Saturn Smith

When Saturn Smith was convicted of aggravated assault last week, a pall was cast on OS.  Saturn was the smart and savvy journalist who kept us in touch with the world. I am grateful to her for granting me this exclusive interview. My prayers are with her and her family.

---

 
STEVE:  Thank you so much, Saturn. I know this is a difficult time.

SATURN:  Thank you, Steve. I appreciate the invitation.

STEVE:  Let's start at the beginning for those who may not be familiar with your writing. You write for Open Salon.

SATURN:  That's right.

STEVE:  When did you start?

SATURN:  August 2008.

STEVE:  What type of writing do you do?

SATURN:  Mainly news and politics. I try to focus on the big issues of the day.

STEVE:  You're an excellent writer, Saturn -- knowledgeable and insightful. How many articles have you written?

SATURN:  72,653.

STEVE:  Remarkable. As a writer, you were at the top of your game. What happened?

SATURN:  Well, things were going well until Obama's trip to Cairo.

STEVE:  What happened?

SATURN:  I just didn't feel like writing. I had already written extensively about the Middle East and I just didn't feel like covering the whole thing again.

STEVE:  So what did you do?

SATURN:  I decided to focus on health care -- specifically, Obama's speech to the American Medical Association.

STEVE:  And?

SATURN:  I had written so many articles about health care that I just didn't want to write another one. So I decided to turn instead to the unrest in Iran.

STEVE:  Okay.

SATURN:  But I had written so much about Iran that the topic just didn't interest me. That's when I realized: I had written about every single topic known to man.

STEVE:  That can't be, Saturn.

SATURN:  It is.

STEVE:  Well, did you consider writing about some esoteric subject?

SATURN:  Like what?

STEVE:  Well...like...maybe...the matriarchal social structure of the Choctaw Indians?

SATURN:  I've done that.

STEVE:  Well, what about the importance of cobalt to Burundi's economy?

SATURN:  Done that.

STEVE:  Stendhal's realism in La Chartreuse de Parme?

SATURN:  Check.

STEVE:  Wow. I can't imagine what it's like to exhaust human knowledge. Were you sad?

SATURN:  Not really. I was actually looking forward to a little break from OS and spending some time with my family.

STEVE:  Did you take a break?

SATURN:  Yes. We had a wonderful weekend. We watched movies, ate pizza, and got lots of rest. It
was the following week that things fell apart.

STEVE:  What happened?

SATURN:  Well, I clicked on OS one morning and instead of writing, I decided to read.

STEVE:  Dear God. Why?

SATURN:  I just thought it would be nice to see what others were writing.

STEVE:  And?

SATURN:  I read about people's psychotic breakdowns, divorces, suicidal thoughts, sexual abuses, sadistic dreams, evil parents, cruel spouses, drugged-out children, and dying pets.

STEVE:  Oh my.

SATURN:  At first I didn't think it would affect me, but it did.

STEVE:  How?

SATURN:  I didn't want to leave the house anymore. I was depressed. I didn't care about hygiene, my family, or anything. Instead of reading Keats, I read Kafka. Instead of listening to Mozart, I listened to 2pac. Soon I was drinking, cussing, and calling my husband a nazi-chauvinist.

STEVE:  I'm so sorry, Saturn. Why didn't you email me? I would have given you a list of inspirational writers at OS.

SATURN:  I trusted the editors.

STEVE:  I'm so sorry, Saturn. You do know that there are many uplifting writers at OS, don't you?  Even I have been known to put a smile on people's faces!

SATURN:  Well, I try to keep my reading above a third-grade level.

STEVE:   I see.  So what happened next?

SATURN:  Things spiraled out of control. I began to see the world as maniacal -- a place occupied by cruel, selfish people, governed by sadistic tyrants who denigrate the soulless hordes until their suffering is so exquisite and unbearable that there's nothing left but to collapse on the ground, screaming and writhing, forever cursing a vengeful God who reigns over a hollow universe that reverberates with the heart-rending echo of interminable anguish and despair.

STEVE:  Wow. When I feel that way, I just eat ice cream.

SATURN:  OS showed me the world's ass, and I welcomed it. My rage mounted until one afternoon at Costco I spun out of control and clobbered an old lady who wished me "good day."

STEVE:  That's awful!  But, Saturn, our world isn't that bleak. There's also love, beauty, and laughter.

SATURN:  Grotesque, maniacal laughter.

STEVE:  No, Saturn. Genuine, heartfelt laughter.

SATURN:  Really?

STEVE:  Really.

SATURN:  How do you know?

STEVE:  Because I read 1IMom, shaggylocks, and Sheldon. They speak of a different world -- one with hope and joy.

SATURN:  So there's light at the end of the tunnel?

STEVE:  Well, not your tunnel, because you've committed aggravated assault. But there is light in most places.

SATURN:  (Pauses). You know, Steve...this may sound strange...but I actually feel better about the world after listening to you, even though I've messed up my own life.

STEVE:  Saturn, incarceration doesn't have to be a dead end. It can be an opportunity.

SATURN:  How's that?

STEVE:  Well, you say you've written about everything, right?

SATURN:  Right.

STEVE:  Have you written about the misery of living in a women's penitentiary?

SATURN:  Well...come to think of it...no, I haven't.

STEVE:  You see? Your literary career isn't over. It's about to blossom!

SATURN:  (Jubilant). I never thought of it that way. You know, you're right: This IS an opportunity -- a great opportunity. Thank you so much, Steve. You're a ray of sunshine! I'm going to start writing right away. Gee, I hope the editors will like my new angle.

STEVE:  Oh, they will, Saturn. Trust me, they will.

Travel-Size Toiletries Bring Out the Woman in Me

  

Air travel is complicated. There are many regulations. The worst involve carry-on luggage. Nowadays all toiletries (liquids, gels, and creams) must be kept in 3-ounce containers and transported in a clear plastic zip-top bag. 

Last week, in preparation for a trip to D.C., I went to Walmart to buy a 3-ounce tube of tooth-paste. To my surprise, there was an entire aisle of travel-size toiletries.

I found a 3-ounce tube of Crest and took it to the check-out counter.  As I pulled out my wallet, the sales clerk looked at me and said, "That's a cute little tube of toothpaste."

  

I paid for the item and returned to my car. On the way, I thought to myself: What a strange thing to say.

(Aside: You probably can't tell from my avatar, but I'm slightly nerdy.  In high school, I was known as "dweeb." In college, people called me "Oliver Twist."  I wear thick glasses, have a high-pitched voice, and sneeze when the ragweed is high. I'm very sensitive about being "unmanly.")

As I drove home, I thought about the clerk. Was he making fun of me? I couldn't get it out of my mind, so I decided to go back to Walmart the next day to find out.

When I arrived, the same clerk was at the counter. I went to the toiletries section and picked up a 3-ounce bottle of Scope. I placed in on the counter and pulled out my wallet.

He greeted me and said, "What a darling little bottle of mouthwash." I payed for the item and glanced at him before leaving. There was a smirk on his face!

I was angry. Still, I didn't want to impugn him without stronger evidence, so I decided to give him one more chance.

I returned to Walmart the next day and found him at the counter. Picking up a 3-ounce bottle of Johnson's baby shampoo, I proceeded to check out.

The clerk greeted me. I paid for the item and he handed me change saying "What an adorable little bottle of shampoo."

I was furious!

I may not be the smartest, strongest, or handsomest guy in Walmart, but nobody makes fun of Steve Martin Blevins! I was determined to have my revenge, so I came up with a plan.

The next day I went back to Walmart and picked up some travel-size items. Waiting for the customers to clear, I approached my tormentor. I placed the items on the counter and began to speak in a soft, sweet voice.

"Good evening, sir. I'd like to buy this cute little bottle of toothpaste, this darling little bottle of mouthwash, and this adorable little bottle of shampoo."

"Alrighty," he replied, sacking the items.

"Oh, and I almost forgot -- I'd also like to buy (now yelling):

 THIS HUGE ASSORTMENT OF TROJAN CONDOMS, YOU MUTHAFUCKA!"
 

My voice echoed from Housewares to Automotive. The clerk was terrified. He jumped back and tripped over a box. As he fell, his foot hit a shelf, which shook the counter and caused the toiletries to fall all around him.  Little plastic bottles were bouncing everywhere.

He gazed at me as if I were a ghost.

"Why are you yelling at me? What did I do?"

I glared at him and guffawed.

"Let that be a lesson to you! Nobody makes fun of..."

But before I could finish, I noticed something unusual: a tiny scar on his upper lip. Being a doctor, I knew exactly what it was: a old surgical scar from cleft palate surgery. 

Suddenly it occurred to me: His smirk wasn't a smirk. It was a deformity caused by childhood surgery!  

I was embarrassed beyond belief. All I could think of was getting out of Walmart -- fast.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, barely looking him in the eye. 

He glowered, picked up the toiletries, threw them in a sack, and thrust the sack in my face. I grabbed it and rushed to the car without looking back.

There I sat with my head on the steering wheel. What a terrible thing I had done! I really was a dweeb. Only a dweeb would worry about a stranger's opinion.

At that moment, I made a vow:  Never again would I allow the opinions of others to guide my behavior.  It was time to put away my dweebish past -- and grow up.

That evening I felt better knowing that I had turned a new leaf. I ate dinner, read the paper, and watched a little television. Before going to bed, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth, only to find that I was out of regular-size toothpaste.

So I went to the kitchen, got the Walmart sack, and emptied it. Out rolled the toothpaste, the mouthwash, the shampoo, and two items I had not purchased: a 3-ounce bottle of Vaseline and a miniature scented candle.

I stood motionless for about three minutes. Then, slowly reclaiming my breath, I placed the unwanted items back in the sack, looked in the mirror, screamed "MUTHAFUCKA," and drank all three ounces of Scope in a single swig.

The Night I Almost Made Love to George Will

I'm a news junkie. For me, happiness is sitting in a La-Z-Boy watching the pundits talk politics. My favorite show is Meet the Press. I started watching it when Tim Russert was host. He was the best of the best! I was devastated when he died, but I kept watching the show anyway.

Tim Russert

That habit ended last Sunday. My wife, Susan, was reading a romance and I had just turned on the TV to catch the news. For some reason, the TV was on the wrong channel. Instead of Meet the Press it was on This Week with George Stephanopoulos, a show I'd never seen before.

George Stephanopoulos

I was about to change channels, but the show seemed interesting. Five people were sitting around a table talking about the banking crisis. One of them was Paul Krugman, a guy who wanted Obama to nationalize the banks. Next to him was a lady named Cokie Roberts, who was explaining the situation on Capitol Hill. In the middle was George Stephanopoulos, the moderator of the discussion. And next to him was a very interesting man: George Will.

George Will

I was familiar with Mr. Will. In fact, I had read some of his essays, but I'd never seen him in person. There was something about him that caught my attention. His hair was short and nicely combed. His glasses were round; his jacket looked sharp. His demeanor was serious. As he spoke of government and the free market, he seemed intelligent and highly confident. He handled words like an Elizabethan poet. He was witty and coy. His diction was precise; his speech, fluid; his voice, melodious.

He spoke carefully and methodically, connecting one idea with the next, defending each point with flawless logic. His intellect was captivating, even hypnotizing. His knowledge seemed vast and profound. The more I watched, the more entranced I became. The cadence of his voice alone could have charmed a serpent or tamed a lion. He was beguiling, speaking in sentences layered in subtlety and laced with charm. His erudition had a gravitational pull. He was bewitching! When the camera turned to Paul Krugman, I felt abandoned.

Paul Krugman

I was sad when the show ended. It had conjured a mélange of emotions I had never experienced before -- emotions both complex and incomprehensible. Somehow, a bond had been forged between me and George Will from the shards of language, aesthetics, and deportment. Lost in an impressionistic collage of linguistic virtues, I luxuriated in his rarefied aura.

What was I to do? I was like a schoolboy smitten for the first time. Frightened and exhilarated, I wanted to scream from the highest mountain -- and hide in the deepest catacomb. I was anxious, desperate, and confused -- and all because of This Week.

That day was a turning point in my life. Distracted, I couldn't concentrate at work. On one occasion, I accidentally wrote Will's name on a patient's prescription. I even called one of my nurses "George" by mistake. At night, I was restless; in the day, dreamy.

Each Sunday, I watched George Will obsessively. I hung on to his every word, delighted in his every gesture, laughed at his every witticism, only to find his departure at the end of the hour unbearable.

Then, one evening, a horrible thing happened: I turned on ABC's World News. Charles Gibson appeared, and my eyelids began to droop.

Charles Gibson

I then saw myself standing next to George Will in the presidential suite at the Waldorf Astoria.

Transfixed by his presence, I could neither speak nor move. To gaze at his divine countenance was to experience awe and ecstasy.  He was a conservative; I was a moderate. But as I peered into the deep azure of his eyes, I felt myself drifting slowly to the right. The top button of his shirt was undone, making the moment even more surreal:  George Will, the icon of American conservatism, was tieless!

I felt flush. My knees were weak. I was lost in his hallowed radiance.

Then came a moment of ineffable grandeur: He raised his delicate hand and gently touched my cheek. At that instant, I felt as if I had risen to heaven on the wings of angels.

Closing my eyes, I could feel his breath. Our lips drew closer ...  and closer ...  and closer ...  until finally ...

I awoke, drenched and terrified. My heart was pounding; I was gasping for air.  

I ran to the kitchen. There was my beloved wife, Susan, making dinner. She was preparing my favorite meal -- filet of sole.  The radio was playing a romantic song and she was humming along. 
I looked at her:  Here was the love of my life -- my darling wife and closest friend -- the woman I had vowed to honor and cherish forever. Here was the woman I had laughed and cried with a thousand times, the woman I had kissed and fought with a thousand more.

Nothing was going to ruin my marriage! Not sickness, not poverty, not George Will.  I had to find a way out of this inferno, and so I made an appointment with a longtime friend and psychiatrist, John Pfefferbaum.  We met in his office the next day.

 

For an hour I talked about my infatuation with George Will. I effused over Will's swan-like neck and his perfect command of the subjunctive mood.

Afterward, I was embarrassed. I couldn't look Dr. Pfefferbaum in the face. For a moment, I remained silent. Then, unable to endure the silence any longer, I expressed my deepest fear. 
"Is it possible that I'm......?"

Dr. Pfefferbaum smiled consolingly. "Let's not jump to conclusions. I need to ask you a few questions. First, have you ever been attracted to men before?"

"No," I replied.

"Are you attracted to the male physique?" 

"No," I replied.

"Are you liberal?"

"What?" I exclaimed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well, Steve, there's a condition called Willophilia, which affects liberals. You see, George Will makes no sense to liberals.  When on rare occasions he does make sense, it causes cognitive dissonance. To avoid confusion, the liberal mind converts the dissonance into something more accessible -- eroticism."

"Wow, that's fascinating," I said. "The condition must be rare."

"It's very rare," he said, "although it is slightly more common than Lehrerophilia, which afflicts some PBS viewers."

Jim Lehrer

"How interesting," I said. "You know... now that you mention it... I knew a guy once who was attracted to Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News, and he..."

"Oh, that's gay," Dr. Pfefferbaum interrupted.

 

Brian Williams

"Fortunately," he continued, "your condition is both treatable and curable."

I was relieved. "Good. What's the treatment?"

"Just stop watching George Will," he said. "No more This Week."

"Very good," I replied. "At what rate should I taper?"

"There's no taper," he said. "Just stop cold turkey."

I felt my heart racing. 

"Well ... ummm ... wouldn't it be better to cut back to every other week, then every third week, then..."

"Stop it, Steve!" he admonished. "That's the Willophilia talking."

I felt humiliated. Staring at the floor, I struggled to hold back tears.

Dr. Pfefferbaum sensed my agony and spoke assuagingly: "Steve, you can do this. I have confidence in you. Just watch Meet the Press. You like that show."

Inconsolable, I muttered sheepishly, "But David Gregory sucks."

"I know," replied Dr. Pfefferbaum. "But right now, he's your best option."

David Gregory

I left Dr. Pfefferbaum's office and drove home. On the way, I thought about Susan and all that she meant to me.  Dr. Pfefferbaum was right: I could and would overcome this! 

To purge myself of any erotic impulse, I watched the CBS Evening News with Bob Schieffer.

Bob Schieffer

My first week without George Will was unbearable: I was moody, anxious, and nauseated. But by the second week, my symptoms began to fade, and by the end of the month, I was back to normal.

The following day, I noticed that my beloved Susan had gone to bed early. The TV was on, and she was watching Casablanca for the twentieth time.

I crawled into bed and hugged her tightly. She looked at me lovingly and said, "Honey, it's been a long time since we cuddled."

"I know," I said, "We should do it more often." 

We both smiled and held each other tenderly. Before the movie was over, Susan fell asleep in my arms. I turned off the TV. I then gently caressed her golden hair, kissed her softly and, making sure not to wake her, whispered in her ear, "I love you, Susan. I will always love you."

And from that crepuscular world between sleep and wake -- between consciousness and unconsciousness -- I heard her murmur almost inaudibly:

"I love you, too, Diane."

Diane Sawyer