The Slippery Slopes of Sochi

"What are you going to do? Dice me, slice me, or peel me? There are so many choices!" --Jim Carrey, The Truman Show

It's wintertime in Kentucky, and this year we haven't had to travel to have a bit of the Olympic experience. In my back parking lot we've been plagued by black Avalanches with dark windows and fast-moving vehicles with unfriendly drivers in just the last week alone. When I'm not skating across a slippery lot to move my car, I'm pushing the recycling bin down an icy incline while hoping not to get brained, like the hockey coach who was recently hit by a puck, by something falling from the fire escape (I'm told it had a loose bolt a while back).

To give the Olympics their due, watching on TV is almost as hair-raising at times as real life. I've been a little less immersed in the Games this time than I sometimes am, and I'll tell you why. I usually enjoy the Olympics for the sportsmanship, the sheer athletic ability, and the sight of competitors coming from all over the world to participate. Pierre de Coubertin promoted the modern Olympics as a "festival of human unity," hoping to imbue them with some of the sacred purpose they originally served in ancient Greece. While one strains at times to detect qualities of brotherhood, sisterhood, and unity amid the commercialism and hype of today's Games, it's still there in the sincere efforts of athletes who push themselves to achieve more than they thought possible. It's there in the sight of competitors applauding others who have won honestly, appreciating their accomplishments in a sportsmanlike way. It's there in the human interest stories.

This year, though, I seem to detect even more politics than usual swirling about the Games. There's also a bit more showboating, many oddly dramatic costumes, mannerisms, and speeches, and a stilted quality to some of the commentary. Huh? Say what? All I want to do is enjoy athletic feats, not feel like I'm being asked to figure out what someone is trying to sell. I'm reminded of the scene in The Truman Show (in its own right a hilarious commentary on the blurring of real life, entertainment, and marketing) in which Truman's wife stops in the middle of a scripted conversation, looks at the camera, and pitches a particular brand of cocoa.

Is this the future of product placement? Is it mass hysteria? Something in the water? It's as much like watching Kabuki theatre or opera as it is an athletic competition, and the Olympics don't need that, in my opinion. The things skilled athletes can do on skies, sleds, boards, and skates don't need enhancement, which just gets in the way. The crux of the problem is that--to borrow John MacAloon's performance categories once again--there seems to be much less ritual and festival and much more spectacle and gamesmanship this time around. Just an impression on my part.

So my enjoyment has fallen off, and I've found my attention straying at times. I've even watched some of the competition with the sound turned down. When I can forget all the histrionics and distractions and become absorbed in the sheer mechanics of the athleticism, I'm still amazed at what people can do. The scenery is gorgeous and provides more than enough drama as a backdrop to all the action. I have to think the atmosphere of hyperreality surrounding the Games must be terribly trying to the competitors, who have enough to do to keep their concentration focused. Possibly they're used it.

The charm of the Winter Olympics lies in watching someone careen down an icy mountain at top speed, or twirl through the air and land gracefully on skates, without having to do it yourself. It's largely a vicarious thrill; I'm content to tune in from the relative safety of my couch. I've even been known to drink a mug of hot cocoa while watching, but it's usually not the brand someone else is selling. I like to reserve those decisions for myself.

Film Noir, Cars, and the Super Bowl

Sometimes January and February usher in a feeling of boredom, a letdown after all the holiday activity. Not this year. What with the Golden Globes and other awards shows, my birthday, and the Super Bowl, on top of the build-up to the Olympics, there's hardly been a minute to spare. That's what happens to mythologists trying to keep their ear to the ground without falling prey to background noise. You may have run into the same thing.

My birthday? Oh, thanks, for asking. There was an unexplained visitation from someone who appeared, despite a locked outer door, to knock on my own personal door at the same time as a scheduled but cancelled appointment that morning, but as we (or at least, I) like to say around here, whatever. I got some work accomplished and enjoyed an evening out; at or around midnight, I was eating Chocolate Bourbon Pecan Pie with a friend, and I call that a success.

Social media has presented its own challenges this week, on top of the usual cultural churn. I had the intriguing experience of seeing a comment I'd posted to someone else's Facebook page disappear not only from her page but also from my own activity log, as if it had never been (actually, the entire thread disappeared). I'm not sure how that happened, and neither was the page's moderator. It smacks a little of Hermes, the god of communications, commerce, and tricks -- or it could be gremlins. I'm not sure whether Mercury is in retrograde at the moment or not, so perhaps we can't blame him.

As for the Super Bowl, I actually am not a great football fan, but after hearing about the game and its commercials from others who were watching, I decided to stick my toe in the water and at least check out the advertisements. (I recognize the Super Bowl as an important cultural ritual -- I just don't enjoy football.) I didn't see all the commercials, but of the humorous ones, my favorite was the Radio Shack spot with the '80s icons clearing out the store as Loverboy wails in the background. I commend Radio Shack for its sense of humor.

And who else showed up but Bob Dylan? Weren't we just talking about him? I've not only watched his spot several times, I've also read reviews of it, including a couple from The New Yorker, which, it seems to me, royally missed the point ("Close Read" indeed). Some reviewers acknowledge Mr. Dylan's enigmatic nature but take the ad itself at face value, as a "jingoistic" (one reviewer's term) tribute to Detroit and American-built cars. On a simple reading, this might appear to be true, but I doubt that's all there is to it because, after all . . . Jingoistic? Bob Dylan? There's also the fact that, as of last month, Chrysler is wholly owned by Fiat, an Italian company, and Fiat Chrysler is soon to be tax resident in Great Britain, according to The Wall Street Journal. I thought I detected a slight British intonation in Mr. Dylan's final pronunciation of the word "car," though it could, of course, be accidental.

Wordplay finds itself traveling some interesting byways -- weren't we just talking about foreign acquisitions of American brands? With the above facts in mind, I'm wondering whether there isn't a certain amount of irony in Mr. Dylan's delivery of the Chrysler message. This is not to take away from the pride in American craftsmanship he refers to in the commercial; I judge that to be quite real enough. But taken with the film noirish darkness permeating some of the ad's scenes and the somber rendering of Mr. Dylan's "Things Have Changed" that forms the soundtrack, I sense something more complex at work.

What one reviewer took as a pastiche of typical scenes of Americana seems a bit more ambiguous to me. Someone peering through blinds at a darkened street . . . a pair of eyes seen in a rearview mirror . . . a person draped in a flag, at the ocean's edge . . . a diner customer whose smiling thanks looks a bit like a grimace . . . a rather anxious-looking baby in the arms of its mother . . . oh, look, there's Marilyn Monroe . . . a tattoo customer attempting to duplicate on her own skin the original Rosie the Riveter . . . a rather savage young woman, running wild along a ridgeline . . . a cowboy falling from a horse . . . fast traffic in a narrow tunnel, seen from two angles . . . scenes of the road (I've been out there. It does look like that.) . . . a city viewed from above . . . a partially thawed river.

And there's the finale, which features Mr. Dylan, in character as the auto spokesman, leaning on a pool table and declaring, with a group of workers behind him, that "We will build your car." One of the workers, nodding slightly, wears a big hat and bears a weird, blurry resemblance to an officiant in clerical garb as the background goes out of focus. Those scenes of baseball pitches and athletic cheerleaders might seem more innocent if it weren't for glimpses of characters and situations that seem to have strayed out of Double Indemnity, The Hustler, or The Road more than Norman Rockwell.

So while some reviewers seem dismayed at this commercial's "boosterism," which they see as shallow, I take it instead as a rather layered statement. The opening question, "What's more American than America?" Does it mean, simply, that many have imitated but none have duplicated the spirit of America? Or does it refer, more darkly, to something else? It's an open question, one I think the viewer is invited to actively consider. A commercial that makes you think? Apparently so, since viewing it merely as a simple attempt to sell cars creates some puzzling questions. It's really more like a poem, I think.

A Mythologist, a TV, and the State of the Union

The State of the Union address is a political ritual--or purports to be. I say "purports" because in a true ritual, what occurs is transformative. The ritual makes something happen. With the State of the Union, the idea is that the President outlines his views on where the country is and where it needs to go, thus galvanizing the troops to join him in creating change. The speech is incantatory, you might say.

While listening to the President speak on Tuesday, I found myself agreeing with a lot of his stated goals. He spoke forcefully and enthusiastically about environmental protection, helping the middle class, education, and other matters. I think he did a good job of striking a tone of optimism and creating the sense that America is in a good position, soon to be even better (whether or not it's true, he made a good case for it).

I've often been impressed with President Obama's intelligence and verbal ability; he is a quick thinker on his feet, a trait that's especially obvious during debates. Tuesday night's speech was largely the work of a speech writer, of course, which puts it in a different category than debating, but we know the President approved both wording and content. His style was evident in the address. I wouldn't put the President's rhetoric on the same level as that of, say, John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln, but, truly, how many can aspire to that? That kind of eloquence is rarely seen.

What about the transformative power of the speech? Was this a true ritual? Well, we don't know yet. We heard the address, and now we await events. There has to be something genuine behind the words in order for them to have power. Certainly, there was a lot of energy in the House Chamber last night, and the assembled politicians and guests greeted most of the president's proposals enthusiastically.

I disagree with the President on some things. I was disappointed in his recent defense of the NSA data collection programs (which he only touched on Tuesday night), a position I find astonishing. His advocacy of those programs was very articulate, but seriously, are we supposed to believe, especially in light of recent data breaches like the one at Target, that yet more large collections of private data are a good idea? Some officials keep saying it's only metadata, not content. That may be true, but can no one envision ways in which even that information could be (and possibly is being) abused? If you're not involved in criminal activity, why should the government be able to find out who you've been talking to? Some analysts have said of 9/11 that it was not lack of intelligence that led to the attack, but failure to use intelligence already available. I have no doubt of the government's ability to track criminals and terrorists, but the average American is neither and has done nothing to forfeit the (by the way, constitutional) right to privacy.

I guess this issue of overreaching and secrecy overshadows, for me, a lot of the other (laudable) goals and achievements the President outlined. Take the Affordable Health Care Act, which was featured prominently in his speech. I see affordable health care as a positive thing and have heard people I know say they now have coverage for the first time in years. This is a big deal, despite all the snafus with the website and that oh-so-secure information applicants had to entrust to the government. On the other hand, I've been reading about negotiations the administration has tried to keep out of the press concerning the Trans-Pacific Partnership trade agreement. It would reportedly give foreign corporations the power to challenge laws and regulations that protect, among other things, food safety and environmental quality. As in our laws and regulations. Our food safety. Our air and water. If foreign corporations are granted the ability to challenge, in international court, laws designed to protect us, then you're going to need that Obamacare. (Many Democrats and some conservative Republicans alike oppose the TPP and/or the extreme lack of transparency surrounding it. I say, good for them.)

The President portrayed himself in his speech as willing to charge ahead and act on his own to accomplish his policies if Congress isn't willing to jump on board. A lot of political hay was made last year of Congressional intransigency. Naturally, the public is angered when the failure to reach agreements results in government shutdowns and lack of progress on important issues. However, I wonder if there isn't another side to the story, one involving Congress's frustration with an administration that shuts them out of decision-making in which they should be involved. Apparently, it even keeps tabs on who they've been talking to (a privilege not reserved just for the masses, it seems).

I'm suspicious of attempts to point the finger (or, as Jungians say, project the shadow), just as I'm suspicious of attempts to change the subject, do things secretly, or divide people. Ditto attempts to circumvent or lean on the press. I know there are good, hard-working people on both sides of the aisle in Congress. I suspect many of them would be glad to work with the President to achieve the goals he laid out Tuesday night. The question is, why isn't it happening? If they were candid--parties, partisanship, politics aside, just for one moment--I wonder what members of Congress would say about their views on the lack of progress. Maybe we should ask them.

So, you may be wondering, if, by chance, Tuesday night's speech wasn't ritual, wasn't transformative, what was it? There are other possibilities for what we saw, but I like the approach of anthropologist and historian John J. MacAloon, who has applied the categories of festival, spectacle, ritual, and game to no less an event than the Olympics. Ritual we've talked about. Spectacle is something designed to impress by reason of a powerful display; it's what the Olympics became in the hands of the Romans; it was Michelle Obama's odd appearance at last year's Oscars. A festival is a celebration, like a Fourth of July party. Games are, well, games. They, too, are a type of performance, one that requires roles, rules, and established goals.

The State of the Union address might have been more than one of these performance types. Certainly, it was impressive to watch, and I found it moving to see the mechanisms of our democracy laid bare in the House Chamber, with Supreme Court justices, members of Congress, and the President and members of his administration all coming together like that. It was a little like the Fourth of July, wasn't it? I hope it will give us reason to celebrate, but that remains to be seen. Words are powerful, but in politics, they too often seem to be merely that: words.

Rhetoric is nice, but sometimes homespun philosophy is more to the point. To put it another way, maybe what we need is, as Toby Keith says, a little less talk and a lot more action. Of the G-rated variety, of course.

Showing Up in Person at the County Clerk's

So, here we are, magically transported to Lapland, courtesy of a new mini-polar vortex, or bombogenesis, or whatever it is this week. Seriously, didn't I say you could never tell with these beckoning spirals? Instead of Coppertone and sand in our shoes, we're facing salt trucks and extra layers, at least where I live. So be it. Sometimes you just have to wait, relying on delayed gratification to deliver spring the same way it always does, by the calendar.

But a winter storm has its merits. I was thinking about that yesterday while warming up my car and knocking off the snow prior to a trip downtown. I could have mailed in my auto registration fee, but what fun would that be? Instead, I was multitasking: clearing my car and moving it off the street, getting some fresh air, saving the mail-in fee, beating the deadline, and, less prosaically, preparing to enjoy a walk in the snow.

People seemed to be driving cautiously, and I arrived downtown without incident, parking behind the old Carnegie Library. Gratz Park is pretty in any season, and swathed in snow, it looks like a Victorian Christmas card. On foot, I headed down Market Street, past the Gothic church with the pretty little hedge garden, and turned left on Short. I walked past the little clock shop, which doubles as a magic and novelties emporium, and encountered a parking lot attendant shoveling snow. I found myself in a wind tunnel, with icy air whipping around the buildings and hitting me head-on, the Lexington mini-version of Chicago. I was now thinking less about fresh air and more about getting warm and actually jogged around a slower moving pedestrian near the courthouse.

After a brief stop to warm my hands and get cash for the County Clerk's office, I was out again in a white world of big, swirling flakes. I was by no means the only person out; walking, while requiring more energy than usual, was not especially hazardous--just cold. Once inside the Clerk's office, I saw that my calculation had paid off and that the line for auto registration had only a few people. Waiting for my turn gave me a chance to warm up again. A few minutes later, new sticker in hand, I glided back into the snowstorm, doing my own version of the Waltz of the Snowflakes, minus the toe shoes and a little of the grace.

The park in front of the main library, on warm days, is full of people lounging; there was none of that yesterday, as anyone who was out was moving with purpose. I noticed the construction zone across from the park before I slipped across Main Street, sallied past the courthouse, and turned left. After seeing my reflection in a store window and deciding that I could pass for an extra in either Doctor Zhivago or The Snow Queen, I stopped under an overhang to brush off snow and stamp around a little. Pressing on, I turned right on a quiet, pedestrian-free Upper Street and enjoyed the fact that I was out of the wind.

Along the little street next to the church, past the brick wall and the perfume shop, and there was Market Street once again. I took a minute to notice the stateliness of the Carnegie Library as seen from the front, solid and elegant amid bare trees and snow, and reflected that if I were a visitor, I would be exclaiming over the loveliness of this town. What's commonplace often fails to impress because it's so familiar, but catch it from the corner of your eye, or from a different angle, or with the context slightly altered, and you see it anew. If I had been hoping for a moment of beauty on my little walk, this was it.

I glissaded the rest of the way to my parking spot thinking about the fact that I'm (unavoidably) always affixing a new license plate or sticker to the back of my car on a cold winter day, often an icy or snowy one, and this year would be no different. But now that I had walked and driven the snowy, bombogenesed streets of home, which took a little more work than usual, that chore in the parking lot would seem less of a burden. A little fresh air will do that for you.