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I can't imagine what possessed Lance Armstrong to go public after all this time. On Oprah no less.
I mean, I've always detested Lance Armstrong. I think he's an arrogant prick. But that's about par for the bike racers I've known. (Full disclosure: Before Max was born I rode a few centuries, and that one race – I've forgotten the name – where you ride Figure 8s around obstacles. And, of course, all of Bill's buddies were bike racers. So I've known a few.)
And I believe him absolutely when he says he didn't think of it as cheating because everybody was doing it.
Everybody almost certainly was.
To me, this retrospective insistence upon imposing contemporary mores, social codes, regulations, what-have you on things that happened in the past or condemning things that happened in the past because they don't conform with contemporary social codes is just revisionist right-think, one more example of the ways that George Orwell was smarter than Nostradamus.
What I fault Armstrong for is how many lives he absolutely ruined, how many people he ran over, bankrupted in his fanatic devotion to his own lie. That's indefensible.
He's still arrogant. Either he incorrectly believes his attorneys and Cayman Island bank accounts have him covered so he'll get to keep some of the money he earned from titles and endorsements or he thinks he's setting himself up for the most spectacular fall from grace since Judas kissed Jesus and he wants to sell tickets.
Disheartening spectacle either way.
###
Date was a bust. Most interesting thing about it was that I got to the restaurant 10 minutes early so I went to hang out in the cocktail lounge. Group of thirty-somethings were sitting by the bar, a guy who looked an awful lot like a young Orson Welles surrounded by three laughing women.
The guy smiled me as I nervously cased the tables. "We haven't seen him."
"You haven't?" I said.
"Five foot eight? Brown hair, brown eyes? Izod polo shirt?"
"If he's five foot eight, he lied about his height," I said.
"They always do," said the guy. "I know I do."
"It's an online date," I confided. "At least – I met him online so this is the first time I'm meeting him in the flesh –"
"Oh, my God," said one of the women. "So it's a special occasion."
"Well, I'd say the odds are against that. But at least it's new and different."
"Let's celebrate!" said the guy. "Let me buy you a drink!"
"Oh, that's really nice of you. But you don't have to –"
"I want to! And let's formulate a game plan."
"We're your new best friends," said the woman. "So, of course, if he's a complete dud, you just ditch him and come over here. Bartender! What are you having?"
"Uh, you do all know that I'm old enough to be your mother, right? Your grandmother if we all lived south of the Mason/Dixon line."
"How old are you?"
"How old do you think I am?"
"Early 40s," said the guy, scanning me critically. "The hands are the give away –"
I snorted. "Early 40s? I'm 60."
"No fucking way," said the guy.
I couldn't tell if he was playing me or he was really surprised. Probably a little of both. Of course, it was pretty dark in the bar and I am thin and my hair right now is longish – all of which signal way younger than my chronological age.
"If you're 60, I want to buy you two drinks," said the woman. "Because I want you to tell me all your secrets –"
The Date wandered in at just this point so I had to say goodbye.
So. First of all, he had lied about his height. In his profile, he claimed to be 5'11". But I am 5'10" and he was at least an inch shorter than me.
Second of all, he was incredibly dull.
Third of all, he's a boring kisser.
I extracted all the relevant info within the first five minutes, which left me with very little to do but concentrate on chewing with my mouth closed but still somehow manage to smile for the rest of the meal. Insurance claims adjuster. Wife left him for her tennis instructor 14 years ago. Tennis instructor is a psychopath contemporary version of Mr. Murdstone who immediately dispatched their two sons to military school –
"Military school!" I said. "In this day and age!"
"Well, there's nothing really wrong with military school," he said. "Except the kids were unhappy and kept running away so it seemed like the best thing would be if I could take them –"
"Good for you," I said heartily. I narrowly stopped myself from launching into one of my favorite Public Service Announcements, the one where I channel Jackie Kennedy and say if you fuck up your kids, it really doesn't matter how well you do in the rest of your life –
"Well, I guess," he said. "Oldest just graduated from college. Can you imagine? He wanted to major in psychology. Psychology! Can you think of a more useless degree? I put my foot down and made him major in Business. He graduated six months ago. Been looking for a job ever since –"
After dinner, the Date rather ostentatiously reached into his pocket and pulled out a mini-bottle of spray mouthwash and spritzed.
In the front seat of his car, I kissed him a few times. There's a very particular style I like in kissing. I do not like the tongue when it's disguised as a Nazi submarine. His tongue was definitely a U-boat on a torpedo mission.
After a couple of kisses, he laughs squeakily and says, "Well, you did answer that question of whether you would have sex on the first date, 'Yes –'"
"Did I?" I said. "Well, that's not going to happen. Let me tell you where you're taking me to –"
I suppose I need to write him a note so he'll stop texting me and calling me.
Next Redacted Romantic Website date is on Tuesday next with the gem importer. The gem importer confided in me last night that he's getting over a very intense relationship so he needs to take things slow.
###
Other amusing thing that happened to me this week is that I went to the movies with the crazy Israeli neighbor last night. We saw a movie about two 13 year old girls who fall in love with each other. The Sapphic subtext of the movie eluded D completely. This was pretty fucking funny, although I don't have time to write it all out with the appropriate dialogue.
I mean, I've always detested Lance Armstrong. I think he's an arrogant prick. But that's about par for the bike racers I've known. (Full disclosure: Before Max was born I rode a few centuries, and that one race – I've forgotten the name – where you ride Figure 8s around obstacles. And, of course, all of Bill's buddies were bike racers. So I've known a few.)
And I believe him absolutely when he says he didn't think of it as cheating because everybody was doing it.
Everybody almost certainly was.
To me, this retrospective insistence upon imposing contemporary mores, social codes, regulations, what-have you on things that happened in the past or condemning things that happened in the past because they don't conform with contemporary social codes is just revisionist right-think, one more example of the ways that George Orwell was smarter than Nostradamus.
What I fault Armstrong for is how many lives he absolutely ruined, how many people he ran over, bankrupted in his fanatic devotion to his own lie. That's indefensible.
He's still arrogant. Either he incorrectly believes his attorneys and Cayman Island bank accounts have him covered so he'll get to keep some of the money he earned from titles and endorsements or he thinks he's setting himself up for the most spectacular fall from grace since Judas kissed Jesus and he wants to sell tickets.
Disheartening spectacle either way.
Date was a bust. Most interesting thing about it was that I got to the restaurant 10 minutes early so I went to hang out in the cocktail lounge. Group of thirty-somethings were sitting by the bar, a guy who looked an awful lot like a young Orson Welles surrounded by three laughing women.
The guy smiled me as I nervously cased the tables. "We haven't seen him."
"You haven't?" I said.
"Five foot eight? Brown hair, brown eyes? Izod polo shirt?"
"If he's five foot eight, he lied about his height," I said.
"They always do," said the guy. "I know I do."
"It's an online date," I confided. "At least – I met him online so this is the first time I'm meeting him in the flesh –"
"Oh, my God," said one of the women. "So it's a special occasion."
"Well, I'd say the odds are against that. But at least it's new and different."
"Let's celebrate!" said the guy. "Let me buy you a drink!"
"Oh, that's really nice of you. But you don't have to –"
"I want to! And let's formulate a game plan."
"We're your new best friends," said the woman. "So, of course, if he's a complete dud, you just ditch him and come over here. Bartender! What are you having?"
"Uh, you do all know that I'm old enough to be your mother, right? Your grandmother if we all lived south of the Mason/Dixon line."
"How old are you?"
"How old do you think I am?"
"Early 40s," said the guy, scanning me critically. "The hands are the give away –"
I snorted. "Early 40s? I'm 60."
"No fucking way," said the guy.
I couldn't tell if he was playing me or he was really surprised. Probably a little of both. Of course, it was pretty dark in the bar and I am thin and my hair right now is longish – all of which signal way younger than my chronological age.
"If you're 60, I want to buy you two drinks," said the woman. "Because I want you to tell me all your secrets –"
The Date wandered in at just this point so I had to say goodbye.
So. First of all, he had lied about his height. In his profile, he claimed to be 5'11". But I am 5'10" and he was at least an inch shorter than me.
Second of all, he was incredibly dull.
Third of all, he's a boring kisser.
I extracted all the relevant info within the first five minutes, which left me with very little to do but concentrate on chewing with my mouth closed but still somehow manage to smile for the rest of the meal. Insurance claims adjuster. Wife left him for her tennis instructor 14 years ago. Tennis instructor is a psychopath contemporary version of Mr. Murdstone who immediately dispatched their two sons to military school –
"Military school!" I said. "In this day and age!"
"Well, there's nothing really wrong with military school," he said. "Except the kids were unhappy and kept running away so it seemed like the best thing would be if I could take them –"
"Good for you," I said heartily. I narrowly stopped myself from launching into one of my favorite Public Service Announcements, the one where I channel Jackie Kennedy and say if you fuck up your kids, it really doesn't matter how well you do in the rest of your life –
"Well, I guess," he said. "Oldest just graduated from college. Can you imagine? He wanted to major in psychology. Psychology! Can you think of a more useless degree? I put my foot down and made him major in Business. He graduated six months ago. Been looking for a job ever since –"
After dinner, the Date rather ostentatiously reached into his pocket and pulled out a mini-bottle of spray mouthwash and spritzed.
In the front seat of his car, I kissed him a few times. There's a very particular style I like in kissing. I do not like the tongue when it's disguised as a Nazi submarine. His tongue was definitely a U-boat on a torpedo mission.
After a couple of kisses, he laughs squeakily and says, "Well, you did answer that question of whether you would have sex on the first date, 'Yes –'"
"Did I?" I said. "Well, that's not going to happen. Let me tell you where you're taking me to –"
I suppose I need to write him a note so he'll stop texting me and calling me.
Next Redacted Romantic Website date is on Tuesday next with the gem importer. The gem importer confided in me last night that he's getting over a very intense relationship so he needs to take things slow.
Other amusing thing that happened to me this week is that I went to the movies with the crazy Israeli neighbor last night. We saw a movie about two 13 year old girls who fall in love with each other. The Sapphic subtext of the movie eluded D completely. This was pretty fucking funny, although I don't have time to write it all out with the appropriate dialogue.
