Creativity is destiny

Sports Talk Radio

     The sports talk show is predicated on a widespread psychological defect in its audience, men’s nostalgia for boyhood and all of its fun, desires and fantasy.  The vicarious identification of a young boy with his sports heroes, whom he hopes to join in Halls of Fame, metamorphoses over time into the sports talk show listener’s passionate attachment to the fate of his team and players, to whom he often has a traditional connection and for whom he is willing to call a talk show host, spend inordinate lengths of time on hold, and then spout his opinion at the risk of being derided, abused or abruptly dismissed. 

The radio talk show host is near the bottom of the celebrity hierarchy, right above radio personalities who sell anything from mattresses to hair removal. He and sometimes she was probably someone who always loved to talk, but was not adept at telling jokes.  For this reason, talk show hosts usually have the delivery and arrogance of stand up comics without the punch lines.  The talk show host was probably a sports reporter, but was as good at writing as telling jokes. So he thought what a great job it would be to just sit and talk for hours! Make endless conversation about stuff he and his friends discussed anyway.  

So he lucked out and got a job on sports-talk radio.  He soon realized what it meant to have to sit there and talk for four or five hours for five days a week.  And to keep it fresh and to give it energy every single minute and to sound authoritative and knowledgeable.  This was not just fun, it was a job.  And it wasn’t just an ordinary job, but a daunting feat.  The sports radio personality must pace himself, use his guests and his topics and every point he makes very shrewdly, with an eye to making every bit of content last as long as possible.  The typical program host will, for instance, announce with great fanfare one or two points he wishes to make.  To fill dead air he repeats these formulations until he is saved by a celebrity guest or callers.

In this sense, sports talk radio is a bit like sport, itself.  Gamesmanship, strategy, pacing, playing the clock all have a part to play.   

One New York radio talk host is masterful at synchronizing all of these aspects of radio.  This personality often sounds weary and sleepy while he speaks.  His sentences rear-end each other, one starting in the middle of the one that preceded it.  His rhetoric is like a driver in a desperate hurry in rush hour traffic.  His sentences lurch forward, turn, reverse, pivot.  He will repeat the same statement in slightly different word order.  “The owners aren’t backing down.  Why should they?  Like I said, they’re in it for the long haul.  They’re not backing down.  No way.”  Or regarding a player about whom bad things have been said, he remarks, “He doesn’t care what anyone says.  Couldn’t care less.  He’s completely indifferent.  He tunes it all out.  Couldn’t care less.”  Within ten minutes, he will have repeated the same phrase with only minor variations.  At times, the casual listener wonders if this personality listens to himself, if he has run out of words or ideas, or simply accommodates the poor listening skills, retention, or comprehension of his listeners.  One may even question his professionalism—and intelligence. 

But this soporific, amateurish sounding sports talk show host is actually a consummate professional.  He is pacing himself.  He states and restates the same sentences like a careful eater chewing his meat for every morsel of flavor and nutrition, or to make the meal last as long as possible.  He is like one of those world-class soccer teams that pass the ball back and forth without any impetus to score because they are playing for a draw. 

When there is no specific game to anticipate and speculate on, revel in, or mourn, the talk show host must raise phantom issues about the business of the sport, which star will be traded, which manager fired, and which team will be sold and to whom.  Often these discussions are based on nothing more than rumor, speculation or wishes.  The host expresses his wishes and invites the callers to agree with or argue against him.

But the talk show host is also the angry prophet of the media who uses his airwaves as a pulpit to promulgate a code of virtues that one only gradually understands.  These include such nebulous and probably archaic values as “doing things the right way”, “behaving with class”, and “showing respect for the game.”  Our radio Jeremiah fulminates against one sports character for “throwing another under a bus” while he inveighs against another for wearing an earring.  Players’ foibles are analyzed ad nauseum.  This one has lost command; the other’s problems are strictly “between his ears.”  One player must grow up, while his team-mate must recognize that he is too old and his skills have eroded.   One talk show host questions a player’s heart for not playing hurt or for faking an injury, while another will berate anyone who questions a player’s injury.  In the process, he invokes the ghosts of players who complained of mysterious and unheeded symptoms only to drop dead from serious disease.

Two conflicting perspectives are at play to make sports shows work.  The first is that sports are really unimportant in the greater scheme of life.  They are children’s games that grown people are paid obscene amounts of money to play.  By contrast with life, death, unemployment, cancer, and war, sports results are insignificant, the sports talk radio host is apt to say.  Sports provide entertainment, escape from the rigors of life.  But a second perspective contradicts this mature one:  sports are important symbolically.  They are metaphors that describe and measure our lives, ideals, and behavior.  They are worthy of disputation, insults and abuse—all of which one hears a great deal on sports talk radio. 

Sports talk is not so different from the beer ads which support it with advertising. While both entreat us to indulge in their respective products, they also warn us to to do so responsibly.   It is classic American utopianism to believe it possible to have everything at once, yin and yang, old and young, work and fun, responsibility and irresponsibility…

Being My Own Physical Therapist

      A few years ago, my orthopedic physician prescribed s course of non-invasive, non--pharmacological, self-help treatment for my ailing shoulder.  He gave me eight sessions with a physical therapist, whose offices were located in an upscale health club.

      It was like being in a spa.  It felt luxurious to have someone lay hands on my aching joints, to have hot, moist towels applied, a regimen of exercises accomplished, and a refreshing ice pack at the end to deep-freeze the inflammation. This experience was so "old-world" that I was psychically transported to a Hemingway short story about wounded World War I soldiers, updated to include women, spandex, designer sportswear and satellite radio. 

      Another wonderful aspect of physical therapy was its simplicity—the tools of the physical therapist are for the most part as ancient and effective as love, chicken soup and bed rest. You lean against a wall, tug so many times on a brightly colored rubber band, toss a ball, and lift a barbell.

      It was all very simple and direct, yet like a good old-fashioned breakfast, it made me feel so much better than I would have expected..

      Four years later my shoulder “impingement” reoccurred after a long bout of non-specific inflammation that jumped from one joint of my body to another for six weeks until it apparently found a home in the knot of muscles in my upper arm.  Money was tighter and the prospect of several $20 co-pays to my family physician, orthopedist and physical therapist do not sound like such a bargain.   

     Economy prompted a radical measure: why not be my own physical therapist?  I decided one evening to use my strong right hand to knead the aching triceps of my left arm, which felt like it had been punched extremely hard by a big fist.  Intuition would advise that giving oneself a massage is tantamount to giving oneself legal advice. We believe that using oneself in a professional capacity is like masturbation.  Actually, masturbation in our enlightened age may have a better reputation. A person who represents, advises, or heals himself is thought to be a fool. 

Naturally, I needed to overcome this deep-seeded bias in order to give myself physical therapy.  It worked well enough to surprise me.  Later it occurred to me that I had always been quite a good amateur masseur from the time I was in college, although I never viewed this talent as "legit" since I exploited my strong hands and therapeutic aptitude to to seduce women, rather than to heal them.   

Hippocrates probably did not have this in mind.

Only one hand was now at my disposal but what an intelligent hand!  It knew where I hurt, how to press the pain center in such a way as to promote the blood flow to the injured part and stimulate healing.  I was no fool to have myself as a physical therapist; I felt the private satisfaction and power of self-reliance.  Yet, there were two things I lacked to complete the therapeutic experience—hot moist towels for the start of therapy and an ice pack for the finale. 

It struck me that such classic amenities played an important part in the business model of physical therapy.  They were public relations gestures to produce a feeling of safety from germs, like the clinician’s white coat; or basic and indispensable refinements of a service, like fresh linen in a hotel.  The therapist paid a vendor to prepare the hot wet towels and the ice pack and it was money well spent.  But for the one expert massage I received from the physical therapist who owned the practice, the hot towels and ice pack were the features of therapy I remember best and most fondly.  I marveled at how simple these touches were, yet I never feel cheated or tricked by them as I would by a grandiose décor at an upscale restaurant—where the purpose of an amenity is to distract you from the quality of the thing you came for--the food. 

No, hot towels and ice packs were not adventitious embellishments.  Yes, they could be obtained anywhere and required no skill, special technology or technique to prepare,yet, they were essential to treatment.  I expected and looked forward to them.  But therapeutic efficacy was not the only benchmark they met.  They fulfilled the soul of the patient, answering a need for ritual, for a protocol associated with healing. 

Healing, too has its own liturgy of significant moments and symbolic gestures:  a doctor’s admonition to move this or flex that; the writing of a prescription, the spraying of anesthetic on a spot before the injection of a needle.  Medical treatment fulfills an important function of ritual, by removing the patient from the world he came from and by delivering him to a new place when it is over.  Likewise, the hot towel and the ice pack were portals at the start and the end of the rite—they indicated that I was entering and then about to leave a special place.  And since physical therapy was based for the most part on strengthening the aching joint through personal effort, the hot towel and the ice pack were the treat in the treatment during which I could be passive and relaxed, when I could feel rather than do. 

      Yet this forced on my consciousness a strange and unsettling thought.  Why could I perform the more technical skill of massage on myself so easily but not give myself the care and pleasure signified by the hot towels and ice pack?  It probably had to do with some deeply rooted hatred of chores.  Kneading tight muscles and aching joints with the hands has the prestige and magic of talent and healing skill, whereas ice packs and hot towels bespeak menial housework. 

     There is a grassroots movement in our era toward greater wellness, fitness and health awareness.  All are expressions of self-care.  It is not a matter of healthcare professionals ceding their authority over medicine and disease treatment.  Physicians are presently overworked and overwhelmed by the number of patients they examine and diagnose, and doubtless welcome the a better informed and more health-conscious public. .For non-medical people, it is also a boon to know more about one's body and how to take care of it. Anyone of us can learn to heal   We only need to be willing to learn and to listen to our bodies, and to love ourselves.  In becoming my own physical therapist, I realized that I could learn many useful and important skills in life, but without a fundamental love of self, how would I be truly self-reliant?  Isit possible to love oneself enough?  This is not the self-love of vanity and ego, but the same profound and impersonal love one would feel toward any living being.  The love for others and for humanity starts with oneself, and in particular, with one's health.

Chains of Irony

      I am always astonished at the damage humans can inflict on themselves and others, and by how we rebuild, restore and adjust.  We have an extraordinary capacity for making a mess and for cleaning it up.  I can take myself as a convenient example.

My life is irony bound.  No part of it is characterized by a singular, unalloyed feeling—whether happy or sad.  Each moment, when reflected upon, is mixed, like a messy palate onto which all color pools have merged.   It is not beautiful black, but the color of rainy streets.

Daily existence is a process:  sleep, wake up, wash, dress, refresh, work—in some order.  It is also historical:  a sequence of events, some imperceptibly small, others unbearably large, a chain beaded not carefully but in order, of circumstances, choices, adjustments, mistakes, more adjustments.   In my personal sequence of events, I have made mistakes, By “mistake” I mean the lesser of two choices to be made in a particular circumstance.  Over time, mistakes are like the drips in a Jackson Pollock—random, yet appropriate and necessary to the picture.  They cannot be removed or even distinguished from better decisions made in other circumstances.   

Decision-making is viewed as an essential human function like speaking, tool-making and wearing clothes.  But decisions are like language and luck—ambiguous and mercurial, changing meaning even while they are being formed.  Rather than defining me, decisions trail off into more questions and puzzlement.  How can I be sure of any choice I made, that it was right or wrong?  I often decide reflexively, on the run, and under duress.  Choice may be a privilege and pleasure but it is also a burden.  Assessing the value of each choice is beyond my ken.  I lack perspective, I am too close to the source, and too invested in being right.  I need a life auditor, a specialist well-versed in evaluating decisions, who can say with certainty that a mistake was indeed a mistake, or whether it had a better outcome than a smart move—and was therefore a smart move made with dumb luck.  But where does one find a life auditor, if such a profession actually exists? 

Luck is presumed to be either good or bad.  Mine is mediocre.  Mediocre luck?  How is this possible?  Is it something I dredged up from the Thesaurus of Oxymorons?   No, it is very real to me.  When a good thing occurs, a bad thing always follows.  When a windfall has come my way it has reversed itself, leaving me bemused and ambivalent.  Likewise, every bad turn done to me entailed an unlikely boon.  Even disasters and disappointments, financial crunches and hopeless situations have had unlikely upsides. They have given me the only optimism experience provides—a confidence and faith that if I can push through the bad times, they will improve.

Memory is a survival tool but also an entertainment, especially when the present seems endless and the future is less a promise than warning.  Nostalgia for a time and place is alien to me.  This is because there is no time I can point to when life was so good that I wish to relive or recapture it.  This apparent deprivation may hit a sour note for many people.  They probably agree with WIlliam Wordsworth in Tintern Abbey, that recalling a time and place can soothe us when in the midst of present adversity.   Nostalgia provides brief vacation spots in the past where we can pause for refreshment when our current circumstances exhaust us.  Yet, even my unsentimental eye on bygone times has an advantage.  Having no beautiful memories means that I have no incentive to live in the past—a benefit for survival. 

THE NAKED ESSAY

     We admonish the young to think for themselves.  Then we make them write term papers in which they are asked to quote others.

     This is a pedagogical ploy to induce students to read, analyze, and interpret information.  Yet there is a growing trend to report ideas rather than develop them.  Some writers devote their pages to quoting others rather than presenting their own thinking and building their own arguments.

     There seems to be a tacit concession that nothing new can be written that has not been read before.  For clever erudition there is an inexhaustible appetite while originality is distrusted or ignored. 

     This the moment to strip the essay of artifice, for the writer to ask himself what he knows and what he has to say and to construct from these ideas an argument that has not been made.  As I sit at my desk and ask myself what I know and want to say about the life I am living and observing, I resolve not to retreat into others thoughts. Undoubtedly their thoughts are with me, but it is hoped that I have made them mine, and in doing so, pay them homage and keep them alive.