Are Headlines Really Important?
The Winter Olympics are over. And I just don't know what I'm gonna do about it. Flipping through the channels on the overpriced Time Warner Cable and seeing "The XX Winter Olympics" everytime I passed channel 4 is something that I'm really going to miss. The curling. The ice skating. The cross-country shooting thingy. Bode Miller. Oh, Bode. The Olympics. Starting from the time I was about twelve years old, I would fall asleep every so often counting the years that stood between the present time and the time I would stand on the podium with a gold medal around my neck, tearfully lipsyncing the words to The Star Spangled Banner. 1992 was going to be my year. I would have just completed my first year at USC on a full basketball scholarship. And I would have been the hero. Part of my nighttime day dream included thoughts of the complementary duffle bag that would have contained little Olympic nick-nacks. The jackets. The hats. The dorm room I would have stayed in with one or two of my teammates. The sweat. The glory. The spotlight. The Olympics at that young age were cemented in my mind as an honor to participate in. Hard work. Victory. All that good stuff. So Bode's behavior. Please. He was played up by the media. But though that attention was inspired by the media, Bode took it all in. And he said medals didn't mean anything. Then why go? Why spend the time? I'm thinking there were a shitload of skiers who would have loved to have been in his position. To stand atop the white hill with butterflies taking over their bodies. But Bode went. And Bode fucked up. I don't care about the whole representing America thing. To watch someone on that stage, though, fail as miserably as he did, is embarrassing. For him. Not me. He'll get a talking to. Oooh, scary. He'll be reprimanded. I wonder what that will do. There's another side, though. Snow sports have attained a semblance of popularity in recent years thanks to snowboarding. We wanted a "cool" ski guy to fit that space, to become a hyped-up-on-alcoholed, constant five o'clock shadowed, hands-down winner of five gold medals who will grace the covers of every popular print mag for months to come. Until the scandal, of course. And the media found him. Unfortunately the other side isn't what people are talking about. The media found its hero who, it thought, would help fuel ratings and sell copies. But the media got burned. And Bode got burned. He wanted to have fun. But he did so without respect for the sport he was selected to represent in Turin. Shit, even in high school I took game day seriously. Quiet time before games. Whatever. I'm done. Who cares about Bode? And the Olympics are over for now. NBC can return to its regular programming. And maybe, just maybe, "Saturday Night Live" may still have it in them to spoof Cheney's misfire. In other media debacles, I have to address, for just a minute or two, "The L Word." Now, I admit. I got sucked in. I didn't want to but I did. Season 1 and season 2. Just great. Now it's season 3. And there's a character named Moira. Oh, wait, I'm sorry, that's Max. Max is this "butch" character. Oh, wait, I'm sorry, was this butch character who joined the cast. But she wasn't accepted the way she was. In a showdown of class and sexuality, the other, acceptable lesbians that make up the show, looked down upon this "butch" from the Midwest who was barely able to order her own dinner at an upscale Los Angeles restaurant. Until she donned a suit, complete with tie. Now she's "handsome." She earns smiles and acceptance. "She looks like a hot guy. I like it." What? I'm only four episodes in. But I hear she'll be trying some hormones. And there you have it. The Butch. Erased. Again. Let me see. Where else is the butch represented? Oh yes. In a "film" called "The Aggressives." I watched this last night. Aggressives are women, generally black women, who are male-identified butches. Or "ultra butch" as the film description says. But "butch" isn't enough. They need another word. Another word to describe those who act like men in gait and voice, but who are lesbians. I was handed a card (ooh, passive voice) a few months back. An invitation to attend a meeting for aggressives. The word alone -- "aggressive" -- is an irresponsible choice, as it implies a need to appropriate "aggressive" tendencies of men. Right? I could be wrong. I'm no linguist. I don't know much. But in relation to me (and let's face it: my blog -- all roads lead back to me), I stand as far on the outside of that as an upper-class housewife from Nova Scotia. Who knows why. I was identified as an aggressive by the virtue of having been handed that card. 'Scuse me? All right. Again, I say whatever. The card went in the trash. Which is where my opinion of the movie went. But I have been one subject of a documentary that will probably never see the light of day. Everything I said was my opinion. Just as the opinions of the women in the film last night were their own. I just don't agree. People, there are too many labels. Walk down the street for fuck's sake. If you're a chick who looks and talks like a dude, then be a chick who looks and talks like a dude. It's real easy. All you have to do is ignore the quick chest glances and subsequent misunderstanding (read "subsequent wishes of obliteration"); be comfortable with your choice of dress and tell everyone to fuck off. So no, that's not easy. But does it need a fucking label? So Moira will become Max so she can be an acceptable he. Black butches who swagger are actually "aggressives." And I officially changed hair people. From Dina to Lina. So far so good.
