189. Athletes

C.W. is fascinated by the Olympics. He stays glued to the tube watching them, except when “Big Bang” theory runs. (Nothing gets between him and Penny).

Timed events intrigue him. “Your species surely places a lot of importance on who skis down a hill a portion of a second faster than anyone else.”

“That’s where true honor resides,” I said. “in that blessed millisecond.”

“You forget how many light-years I traveled to get here,” he said. “So a portion of a second is lost on me.”

“It’s all relative,” I said.

He looked to see if I was making fun of him. “Your wife says that sometimes she thinks you are an idiot,” he said.

“Besides,” I said. "Some competitions aren’t based on timing. They are judged.”

“That’s another thing,” he said. “How does one judge another person’s ability to play on a snowboard?”

He had me there.

He said. “How did these so-called ‘games’ start, and when?”

“They started in ancient Greece, a few hundred years before the Common Era,” I said. “It is my understanding that the Greeks intended them to show the physical qualities and evolution of the performances accomplished by young people. They also encouraged good relations between the cities of Greece.”

“Ancient Greece?”

“Ancient Greece.”

“They had snowboards?”

“Uh no,” I said. “Olympic officials add new types of competition from time to time.”

“They can do that?”

“Yep.”

“So, maybe banjo playing is on the horizon?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But not likely.”

“So the Greeks didn’t shoot rifles as an Olympic sport?”

“Uh, no.”

“What did they do?”

“Oh,” I said. “Manly things like wrestling and boxing.”

“Wrestling?” he said. “Did they wear those stupid getups like they wear now?”

“No,” I said. “they had a different kind of wrestling. It was done in the nude, I think.”

His head snapped around. “The nude? Men and women wrestled in the nude?”

“Just men,” I said. “Women weren’t allowed to participate.”

He pondered this. “Strange,” he said. “I guess boxing was manlier. Probably a little bloody too.”

“Oddly, no,” I said. I once read where Melankomas of Caria, crowned Olympic boxing champion in 49 B.C., went down in history for the way in which he fought. His movements were light, simple and fascinating. He would defeat his opponents without ever being hit himself, or ever dealing a blow.”

“You are confusing me,” He said. “This doesn’t sound like the sort of entertainment that Joe Half-dozen Carton would enjoy.”

“Joe Six-Pack would not want to watch naked men wrestling,” I said. Then I thought. “Or would he? Let me think about that.”

If I can only determine how your species
got from here to "Ski-and-Shoot" competition,
I will have made some progress in figuring
you out. - C.W.

“So did the old Greeks give the winners a big reward?”

“No,” I said. “they tied ribbons around their brows, placed garlands of flowers on their heads, and had them run around stadium”

“Still naked?”

I shrugged. “One can only imagine.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That explains a lot,” he said, slumping in his chair. Then he bolted upright. “Got to go,” he said as he jumped up. “Figure skating is about to start.”

187. Obsessions

Since conversations between two entities from different galaxies are unusual, one can easily imagine the meanderings that can occur when C.W. and I discuss current events. An interesting example arose this morning before I had even enjoyed breakfast.

I was “surfing the net” and finding little discussion that didn’t focus on two of America’s large cities. It is, of course, the Sunday that so many of our citizens, as well as a few around the world, become fixated. So I wasn’t surprised when C.W. showed up as a young man of, maybe, 25 with a football jersey sporting a large “S” on the front. He plopped down in a chair and waited until he had my attention.

“Need some help,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yep. Today’s a big day.”

“It is,” I said, “And just how may I help you?”

“I’m late with a report to the Falloonian Elders and they are getting formacidy.”

“Uh, formacidy?”

“Yeah. You know, like nervous.”

“Could you mean “antsy?”

“Exactly. Isn’t that what I said?”

I seemed then to recall, from my aged databank, reading about the species Formicidae and decided to let it rest. “So what’s the report about?”

“The tendency of your species to become obsessed beyond any measure of rationality.”

“Obsessed?”

“To the extent that you evade the very basics of logical behavior.”

I suddenly understood.

“Oh,” I said. “it is perfectly natural—a part of life. It renews some of us.”

“But it creates an unnatural degree of passion, all concentrated on one object.”

“The object,” I said, assuming my most pedantic tone, “is simply a necessary element that allows a physical phenomenon to proceed. And yes, it generates passion, or else we wouldn’t be able to cope with the basic illogic of the whole affair.”

He thought about this. “So this one object,” he said, “so occupies your species that all other important issues are discarded into the junk heap of history.” He smiled, “The junk heap of history. I like that. Maybe I could become a writer.”

“Let’s get back to the topic,” I said. “First of all, this,” I struggled for words, “this ‘object’ as you call it, only obsesses a portion of our species.”

“So it is okay if, while the ownership of this object is being contested, a portion of your species becomes obsessed and ignores everything else?”

“Look,” I said. “This obsession only lasts for a short while.”

“But it will be repeated, time and again, and it will become symbolic.”

“Well, yes,” I said. “But so much joy is associated with the concentration on this object and besides …”

“Besides, what?” he said.

“It allows the game to be played.”

If you only respected the peacemakers as much
as you respect the football players, the rest of
the Galaxy wouldn't worry so much. - C.W.

“You call this weird obsession a game?”

“Why certainly,” I said. “And the game provides satisfaction to a segment of society that has few other interests.”

“A game?”

“Yes,” I said. “And that’s why they call it the Super Bowl and the football is the single most important element of the whole thing.”

“Football? You’re talking about a stupid football?”

“But of course,” I said. “Aren’t you?”

“No,” he said and he slumped in his chair. “I’m talking about a vagina.”

117. Citizenship

“Ich bin ein Amerikaner.”

“What?”

“Ik ben een Amerikaanse”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Soy un Americano.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Je suis un Américain.”

“C.W., will you shut up for a second?”

“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?”

“I want you to shut the … to tell me what you are doing?”

“I am preparing,” the figure of a young farm worker, dressed in work clothes and a straw hat said.

“Preparing for what?”

“Citizenship.”

“Citizenship?” I said.

“The Falloonian Elders think it would be nice if I could demonstrate an ability to pass.”

“Pass what?”

“Pass as a citizen of your country.”

“Why the languages?”

“Quotas.”

“What do you mean quotas?”

“Don’t you have quotas for citizenship based on country of origin?”

I thought. “Good point. Best you forget the Spanish. Stick with the northern Europeans.”

“I agree,” he said. “Want to help me with the test?”

“What test?”

“The Elders sent me some practice questions based on my monthly reports and they wish me to study them.” He held up a large sheath of papers. He read one and then said, “For example, ‘The teacher at a major university will receive the highest salary for teaching:  1.physics, 2. heart surgery, 3.chemistry, or 4.football.’ That’s a no-brainer, right?”.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Here’s another. ‘Marijuana is considered an illegal possession in the United States because, 1.it makes a person do silly things, 2.enforcement creates jobs, 3.it keeps amateurs out of the production and distribution processes, or 4.all of the above.”

“Who did you say wrote these?”

“Our planetary research institute. I send them material such as newspapers and social network videos.”

I must have looked startled.

“How about this one? ‘Social concern for the nation’s needy children ends 1.upon graduation from high school, 2.after adolescence, 3.after pre-school status, or 4.after gestation?’”

“And your answer would be?”

“I’m stumped. It would seem to depend upon your political persuasion.”

“And they think these questions will be on the citizenship test?”

“Based on your popular media outlets, yes. Here’s another, ‘The founders of the United States did not wish to maintain a standing army. Today we consider this attitude 1.stupid, 2.out of date, 3.bad for the economy, or 4.chicken shit.”

“Chicken shit? Is that really a choice?”

“That’s what they sent me.”

“What kind of material are you sending them?”

“Oh, talk radio broadcasts, news segments, blogs. You know. Typical Americana.”

“Are you sending them Fox News Broadcasts?”

Just think fans. Before long I can say "Hello my
fellow Americans." - C.W.

“Want to hear another?”

“C.W.!”

He looked at the floor. “I may have sent them a couple.”

“Sean Hannity?”

“He’s very popular.”

“Rush Limbaugh?”

“How could I ignore him?”

“Don’t tell me that your superiors think they are typical of our country.”

“Jag är en Amerikansk,” he said, returning to his studies.

101. Metaphors

“I can’t believe you don’t want in on this opportunity.”

C.W. was in a particularly annoying mode, and he has developed annoyance into a heavily nuanced art form. So just imagine.

“It’ll make you rich,” he said.

“I’m already rich,” I said. Thinking better of it, I added, “Metaphorically speaking.”

“Your species and your metaphors,” he said. “What’s a metaphor for? Can you eat one? Spend one? Cruise around the world on one? We’re talking real riches here.”

“You are the voice of Satan,” I said. It was early and I was groggy from a dream I had concerning Jerry Sandusky and hoe handles.

“You are a stench rising from the rotting heap of unfulfilled dreams,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Lookit,” he said. He pulled his suspenders and popped them dramatically, for he was assuming the form of the world’s greatest salesman. “You don’t have to do anything but put up a little money. You will be the lucky seed that falls on good ground and flourishes with neither toil nor spinning.”

“Oh please,” I said. “Don’t just be a carbuncle disgracing the backside of anus mundi.”

“Just listen, will you? Be a vessel waiting to be filled with hope.” He produced a pair of expensive reading glasses, retrieved a flyer from a briefcase, and thrust it at me.

I looked. Across the top bold letters announced the creation of “Fauxlar Panels, Inc.” Beneath this was a large photograph of a house, the roof of which proudly bore a series of dark panels facing the street.

“Know what the problems are with solar panels?” he asked.

“They are expensive,” I said.

“That’s one,” he said. “Want to guess the other?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll tell you. Orientation.”

“Orientation?”

“Yep, orientation.”

My mind flicked back to the dream state and the terror on the coach’s face as he imagined life as a great road traveled in retributive agony.

“I’ll explain,” C.W. continued, addressing me as a devoted pupil sitting at the feet of a master.

“You spend all this money to be the very face of ‘with it green sensitivity’ by adorning your house with solar panels.”

“Yes,” I said, returning to the real world. “And then?”

“You are a dense forest, shutting out all light,” he said, showing exasperation. “Then you realize you have spent your savings but your house faces north.”

“Your house faces north,” I repeated numbly. From the distant recesses of my memory, the screams of the coach broke through as he became the vessel of justice.

“And just what,” he said. “What is the advantage of spending all that money if the result is hidden from view?”

“As in, not visible from the street?” I was beginning to understand.

“Precisely.” He paused and pointed at the picture. “Fauxlar panels. They don’t do anything but they are cheap and you can place them anywhere. Voila! In the eyes of your peers, you are a great dragon guarding the future of the planet and it costs you pennies.”

Misery shall be the reward of him
 who would build a life of iniquity on a
 foundation of mankind's glorification.
 - St. Ludicrous of Salvatia

I stared dumbly at the sheet.

“And you can be a pilgrim on this journey to riches,” he said pulling out a contract. “Just sign here and write me a check.”

I thought about those who become symbols with no underlying moral foundation.

“Have you ever heard of a hoe handle?” I said.

91. Sports

She was beautiful, the kind of creature that would make an old man buy a Harley. I figured it was C.W. of course, but oh my goodness. When I opened the door, the image took my breath away.

Fortunately, my wife was visiting her mother, for there before me stood a nearly six-foot tall goddess in a string bikini that stopped a heartbeat shy of saying “howdy.” One could have fashioned both top and bottom from a single hanky with enough left over for a headband. Her face seemed to leap from the pages of a glamour magazine and her body would have made Pat Robertson do the “buck and wing.”

She was that stunning.

“We need to talk,” she said as a single tear slid down her perfect face. She brushed past me into the living room and asked if she could sit.

I sat and motioned. “On the crotch …” I stammered. “The, uh, couch,” I corrected myself.

She gave me a quizzical look and sat.

“What’s up, C.W.?” I asked.

“She looked confused. “I’m Delta Donax,” she said. “Don’t you recognize me?” She crossed her legs.

“Should I?” I asked. “Are you a pubic figure?” I said, and froze.

“I am an Olympic athlete. Haven’t you seen me before?” She looked directly at me.

“Your thighs, I mean your eyes look familiar,” I managed. “What sport?”

“Beach Volleyball.”

“Are you sensuous?” I stopped. “Serious, I mean serious.”

“Yes,” she said. “That is the problem.” Then she burst into tears.

“Now, now,” I said, trying my best to comfort her. “Why don’t you get it off your breasts and tell me about it.”

She looked confused but explained between sobs. “Nobody takes me seriously.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Some sportswriters think that I am simply a hot body.”

“Well,” I said soothingly. “They are just boobs, dummies I mean.”

“If I was an Indian who could run fast, they would write books and make movies about me.” She stood up and paced.

“Perhaps,” I said. “Especially if you could excel in the longer buns.”

”What?”

“Uh, longer runs,” I said. “Long runs.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Do you know what the Greeks first wanted to promote with the Olympics?”

The air conditioner had kicked on a few second earlier and her body immediately manifested the fact beneath her bikini top, attracting my gaze.

“Peas.”

She glared at me.

“Peace,” I said quickly. “Peace among the city states.”

“You men are all alike,” she said.

”Perhaps if you wore less revealing uniforms.”

“Tell that to Jesse Owens and Michael Phelps .”

”You have a couple of good points there.” She caught me looking again.

“Is there something bothering you?” she said.

“Well,” I said. “There are differences between track and field, gymnastics, and beach volleyball.” Not quitting while I was ahead, I added, “Mounds of difference.”


Phidippides would have made it
to Marathon even faster had these
athletes been wating there. - C.W.



She exploded. “Well why don’t you take your ‘mounds’ or whatever and ..”

“C.W.,” I said. “Calm down.”

She didn’t say another word, just walked to the door and left. As she walked out, I couldn’t help noticing the raised outline of a tattoo beneath her bikini bottom. It read simply, “Bite me.”

At least I think it was C.W.