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Man, I so love me some Olympics.  I love watching obscure sports, marveling at the freak show of modern gymnastics, and damn I love opening ceremony extravaganzas.  This year's show will be piped in from the land that invented fireworks and will be backed by the wallet of an extremely wealthy dictatorship that can spend more money than god.  It is guaranteed to blow our minds.  I get misty eyed just thinking about it.

Beijing

So part of having a yoga practice is that you're really not supposed to kill things, even gross and/or scary things.  I'm not a full vegetarian, but I really do try not to harm living things when it isn't necessary.

And I did feel pretty guilty after washing a 4-inch scorpion down the shower drain on the first day of my yoga teacher training in Costa Rica.  Normally, I wouldn't think twice about having to do a dirty deed to rid my shower of a dangerous foe, and actually I didn't when I was doing it.  But afterwards, as my teacher's "om" washed over us to signal the start of our session, I felt pretty crappy.  My excuse is that I didn't really have a choice.  That is until I realized there was a broom and a long-handled dustpan in my room.

I knew my karma was going to be totally out of whack.

The scorpions didn't avenge the death of their own until a week later -- enough time for me to become complacent in my several-times-a-day visual sweep of my jungle casita.  It struck at 5:45am, assaulting my right pinky finger as I rummaged through my dirty laundry deciding what to hand wash that day.  I saw the bugger scurry away, although I was already in too much pain and shock to notice exactly where.

I'm writing this story, so obviously I'm fine.  The pain was acute and strong for about an hour before tapering off to a burning sensation when I touched the surface of my finger.  By 8:30 that morning, it was all but forgotten.  I'm actually very lucky that I didn't happen to be allergic to its poison.  My tongue could have swollen and gone numb along with half my face.  Still, I was about as keen to get stung again as I was to be mauled by jellyfish in Australia a few years ago.

I recruited reinforcements in the form of my new yogi friend, R.  R, a valiant power yoga warrior, helped me rummage through all remaining dirty clothes.  His broomstick down each pant leg strategy was brilliant although ultimately unsuccessful.

The battle ended in a draw a few days after B had arrived, adding another pair of eyes to my visual sweep rituals.   I had been hand washing clothes in the sink, which some of you may not realize means rubbing pants legs together to remove sand and mud, scrubbing a t-shirt corner under the arm pit to remove layers of deodorant.  This was hands on hand washing.  My hands and half my arms had been all over those clothes in murky water.

I stepped away for a very short moment while my garments soaked.  When I returned, I saw my nemesis, the size of a prawn, trying to claw it's way out of the corner of the sink.  I could hear his crustacean-like legs and pinchers scraping the stainless steel basin.  The mo-fo was big, around 6 inches including the tail.  He was mostly light, almost translucent brown with dark black splotches.  I can't believe I survived any battle with that thing.  And what the heck was he still doing in my dirty laundry?

I handed B the broom and dustpan.  The plan was to try to shoo him into the pan and take him outside, far from the duplex casita that we shared with W.  Instead the scorpion clung to the hairs of the broom, his long stinger dangling and striking madly at the bristles.  We'd have been in trouble if he'd decided to drop to the floor.  Thankfully he didn't, and thankfully he didn't return after B wiped him onto a shrub down the hill from the house.

News travels fast among 30 people spending 8 hours or more a day together.  Everyone wanted to know about the scorpion attack and my subsequent kitchen sink showdown.  It was pointed out by W that just earlier in the week I had been IMing Dabysan about my desire to perfect my scorpion pose, an up-side-down arm balancing yoga posture that features ones feet dangling over ones own head - very Cirque de Soleil.  W and R decided I was the Scorpion Queen, and they presented me with a dead scorpion-in-resin necklace, a trophy if you will. 

Or, you could believe L who stayed in the same casita for a month the year before.  She also encountered more scorpions than anyone in her group.  L believes that the house is infested with them, and is probably sitting atop a colony.  She may not be far off for in W's bathroom light fixture was a grim reminder of who will ultimately win the war.  Imagine brushing your teeth with the eery shadow of dead scorpion cast across your face. 

Scorpion

The formula for a winning KttD performance is at once obvious and elusive.  Of course you must sing badly, but as has already been pointed out this year, merely not hitting a few notes here and there with less than crystal clear tone is not going to bring home the prize.  Now that the truly tone-deaf have mustered up the guts to put a lifetime of ridicule behind them and willfully put their vocal non-stylings to the ultimate test, those who can kinda sing may never take the podium again. 

As Hotrod has chronicled these past few weeks, song choice and presentation is as much part of the game as your inability to carry a tune.  One of B's challenges would be learning the lyrics to any song he chose.  He would also need to project.  And anyone who knows B also knows that he mumbles most of the things that he says.  When he speaks up, it's just louder mumblings.  His biggest hurdle would be annunciation, so that there would be no question as to whether or not he knew the song.

The inspiration for Roberta Flack's already vaguely atonal "Killing Me Softly" came to me a year ago.  Even though we were held hostage in Holland for two years, B's eventual showing at KttD was never far from our minds.  Fantasizing about his rise to glory was mostly nostalgia for our lives lost in America.  Perhaps, though, it was fate that when Emma took the crown in 2007, the first seeds were being sewn for our to return to the U.S. 

To illustrate why I knew that "Killing Me Softly" would be the perfect song for B, you have to reach back in time a bit further.  Not being able to sing is not a new revelation for the tone-deaf that walk among us.  Look into Emma's eyes, and you can almost see the little girl with her stringy pig-tails, hand earnestly placed over her heart, receiving sideways glances from her classmates during "My Country Tis of Thee."  In B's case, his own family rejected his froggy renditions of holiday favorites.  These are people who have been unwittingly humiliated their whole lives, and for them to put that aside and take the stage anyway is no small achievement.

I was telling people last night that the inspiration for "Killing Me Softly" came from the movie "Little Miss Sunshine," but I was mistaken.  In fact, the fog cleared when I saw this scene in the Hugh Grant movie, "About A Boy" -- one of the many Hugh Grant movies I secretly rented in Holland when B was away on business.

While the kid in the movie doesn't resemble B in the slightest, it wasn't hard to imagine little B standing in front of his peers, all knobbly-kneed in his school uniform of 70s-style short-shorts and a golf shirt.  He would have been shy and sincere, his little out-of-tune voice shaking and occasionally cracking.   Always smiling, B's big, toothy grin would have overshadowed the fear in his eyes.

Over the past few weeks, we'd been analyzing and reanalyzing the fate of this song in B's KttD war chest.  Our biggest concern was whether he could learn it, and that it might just be too hard.  The real song , as we all know, is barely in key.  It's whininess is almost too putrid to listen to all the way through.  We knew that B's rendition would make your ears bleed, IF he could piece it all together. 

In the run up to the main event, he began to abandon "Killing Me Softly" for the safer "Greatest Love of All" by Whitney Houston.  Houston's cryptic ode to self-determination and the inspiration of children took on a whole new, creepy dimension when B turned his pipes on it.  The clincher in that song, of course, would have been the irony of singing about dignity in a competition that trades on humiliation.  Don't get me wrong, he can't sing that song either, but with "Greatest Love of All" he'd have had to rely more on the fact that it's just not right for a man to sing about children.

Contrary to popular opinion, B designed his own training regiment, practicing his songs in the bathroom with its unforgiving acoustics.  All this going down with his work colleague, who we don't actually know very well at all, listening in the other room.  It was Clay, who I'm sure is still skeptical about the whole thing and who is now more certain than ever that he doesn't want to live in Old Town, that convinced B to lead with "Killing Me Softly."

Even though there are those that cast a shadow over B's KttD VIII victory, I think the proof is in the audio.   B's vocal warblings sent shutters through the audience.  On several occasions, B himself could hear groans from the crowd.  As his wife, I couldn't help but take on some of his discomfort as note after discordant note rolled off his tongue.  It was much, much worse than any of his bathroom renditions. 

I felt my own embarrassment and tinge of humiliation as I considered the monster that I had unleashed on that unsuspecting crowd of drunk townies and miscreants.  THAT guy was going to come back to our table and sit next to me.  He would probably put his arm around me and lean over for a drunken, triumphant kiss.  I think I know what it's like for those parents of undeniably ugly babies.   In your heart, you know that god is punishing you.  But you smile and pucker up. 

The Cup

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I spent some time this weekend thinking about Dabysan's profile of B as Karaoke to the Death contender.  Dabysan's probably right about me wanting B to win more than B even wants to participate.  What wasn't noted is that the last time B participated, we'd only been dating a couple of months.  B probably would have done just about anything I wanted at that point.  Now that we're married, I don't wield as much power.  This year, he's participating for his own reasons.

So what is my stake in this?  After all, I never participate myself.  Even though I sang in an indie band once upon ten years ago, I have a limited range and could easily mangle any number of songs, making a real go for the cup.  The truth is, I don't have the guts to knowingly and willfully humiliate myself.  I love it that I have so many friends who have such cajones.  I especially tip my hat to Hotrod who barely likes being in public at all, much less on display.

I like to think of myself less svengali and more like the Quincy Jones or Bela Karolyi of bad karaoke.  That none of you have had the balls to follow my past suggestions is too bad for you.  What's got you scared is that Bob will listen to my wisdom if for no other reason than his knowledge of pop music is severely limited, owing to the fact that he was raised in the outback by a pack of wild dingos. 

I also think that Bill has been the only one to hit a perfect 10 in the competition with his choice to marry bad singing with incredibly uncomfortable material.  In my view, it's the total package that truly showcases complete lack of talent. Anyone can murder falsetto (arguably falsetto murders falsetto).  Anyone can squirm and look uncomfortable on stage.  But few can earnestly belt an ode to the ladies of the night in the first person.  Shit, man, there's a reason the cup is named after the guy.

So my overall interest in this is to bear witness to the worst of the worst, and I think I've found the KttD version of Michael Jackson.  Or Mary Lou Retton.  Or whatever.

As the wife of Aussie Bob, I also have the displeasure of hearing his "singing" more often than I care to.  I am perhaps more motivated than usual to have something good come of his breathy, toneless vocalizations.  If I have to listen to it anyway, he might as well be rehearsing for his championship bid.

Overheard at a DC-area yoga class...

Him:  So, has your boss endorsed a candidate yet?

Her:  Nah.  He can't really give his opinion until the nominee is officially selected.

Him (in agreement):  Yeah...

Her:  No matter who he selects, he'll catch a lot of shit from the pro-lifers.

Alexandria Times endorses Barack Obama:

Barack Obama has demonstrated broad understanding of the issues and shown the vision to meet very large challenges ahead.

… Barack Obama came out vigorously and early against US involvement in Iraq, and never waivered. Or as Caroline Kennedy put it last week, Barack is “ a president like my father.”

Alexandria is not Chicago, but as the nation’s 166th largest city we suffer a lot of the same intractable problems that it does. We have homelessness, unfunded federal mandates, immigration problems et al. These issues need attention, and we feel that Obama is best-suited to address them.

Two things pop out about the Alexandria Times' spectacular demonstration of the written word:

1)  Shouldn't it be wavered? 

2)  Can you really say 166th largest city? 

I think I need to go on record that I hate TV news.  Yet I can't help myself.  What do I do when I'm not working too much and not blogging (and shamefully absorbed in Facebook)?  I'm totally sucked into the the Primary Season news coverage, of the misleading, reactionary, and patently made-up variety.

When the news monkeys are not continually harping on non-events, like whether Bill Clinton is speaking in racist code, they're busily ignoring other important happenings like how Hillary Clinton is seeking to change the rules in the middle of the game to better her own chances of winning the Democratic nomination. 

But what irked me the most, and is now giving me great pleasure, is the assertion that it all ends on Super Duper Tuesday Primary Election Blowout.  February 12 was looking like a farce until the race began to tighten and Barak Obama started to pick up key states.  With its ultra-egalitarian approach to delegate appropriations, and these mysterious Super Delegates holding a huge chunk of power, it's looking more and more like the Democratic Party may have to wait until the convention to finally crown its king or queen.

Since the primary gods probably won't shine their beam of light on the nominee on February 5th, those of us in Virginia and Maryland might actually get a say.  And finally some political ads have started running here in George Washington's home town.  Obama and McCain have so far taken the high road, but I'm still counting on Romney to ass it up and take it down a notch. 

I have been waffling for awhile over who I will vote for.  I love the Clintons.  Every since Bill, Al, Hill and Tipper stumped through New Orleans ranting about ending trickledown economics, I have been a fan.  I was 18 and bright-eyed.  Here was this young guy speaking a bit more like one of us.  They were light on experience (save for Al), but full of promise. 

And they delivered.  Within just 4 years of graduating college, I had tripled my salary and bought a condo inside the beltway.  With my extra "fun money" I dabbled in a touring rock band. I went on trips, and had a nice car.  These were the halcyon days, and I love 'em for it.

So, on paper I'm keen for a return to Clintonian prosperity.  They've dug us out of the shit hole before, so I have no doubt they can do it again.  I've never been a Hillary nay-sayer, but I'm aware of her stigma.  My dad could go on for hours about her commie pinko ways.  Still, the idea of a woman making a real go of it is energizing.  As B- prepares for a networking dinner at the Cosmos Club tonight, I'm reminded of how much of Washington is still mostly a boys club.  The DC landmark only opened its doors to women in 1988. 
 
Then again, Barak Obama has a very potent allure.  He's idealistic in the same way that Bill Clinton was in 1992.  Sadly, I'm not the "youth" vote anymore, but I'm no baby boomer.  I get it, and am very attracted to Barak's message of hope.  We definitely need a bit of that in the face of a crushingly bleak outlook not only for our country, but for the world.

But I can't help but think that he might be just a bit naive, if not a lot.  The Clinton's are well accustomed to the mud-slinging and roadblocking.  The worst Obama's been dealt so far are a few childish jabs at his name, and it's certainly not the first time in his life he's taken shit for having a funny name.  I don't think he'll renege on his promises.  I'm just worried he doesn't know what he's in for.  And sometimes I think we need a bully on our side to turn Washington around.  Hillary seems more up for that role.

What is really pushing me towards Obama lately is the fact that the Clintons are playing beneath themselves.  Bill's running around like a crazy ole coot, and Hillary's pretending not to notice.  But this thing with the Florida delegates is really not sitting well with me. She's trying to change the rules mid-game because it suits her outcome. 

This is low, desperate, and smacks of sore loser.  Next thing you know she'll run independent with Nader.  And by the way, now's a good time to tell that guy to eff off, and keep his nose out of it.

It's no surprise I'll be voting for anyone with a big D on their forehead this and just about any go around.  But I haven't decided which of the two Democratic front runners I'd vote for if my primary counted for something.  

It's an exciting time to be calculating and strategizing.  No matter what, the race will make history.  But most pundits seem to believe that in America today a black man still has a better chance than a white woman to win the big seat.  That being said, I'm not convinced America will accept a black man in the white house either. 

I do know this, crying helps no woman succeed in a professional setting.  Period.  I don't care if she merely "teared up."  It's still tears, and it makes her and, I fear, all woman seem weak. 

Never mind whether or not the tears were sincere, this is a serious blow to her credibility to stand up to leaders on a world stage.  Whoever wins the presidency is going to inherit the mess of our reputation, and it's going to be frustrating and grueling to repair.  Is she going to cry the first time she steps off Air Force One to wave at the teaming crowds of protestors?  Is she going to cry when congress won't do what she wants? 

Sure she's a bit worse for wear on the campaign trail, but you don't see Barak Obama or Smug Edwards chocking back a sniffle.  They look like crap, sure, but no crying there.  And Edwards, damn he's a jerk, has already pounced on her in the exact way that you would expect - he's questioning whether she's fit for the job.  That guy's a snake, and he surely stopped short of suggesting that because she's a woman she can't do it, but there are more than enough hillbillies around the country like that one nodding in agreement -- on both sides of the aisle.

This is surely the nail in her coffin, and honestly I'm sad about that.  I like Mrs. Clinton.  I've never thought she deserved her bad rap.  I don't think any of the pundits and "reporters" have ever given her a fair shake, and I don't believe that she acted entitled.  Indeed, I think the tears are proof that she is sincere about wanting to save our country.   I personally prospered a heck of lot under Bill Clinton's presidency, and it sucks even more that Bush's cronyism has set me up to lose it all in a heartbeat.   I want that all back too, Hillary.  I feel your frustration.

But there's no crying in politics.  Definitely not if you're a woman.  With all the advances over the past four decades, woman still have to work twice as hard for 30 cents per dollar less than our male counterparts.  I've personally been overlooked for promotions that were given to clearly unqualified men.   I've also been sexually harassed by a vice president of a very liberal company, someone who had an open reputation for bad behavior and was never once reprimanded for it.

Everyday women have to fight hard to stay in the game, but we don't cry.  We can't, because we'll loose all the ground we've ever gained.   I've bawled my eyes out every night for weeks at the injustices that plagued me in my office.  But I did it at home. 

My entry for Rocktober is to pose a question.  

So, what is that makes people want to start a band?  Is it the love of music, or the promise of fame, fortune, and hot babes?  As much as anyone, including myself,would say it's the former, my hunch is that in 99.99% of the cases, it's the latter.

I mean, before electric guitars, television and American Bandstand, were pre-pubescents across the land begging their parents for a violin so they could start a chamber music quartet? 

Sure, sure there have always been people that aspired to show business, whatever its form at the time.  But what it is about these days that performing something musically in front of a mass audience is now such a pinnacle of success?  And the trashier and less good the music becomes, the more people want to embibe in the industry's excesses. 

Sex, drugs, and yeah!  Sex and drugs!