A Slap in the Face

The article came and went from the CNN.com homepage with little or no fanfare. In the news world, the shelf life of stories, even important ones, has gone from days to hours to minutes. But despite the never-ending barrage of news to which I subject myself every day, this story stuck to the back of my mind like so much peanut butter to the roof of my mouth. This story bubbled up into my consciousness at every free moment, and made me as irritable as if I had forgotten to eat all that time. So, three weeks later, I can no longer ignore the irrepressible urge I have to write about this, no matter what may come of it.

The headline read "Saudi judge: It's OK to slap spendthrift wives", which I first thought might be one of CNN's cute wordplay-style headlines. Surely by "slap" they didn't mean that a judicial official in a civilized nation would have declared it "OK" for men to physically strike their wives for any perceived offense, let alone overspending, right? But no, that was exactly what they meant. The actual quote was from Judge Hamad Al-Razine who said (and I'm not making this up) at a conference on domestic violence, that "if a person gives SR 1,200 [$320] to his wife and she spends 900 riyals [$240] to purchase an abaya [the black cover that women in Saudi Arabia must wear] from a brand shop and if her husband slaps her on the face as a reaction to her action, she deserves that punishment."

So, let me get this straight: an educated and appointed judicial official (for the record, the process for appointment to the Saudi judiciary is extremely comprehensive and robust) in one of the world's richest "first-world" nations, as a representative of its government, when addressing widespread domestic violence in that nation at an academic conference dedicated thereto, declared that it was acceptable for a man to physically strike his wife for spending more than three quarters of her allowance on a brand name version of the cover she is required to wear in public? And what's more that she'd be asking for it?! In the immortal words of Mugatu, I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!

But, after I allowed my alarm and disbelief to cool (with the help of a very level-headed muse), I found that my real problem with this story was not the story itself, but rather the startling absence of any real reaction to it. In particular, there were two things about the relative silence that accompanied this announcement which troubled and continue to trouble me:

1. Not hearing anything from the American Saudi community; and

2. Not hearing anything from the United States government.

Silence from the Saudis

The traditional response from a group of people who have been unfairly represented in the media is to speak out loudly and quickly, and to let everyone know that that is absolutely not who they are. There is no guarantee that such a declaration will sway public opinion - but a failure to do so appears for all the world like agreement. In the weeks and months following September 11th, there was a strong collective voice from the global Muslim community that was quick to point out that radical Islam was not Islam. Their scholars identified the principles of the world's largest religion which had been distorted into the anti-American jihad which bore those terrible attacks. And although there are still many hate-mongers who cannot be swayed from believing that all Muslims are American-hating terrorists - they are in the vast minority.

There was no such response from the Saudi community; no declaration from the government, no statement from American Saudi groups; just a seemingly damning silence. I don't want to believe that Judge Al-Razine speaks for all or even the majority of Saudi Arabians. I don't want to believe that in 2009 there is a first world nation where the large scale subjugation of half of its population is not only permissible, but encouraged. I don't want to believe that there is still a place in the world where marriage is viewed as an ownership proposition, and where domestic violence is viewed as an acceptable form of family dispute resolution. But what choice do I have? The announcement wasn't meant with outrage by the American Saudi community. There was no assurance from the Saudi ambassador that his is not a nation of close-minded misogynists hiding behind religious idealism. There were no pleas from Saudi scholars for the government to distance themselves from the Judge, and no open letters from now naturalized Saudis decrying a gross misrepresentation. There was nothing except the deafening silence of tacit approval; a terrifyingly passive acknowledgment.

So, if I'm wrong, and I pray that I am, please - someone, anyone, step up and let me know, because I'm not sure what to think if I'm not.

Silence from the United States Government

There is no doubt that we are living in an era of change. President Obama rode into office on a wave of hope and inspiration, the likes of which we haven't seen for decades. Among the many campaign promises which were turned into action in the first hundred days of his administration, the President has moved forward to close the detention center at Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, and forbidden the use of torture by the United States government. There was no doubt that President Obama held human rights in the highest regard, and not just for Americans, but for all citizens of the world. But how can his administration be concerned and we, as a nation, be overwrought about how a couple hundred prisoners (many of whom were innocent) were mistreated at Guantanamo Bay when there are 13 million women (all of whom are innocent) being subjected to the antiquated and barbaric subjugation that Judge Al-Razine espouses?

The human rights abuses in Saudi Arabia are certainly no mystery to the U.S. Government; as it has been on the Human Rights Watch List for as long was we have had one. But, the regional and economic importance of an alliance with the country, combined with recent progress and dedication to some of the more egregious and systemic violations has dictated a U.S. response of "wait and see". But after the cavernous reticence following a declaration of state-approved wife beating, it would appear that we're doing our diligent observation through a blindfold. How valuable does a nation need to be to us for us to ignore their judiciary authorizing nationwide spousal abuse?

Would it be too much to ask, for the tens of thousands of Saudis who are granted visas to the United States each year (over 30,000 in 2008), that it be made clear to them that the slapping of one's wife for overspending is not only the sort of thing which can make you unwelcome in our country, but also get you a unique tour of one of our correctional facilities? Does it not bear mentioning that although we are a nation literally built on religious tolerance that we are also the land of the free? I am afraid that our own silence misrepresents just how far our "tolerance" extends, and I fear that Saudi households in our own country are hiding an ugly truth of this storied culture.

With a federal administration seemingly unafraid to speak up authoritatively on anything, this failure to respond is all the more shocking.

* * *

Perhaps I'm being a bit of a Pollyanna here. I haven't traveled and seen much of the world, civilized or otherwise, and I've spent a lifetime around intelligent, capable and independent women who make the traditional Saudi system seem about as viable as a geocentric universe or a flat planet Earth. So I cannot imagine that an entire nation, what's more an entire group of nations, with access to education, technology and the knowledge of the world's scholars could continue to live in the ignorance that Judge Al-Razine so deftly displayed. But if I'm wrong, and outcry and censure continue their absence, perhaps I've at lease unwittingly come across the one thing that could help every Saudi man who sits silently by and lets this outdated barbarism continue - a good slap in the face.

The Golden Yield

A great deal of thought and prose has been dedicated to the notion that traditional "good manners" are an increasingly rare practice these days. So much so that I'll add little to the intellectual lexicon of commentary to note it any further. There's no doubt that the culture of self-importance that we have imbued in our last two generations has finally become the dominant paradigm in personal conduct (or in other words, has come home to roost). And since many of the small matters of politeness are just simple consideration of others, it's no surprise that they've begun to fade as the average person's sphere of awareness extends little further than their nose. This refusal to acknowledge the rest of the body politic, no matter their proximity, by these casual sociopaths, however, has gone further than just eradicating polite conduct, it has now made basic navigation of the metropolitan world around us, if not impossible, impossibly maddening.

Elevator Loading

Elevators have always been awkward spaces - but the notion that they ought to remain largely silent has thankfully survived the current wave of de-gentrification. However, the scene surrounding the exit and entry of these devices has become impossibly frustrating. When the elevator car arrives, the people trying to get on rush the door like it's a day-after-Thanksgiving Wal-Mart opening and the people trying to get off the elevator are pushing through the crowd like teenage pop-stars through paparazzi. This inevitably leads to a bevy of unnecessary and uncomfortable touching, making the whole process a lot more awkward than need be.

Honestly, is this so hard to figure out? The elevator only has one door; meaning one way on, and one way off. Which means that before you get on, you have to let everyone get off. And yet, every time I get off an elevator, I'm greeted by the dumbfounded looks of oncoming riders who actually appear to be surprised to find there are people riding the elevator the opposite direction and who now need to disembark (foiling their well-laid loading plans). What's more, they are so remiss to give up their position in the de facto loading queue, they actually force me to push my way through them rather than allowing me to dismount directly. Can someone please explain this to me? There are no "good seats" on an elevator, and, in fact, getting in first may actually be a disdavantage, especially if you're anticipating a short ride. And even if you don't get on, there will be another one along shortly. So why is everyone crowding around the door like it's the "General Admission" entrance to an Aerosmith show? I recently watched a standoff between just such a crowd and a woman in wheelchair that actually remained a standoff while elevator doors closed on her twice. At which point, a young man stepped aside to let her through (while the rest of the crowd poured inside).

I mean, far from simply being inconsiderate (which could just be attributed to moral decay and general malaise) they're actually slowing down the process by not letting people off first. These people aren't just spatially unaware, they're spatially stupid.

Sidewalk/Hallway Stopping

Pedestrian walkways have been traditionally every so much more efficient than roadways. They can accomodate a much larger number of people (even shoulder to shoulder) and a slight bump into another person isn't accompanied by a thousand dollar repair bill, insurance claim paperwork, or a possible court appearance. It's easy to get in and get out of the flow, and you can easily get to the side if you need to stop or slow down. I remember how terrifying this sometimes seemed as a small child - when all the world was taller than I, and all that I could glean from the experience was the strict imperative that I'd better keep moving. But somewhere along the way, this imperative got lost.

I now regularly walk behind people who either (1) simply stop, backing up pedestrian traffic like a keystone cops or Benny Hill scene, or (2) walk at a speed I previously thought only achievable on slow-motion replays. What's more, they commonly engage in these behaviors in small groups, walking the width of path/hall - making getting around them difficult if not impossible. I mean, I understand that we don't actually have eyes on the backs of our heads, but have our attention spans gotten so short that we have actually forgotten their are folks walking behind us? Is it too much to ask them to get the hell out of the way if they're going to stop? I imagine these same folks don't just park their car in the middle of street when they've gotten where they're going - they find a parking spot. Which is all I'd ask that they do with their ass and their posse.

But perhaps "parking" behavior is something that must be socialized into people. I imagine that if there wasn't a penalty for putting your vehicle in the wrong place, these people might actually park them in the middle of the street. Pedestrian parking tickets? I mean, if it cost you thirty bucks every time you decided to act like the only person on the sidewalk, I bet'd you get your butt off the side next time you tried to actually fire up that mush between your ears and the overload of trying to simultaneously walk and think actually made both processes seize.

Your Music

One of the best things about the iPod revolution is that is has many of us dancing and walking around to whatever music we like, as loud as we want, without disturbing the world around us. We can experience the world with our own soundtrack, just like as the guy sitting next to us can do the same, even if he's doing it to Miley Cyrus and High School Musical 3 songs (which also saves him from having me smash his iPod into a million pieces). Which is not to say that I'm not open to indulge the musical tastes of others - just that I'd like to choose when and from whom I do so.

Additionally, I'm also not opposed to loud music. In fact, I love it loud. I regularly turn up my own car stereo loud enough that I'm not subjected to my own tone-deaf warblings, and last December I sat in the sixth row of the AC/DC concert without hearing protection. Believe me, I'm not some old fuddy-duddy who wants everyone to turn it down. But, I can think of two instances where I definitely shouldn't have to listen to your music: (1) when I'm walking on the sidewalk of a street downtown; and (2) when I'm sitting in my own car with the windows up.

Yet, these are two places where I'm regularly subjected to the predictably absurd musical tastes of the local teenagers, who seem less bent on sharing their taste in bands than on assuring me of their own importance, as though I assign some measure of influence or coolness simply to one's volume. In reality, the effect is just the opposite, and I'm left wondering (as is the surrounding public) if some of the excess hair gel has actually seeped into your ears and brain, limiting both your hearing ability and musical judgment. Do us both a favor and turn it down.

* * *

The downside of raising multiple generations who are completely vested in their own importance is lack of room in most of their psyches for the importance of others. Far from bemoaning the loss of social graces, this behavioral tragedy is actually making the landscape more difficult to navigate for everyone.

Traffic, whether in the street, the sidewalk or the building, is not something that's going to get solved for us. There aren't going to be less people to deal with in the future, there are going to be more. If it isn't obvious by now, the looking-out-for-number-one paradigm hasn't really worked out. Maybe the only new traffic rule we need isn't so new after all, besides, whether "golden" or not, getting the hell out of the way of the others, as you would have them get the hell out of yours, has a nice ring to it.

The Unfortunate Tao of Kobe

I have adopted and loved sports teams in almost every place I have ever lived; the Cubs from my early childhood in Illinois, the Broncos and Avalanche from growing up in Colorado, the Orioles from my years in Maryland (including watching Cal Ripken break the greatest sports record ever), the Hartford Whalers (although I just missed them) from my brief stop in Connecticut, the Predators from Orlando (am I the only who misses Arena Football?), the Jaguars from Jacksonville (a city has never loved a team so much), and most recently the Dodgers and Kings from my time in L.A. But to be an true Angeleno is to love the Lakers, as much as it is to love the Yankees for any "real" New Yorker. But despite my best and most recent attempts, I cannot love the Lakers, and a true Angeleno I may never be.

Last night, I watched the Lakers, or the group of otherwise forgettable mooks that play basketball with Kobe Bryant, finally do away with a Houston Rockets team that was more triage than trying. The victory was inevitable, and had all the drama of watching a vintage Mike Tyson beat up some scrappy, young amateur with three of his four limbs broken. But what makes me unable to love the Lakers, or even to love the transcendent talent that is Kobe, is how classless the entire thing had become by that point.

I worry, in writing this, that I become a “sports blogger”, which would mean two things: (1) I will alienate any of the headier folks that read my rantings, who relegate professional sports to the same part of their brain and personal schedule where monster trucks and the semi-gross songs they learned in summer camp go; and (2) I will unwittingly become a part of the fastest growing receptacle for useless, poor and hyperbolic prose that exists on the Internet. But, in considering whether or not to write this particular piece, I found that there was a greater message in my refusal to watch or cheer for my hometown team – I can only hope that you, dear reader, will endure the sports context in which it is encased. I promise it will be worth the ride.

The scene, however, requires a bit of explanation – because, the NBA playoffs do not have the cultural relevance that they did twenty years ago, and I fear that without it, you won’t have the foggiest idea what I’m talking about. The Lakers have been the prohibitive favorite to win the NBA championship all year, since their new young center (whose absence was largely blamed for their failure to win in last year’s Finals) was finally healthy. Led by mega-star Kobe Bryant, they spent a season vanquishing impossible foes, beating the reigning champion Celtics on Christmas Day (and stopping their 22-game win streak) and handing Cleveland (home of the league’s other superstar, Lebron James) their only home defeat. The Houston Rockets, on the other hand, lost half of their “dynamic duo” of stars, Tracy McGrady, mid-season – and the unflappable Yao Ming (who has the personality of your average slab of cheese) seemed unlikely to be able to shoulder the responsibility of winning on his own. The offseason addition of Ron Artest, the Association’s most polarizing character, had brought a cautious optimism – because the team seemed desperate for the one thing Ron could bring, intensity, but the instability that accompanied it (and which infamously drove him into the stands in Detroit and into a fistfight with fans), always seemed to put him and his team a moment away from disaster.

The Lakers won the Western Division title by an astonishing 11 games (in an 82-game season), which to put in some perspective, would be like Secretariat winning the Kentucky Derby by over 110 lengths. The Rockets improbably finished as the fifth seed, winning without, arguably, their best player, and held together by heart, duct tape, and a very good coach. The Lakers dispatched the Utah Jazz in the first round like so much lint from their jackets, where the Rockets MASH unit surprisingly outplayed and out-muscled a younger Portland team that looked like it may be only a season or two from being the best team in the league. So, when the Rockets showed up at the STAPLES Center a few weeks ago for Game 1, for a best of seven series with the Lake show, many of us had them penciled in for only four more games, admiring their pluck, but feeling that a good effort can only take you so far. Then they won the game. And it wasn’t close.

The Lakers have a long-held association with the tagline “showtime” – which in some circles is associated with their glory years in the eighties (Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, etc), but for most fans has never really left the arena. Their star player, Kobe Bryant has been one of the league’s best individual players for nearly a decade, and has drawn more comparisons to Michael Jordan than any other player in memory. He is, however, a player that only Los Angeles could love. One of the last and few players who came into the NBA straight from high school, he plays with a ferocity that looks ever so much more like a chip on his shoulder than a mantle of greatness whose responsibility has been passed to him. His anger looks like petulance more than fury – and he has always appeared much more eager to pass the buck than to demand that it stops with him. But, he’s good; very good – even great, although, I expect that most of us expect the greatness requires an off-the-court persona far more ingratiating than his. He can, however, usually back up the trash he talks, and once he’s gotten you down, his ability to satisfy the carnivorous and hungry crowd, in front of which he plays, with a splendidly brutal death-blow is nearly unmatched. The problem is, he has no reluctance for the crown he wears, and can’t even be bothered to pretend as much – and I so I cannot love Kobe, or watching Kobe play.

The American love affair with reluctant leaders began with our very first, when George Washington famously tried to beg out of being the President. Now, I haven’t read the prevailing biographies to know if this was actually the case – but I like the idea, as I think we all do. We love the humility of our heroes, their selfless moments as they attribute their success to their mothers, their Gods or their teammates. Whether contrived or not, it helps us to feel as though we are somehow, no matter how trivially, connected to their greatness, and as though we might find it, similarly, within ourselves. I am not so naïve as to think that professional athletes and celebrities are not creatures of tremendous ego – but I still appreciate the effort to at least try and attempt normalcy. Michael Jordon was long ago revealed to not be the saint we all believed him to be – but on-stage, on-court, he was. Every time I watched him play, I immediately wanted to pick up a basketball. Every time I watch Kobe play I feel a little bit smaller, and like going to bed early – desperate for the inspiration of a new day to wash the thin film of despair off of me that watching winners win poorly always seems to leave.

The real testament to the Tao of Kobe is the fact the entire Lakers roster seems to have adopted his personality. Although many of them have experienced personal, individual glory before – they all seem content, now, to be faceless members of the ensemble cast. What’s more, Kobe seems completely content to keep them there. Their talent as a group is often enough to carry them to victory – and, as a result, it often has to. You see, the Lakers take games off, because they cannot always be bothered to put the effort forward. Having become fully invested in their own greatness, there feel no need to respectfully fight lesser opponents with their best labors – especially when the loss is tolerable, and still permissible of an ultimate championship. The Lakers are the Mighty Casey of basketball, content to let two strikes go by, confident of their ability to crush the third into the seats. Such was the case with Houston.

After three games, the Lakers had won two, and the Rockets only remaining star player, Yao, was out for the rest of the season with a fractured foot. The inevitability of a Laker win was overwhelming and the drama of the series seemed to fade palpably as the news was reported. And then the Rockets won again, this time in Houston. And it wasn’t close.

With three games remaining, it was all tied up, and the drama of an impossible Lakers defeat, re-energized the series. The Lakers went back to STAPLES and won by 40 – looking altogether the champions they had been touted to be. But realizing that they only had to win one of the final two games, took another night off in Houston and lost for a third time, and it wasn’t close.

Not even the magic of a Game 7 could hide the predetermined nature of the deciding contest. The betting line was thirteen points, which is Vegas’ way of saying “not a chance in hell.” As it turned out, a healthy number of sports pundits had warned of the fatal effect that a Laker loss would have on Kobe’s permanent reputation – which, we collectively discovered, is really what makes him tick. Like a late-career Barry Bonds, obsessed with his own place in history, Kobe produces game-days efforts only as edifices to his own greatness – to mark the road he expects us all to follow to his election to the Hall of Fame, and permanent cultural adoration. And so, threatened with the only true thing he fears, irrelevance, Kobe drove himself and his forgettable posse to a victory – whose empty celebration seemed caricatured even as it was happening.

In that moment, it was finally clear to me that no matter how much time I spend in Los Angeles, I will never be a Laker fan. But L.A. loves this team, and they love Kobe. L.A. loves its front runners, and its success stories. L.A. only bothers with tragedies to the extent they can be media vehicles for the talents of its stars – never intending to glean any purpose or message. L.A. doesn’t root for the underdog – because underdogs beat winners – and this is a town that not only loves its winners, it worships them. The “scene” crowd packs into STAPLES Center as if it were the Roman Coliseum – there to see a scripted massacre, and to bask in the glow of its spectacle to assure themselves of their own importance.

But I didn’t find indifference last night. I found loathing. I found myself, after finally trying to count myself a fan, actually rooting against the Lakers. I found myself wishing for them to lose and to lose badly, under the most embarrassing of circumstances. The internal debate which had raged for years about whether to try and love the Lakers or to finally embrace my disdain was decided. And it wasn't close.

Rollercoaster... of love

This past week I did something that was vehemently uncharacteristic of me on two counts. I spent most of the day on Thursday at Six Flags Magic Mountain in sunny Valencia, California. First of all, I'm not the kind to miss work and leave town without an occasion. I've famously never taken a real vacation, and the only stated purpose of my jaunt to the thrill ride capital of the state was simply because. Second, I'm acrophobic (fear of heights... and acrobats), so I'm not the sort who usually volunteers to be dropped from high places simply for the "fun" of it. Which is not to say that I'm a wallflower of any sort, but it suffices to say that skydiving is not on my life's "to-do list." But among the many positive influences my girlfriend has had on me, she pushes me to do things that are good for me despite my reluctance, and just before noon we were pulling up to a sparsely full parking lot in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere, save for the towering metal edifices of fear that loomed just beyond the fences in front of us.

To put my trepidation regarding roller coasters in some perspective, I didn't ride my first one until I was 27 years old. And I remember it like it was yesterday. I was in the Navy, and accompanying some crew members from my submarine on a trip to Orlando, where we were planning to spend a couple of days at the Universal Studios theme parks, a couple of nights galavanting about town, and the remaining time eating and sleeping (ah, the days of wine and cheese). But, near the end of our first day, we met up with a couple of young ladies who agreed to meet us the following day at Islands of Adventure, the thrill-ride side of Universal. The day started off well and we were palling around the park like a group of old friends in no time. But at some point, the ladies indicated they wanted to ride The Incredible Hulk, a lime green mile of terror whose claim to fame was launching its riders at full speed from halfway up the first incline, and my friends (having no knowledge of my fear of such things) were happy to oblige. As we stood in line, the increasing helplessness of my situation combined with the sounds and screams of those ahead of us being launched into oblivion piqued my fear immeasurably. I was impossibly silent, and spent the whole of my effort on forcing a half-smile despite my impeding doom. Upon finally reaching my destined seat, I tightened my shoulder harness down to the point of painfully crushing me into the plastic "cushion" and any illusion of excitement vanished from my face, along with any color. But after 90 seconds of emasculating screams, I not only found myself alive, but actually exhilarated, and back in line three more times that day for the same trip.

If it hadn't been for a petite, pretty young girl in line with me whom I was desperate to not look foolish in front of, I probably wouldn't have ridden a roller coaster to this day. A similar circumstance got me to jump off of the 10-meter platform at the Naval Academy's diving well, where it was a prerequisite for graduation. Trust me, if you've never stared down 33 feet into space with nothing to stop you but water while wearing only a pair of ill-fitting swim trunks, rest assured that it's farther than you think. The mechanical drone of the swimming instructor and the resounding slap-thuds of my classmates striking the water at over 30 miles per hour had made the scene surreal, and my fear impractical. But just before my turn came up, and I began to turn around and head back down the tower stairs, I saw a female classmate of mine that I had long been desperate to impress. Before I knew it, and against my better judgment, I had turned back around and taken five large steps, the fifth into what I expected to be oblivion. A few moments later I was gathering myself at the side of the pool (having not quite gotten my legs together before impact, and paying the resultant price with my ability to breathe), but nonetheless blissful that I had survived. Although I'm certain she doesn't know it, I have that young, female midshipman to thank, as much as anyone, for my successful completion of my degree requirements in Annapolis. Though I never did get her attention.

On Thursday, I first rode Tatsu, Deja Vu, Batman, Ridder's Revenge, and Scream much to my delight. I was hoarse from screaming and just the slightest bit queasy from being turned upside down so many times that I had lost count. Deja Vu was truthfully mortifying, but at least the harnesses had been substantial enough to give me some measure of security. You see, ever since my first ride on the Hulk, I had only two rules for rides that I would not brave: one, it must have shoulder harnesses (no lap bars allowed) and two, no free falling. To that point, I just coudn't rationalize having half of my body unsecured when being hurtled through space, or evoking the terror that falling always gives me, simply for a five minute high. I'll just take a Vicodin and a Red Bull, thanks. But the tallest and most storied ride at Magic Mountain is Goliath, which also, of course, turned out to be my girlfriend's favorite. Goliath boasts a 26 story drop and an 85 mph plunge, and as luck would have it, with no shoulder harness in sight. With Deja Vu, I had already braved the only real free fall in the park, but it had only lasted for a moment, and Goliath meant a minute and a half without the roller coaster equivalent of my Wubby, the locking shoulder harness.

There was, however, and as before, a pretty girl whom I was desperate to not disappoint, close at hand. And in a moment there I was again, trudging up the line towards what felt like impending doom, uncharacteristically quiet, and gripping the hand holding mine as though it would be the last time. After sitting in my death chariot, I pushed my lap bar down as far as it would go, sucked in as hard as I could (which doesn't create nearly as much room as it used to), and pushed it down again. I was wedged into my seat like a rubber door stop, and spent the few moments before we began the long ascent to the tallest point in the park trying to find places to hold on. As we climbed, I settled on a death grip that included my right arm curled under the lap bar and my left arm pulling my chest down towards my right, and as we crested over the peak, I stopped breathing all together.

Fortunately, the folks that run Magic Mountain have mounted the automated photo system for Goliath at the base of that first terrible plummet, which was able to capture me at one of the least flattering moments of my adult life: my eyes half closed, my entire upper body taught in a death clutch and my face unflatteringly twisted by both fear and screaming.

But I survived Goliath, my first non-shoulder harness coaster (an introduction on par with having the Hulk be my first coaster of any sort) and the resulting bravado allowed me to close the day with a visit to the Viper and Superman, all told braving the fastest eight coasters in the park.

The rollercoaster is as American as apple pie, and has served as the metaphor for everything from ill-advised romantic relationships to the stock market, to the trials and tribulations of adolescence. But for me, they represent something much simpler, the unknown and the fear of its anticipation. Safety statistics regarding these rides have the same effect that bar exam passage rates for Stanford grads and skydiving fatality numbers did. In that, the fear of being the one person who beats the odds was much greater than falling into the overwhelming majority. But it turns out that hitting the wall with the dart is much easier than hitting the bullseye, and I've been fine every time.

Looking back on the day I realized my visit to the park was more than simple random leisure, and had actually taught me a few things:

1. No matter how old I get, there always be an enduring empowerment in having a pretty girl around, which will likely continue to catalyze my triumph over my greatest fears.

2. The same cannot be said for the viability of my joints, my cardio-vascular endurance or my tolerance for stupid people.

3. If you're about to do something that frightens you along with other people, look around. If you see anyone that's likely to have to been a Hannah Montana or Jonas Brothers concert in the past six months and doesn't appeared to be scared, tighten up - you're being a sissy.

4. Theme parks are much more tolerable during the weekdays and before school lets out for the summer, as is any event where there are minimal numbers of teenagers and mouth-breathing families of seven around.

5. Vacations are a pretty solid experience, even if they only last a day. I guess Ferris Bueller really had something there.

and 6. Terror, like Vegas, Vicodin and Vodka, in small doses, can be exceptionally refreshing.

The Unforgiven

The impression that you make on people with your appearance is a funny thing. Despite the voluminous media that has been devoted to some of the extraordinary physical transformations that people go through – even over relatively short spans of time (drastic weight change, growth or even plastic surgery), we tend to look at one another and expect that those we see have, for the most part, always looked as they do today – if perhaps a slightly younger version. It is this strange phenomenon that I believe contributes to the disbelief people express when I tell them that I was a tremendously slight and ugly kid when I was in high school. And always seems to further confound them further that I haven’t quite let it all go. You see, today, I’m athletic, social, and at least what a few past lady friends have found to be attractive. But I’ll always be, in some small part, that same kid who never wore a prom tux, a varsity jacket or a genuine smile.

Centaurus was a quintessential American high school. It sat in the middle of two small, sister towns along the highway corridor between two much more important cities: Boulder and Denver. And in the late 1980’s, for the children of Louisville and Lafayette, Colorado, it was the center of the universe. Of course back then, before there was an “internet”, and before cell phones where smaller than a briefcase, high school was the biggest thing in the world. Rival high schools, just a few miles away, were places of myth and legend – and worlds unto themselves; state championships were brass rings of incomparable measure; and college was a Valhalla whose threshold could only be crossed by besting the high school gauntlet. In this social crucible, personalities were formed, and social status was nearly permanently established. It was here that you would find yourself amongst the groups that would forever define you: motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wasteoids, dweebies, dickheads, etc. These were the most important four years of your life – and I spent the first two of them under five feet tall and less than a hundred pounds.

The concept of bullies, at least in the high school sense, has become an outdated one. With today’s teenagers armed like North African guerillas bent on a coup, pushing and shoving in the hallway hardly seems intimidating. But in 1988, the greatest fear of every fourteen-year-old boy was high school “initiation”. As it turned out, there was little, if any, truth to the rumored atrocities that would be perpetrated on us upon setting foot on campus. But it was the fear of it that kept us looking over our shoulders. There were allegations of cattle prodding, horrible violations with shaving cream, and being urinated on in large pits. Most of my classmates were just getting through puberty, and hardly equipped to resist the man-children that seemed to populate Centaurus’ senior class, and I was laughably far behind them. The terror was overwhelming. And it did its part to keep us quiet and compliant.

(I suspect the real purpose of this “tradition” was to separate us from our female classmates, to which end it was exceptionally effective, but I digress)

But a couple of weeks into it, we’d figured out that there was not a parade of horrors waiting for us if we lingered too long after school or in the wrong part of the hall. The mass terror subsided, and the bullies began to do what bullies do, work out their own inadequacies on the weakest members of the herd. I should note that in addition to my target-friendliness by just being a part of the freshman class, as I mentioned above, I was staggeringly slight (even for 4’11”) and had a mouth that greatly outsized its attached body. The only defense I had, which turns out is the only upside to being one inch from legal classification as a “dwarf”, was being very quick and difficult to catch. Watching football players chase me around a crowded hallway was not unlike watching kids trying to catch a greased pig at a rodeo.

On one memorable occasion, a couple of seniors, who had heard the rumor that I had never been successfully “trashcanned”, waited until after the hallways had cleared after school to begin their chase. The lack of obstacles greatly reduced my advantage, and after spending a good minute suspended upside-down over a particularly nasty can and holding on, white-knuckled, for dear life – a teacher heard the commotion and broke up the affair. I never did end up in that trashcan.

I suffered a great number of social indignities that year, and for that matter, in the following three. I never had a girlfriend, never attended a school dance, and never played on a varsity team. I was mocked, tripped, jostled and locked in my locker. I was ignored, laughed at, and emasculated in nearly every way. And seventeen years later, I have forgiven mostly everyone that was ever involved in these affairs. After all, we were just kids and I was an easy target. I often times ended up asking for it (my mouth writing checks my body couldn’t cash) and it was usually far more embarrassing than it was actually painful. But there’s one person I haven’t forgiven. There’s one I won’t forgive. There’s one that I have always had in the back of my mind as I have gotten bigger and stronger each year since. There’s one that I’d like to see again, not to ask him why, or to let him see what I’ve become, but simply to walk up and punch in the mouth.

James.

James was a pioneer in a way. He was a douchebag long before everyone else was doing it; the kind of kid who beats up animals and little kids. Because James was also small for his age, but still wanted everyone to think he was tough. So he made me his favorite target. Shoving me hard in the hallways, against lockers and walls. Always nominally inviting me to fight him back, knowing I’d never take up the challenge. It was always a public spectacle, but never long enough for him to get caught. I always left feeling, impossibly enough, even smaller. There are a lot of things I don’t remember about my time at Cenaturus High, but there are lot of things I remember about James.

I remember his ill-considered and neon-accented preppy clothes. I remember his spiky hair. I remember the evil smile he had on his face every time he confronted me, like some caricature of a bully. Because there was no good-natured intent in James’ hazing. He beat up on me as though he had to, as though my very existence was an affront to his being. I remember the terror and the helplessness. I remember my voice shaking as I yelled, “Fuck you!” after him, and brought on the worst beating I ever got in those hallways. I remember that I promised myself, promised myself that someday I’d give James his.

We’ve since had our reunions, and we’ll have another in just a few years. Much of the intensity of the old social castes has faded away, although I expect that I’ll always feel just a little bit awkward talking to Dea, that Brett can still throw a football about a mile, and that Jack and I are much more alike than we’ll ever admit. After all, we’re all on the home stretch of our 30’s and, for the most part, have become the people we are going to be. Centaurus is still standing in little Lafayette, but now the hallways are full of text messaging and skinny jeans and the hazing has been legislated all but completely away. There are no more hallway bullies, there are no more trashcannings and no one’s been stuffed in a locker in ten years.

The mileage on our memories allows us to appreciate our experiences for their greater purpose – to make us who are today. So, since I have the great fortune of liking who I’ve become, I can look at the vast majority of my past, both the pain and the pleasure, as a good thing – because without it, I never would have made it to where I’m at.

But not James. Because I expect he never really gave much of a damn about the things he did, and I don’t give much of a damn about forgiving him. I don’t want to hear about “two wrongs”, “fire with fire” or any of that “turn the other cheek” stuff. Thankfully, there’s not much of that little freshman left in this grown up body. I expect there’s just enough to put James on his ass, leave Centaurus behind forever and find a little peace in keeping a promise.