Breakfast with Pandora

Beauty and the vice presidency

Yesterday I spent quite a bit of time-- more than warranted, I am sure-- in studying photos of the Republican vice-presidential nominee, Sarah Palin.

Governor Palin is beautiful, no denying it. She was a beauty queen in 1984, and there is a photo of her from that time that confirms she was a legitimate contender. Google image her name and everything will come up.

What of it? Who cares? It's Palin's record in office that we are most concerned with, isn't it? We're most concerned with why she's qualified to step in at a moment's notice, and become the leader of a great superpower. That will influence our vote most, won't it?

Not hardly. Male politicians routinely use their good looks and/or charm and/or flirtiness to influence votes. Wasn't it Dan Quayle who was considered quite the hottie once upon a time?

The more I think about it, the more I realize that Palin is unique in American presidential politics. She is the second woman to be nominated for vice president by a major party-- Geraldine Ferraro was the first, in 1984. But she is the first and only woman that I remember at any time who is a big-time politician and also strikingly attractive.

Ferraro ran when I was an adult, and no one that I know of discussed her looks. She was sort of tough as nails, and that's as far as it went. That Democratic ticket was doomed from the beginning.

When Hillary Clinton came on the scene in 1992, I thought of her as beautiful, but in a noble rather than erotic way. She looked like someone worthy of being queen-- I mean, of a nation. I had friends who worked for the Clinton campaign who gushed about her character. When you looked into her eyes you saw caring rather than flirtiness.

In this campaign, Hillary has sometimes looked grim and exhausted, nowhere near her regal self of a decade and a half ago. We are all older.

Palin is radiant. She is very young for a vice-presidential nominee, 44, and has come into a polished beauty that women in their twenties can't have. She is not scarred by Washington ambition, and looks as if she got her eight hours on a sleep number bed.

She does not look like a queen-- of a nation, I mean. Her eyes flirt. The talk show host Craig Ferguson suggested "naughty librarian." Aphrodite redux.

At the same time she is a mom. She is pro-life and apparently is going to appeal to the evangelical Christian vote. She's going to bring the Moral Majority squarely back into Senator McCain's camp.

So quite apart from Palin's policy positions, there is this wild card that will be played in the election, a card that has never been played before by a woman in a presidential race.

What will America make of this potent combination of pagan eroticism and wholesome stay-at-home mom integrity?

The story possibilities are endless.

But it's clear that the McCain campaign has decided to counter Barack Obama's star power with its own pop culture, Internet-era power play. Obama has inspired the nation with, among other things, his rhetoric and his appearance. History was made this week because of Obama's appearance. So the Republicans balanced that with their own bold move having to do with appearance.

We'll find out soon about the rhetoric part of Governor Palin's campaigning package. She made mincemeat out of her opponents in Alaska. I can't imagine what a Palin-Biden debate would look like. That just doesn't compute at the moment.

A friend of mine once said that politics was the greatest spectator sport in the world. At times like these, one is inclined to believe him. I just wish the greatest spectator sport in the world didn't have to lead to thousands upon thousands of our best and brightest being killed or maimed overseas-- not to mention hundreds of thousands of civilian citizens of that overseas land-- so that a few megalomaniacs could satisfy their desire for shaping reality.

This fall, I'm voting for the guy that opposed that war, all appearances aside.

On getting sucked in

It's quite possible I'd be blogging more if this blessed Typepad composer would cooperate a little better, but I've diagnosed the problem: my obsolete OS and antiquated computer. I need a new machine, and pronto.

That is not the subject of this post, however. The subject is getting sucked into the Turner Classic Movie channel when there is revising to do on the myth course.

I don't usually get sucked in for whole movies anymore, because I don't have the patience to sit still for that long. But Once a Thief, with Ann-Margret and Alain Delon, barked at me to park my fanny and wait for the inevitable ending.

Movies that promise sad endings are my weakness, and have been ever since I taught 9th grade English and wept after seeing the Ben Kingsley Twelfth Night in class with its deceptive and delicious happy ending.

"Why are you crying?" someone asked.

"Because I am sad," I said.

I am now much happier when everyone falls dead at the end of stories.

This one is about a former mobster, Eddie Peydak (Delon), who is trying to go straight for the sake of his bombshell wife, Kristine (Ann-Margret), and his four-year old daughter Kathy (Tammy Locke).

Peydak is hounded by the Fury-like Inspector Vido (Van Heflin), who was once shot by Peydak in a heist years before and saw him walk.

And all this is set in 60's San Francisco, another weakness of mine.

It's all very hard-boiled, film-noir, and engrossing, with excellent performances from everyone, though I spent much of the movie trying to figure out who was playing Peydak, because he was supposed to be Italian but had a French accent. (Nor is Peydak an Italian name. Strange.)

The end is very Greek. Someone has to die. Who will it be? Ann-Margret screams and babbles incoherently. Her big 60's do is all out of place.

Then you go out of the house and the evening is coming on and the heat of the day is past, and the sky is creamy blue with gold-tipped clouds. You thank Zeus for your life, sigh, get the mail (no bills-- hallelujah), phone a friend, plan dinner, and wait for the moon to come up. The other night, it was spectacular.

I also was sucked in for Now, Voyager recently, with Bette Davis, and loved it. Thanks to Iulia for suggesting that, which must be the subject of another post.

And oh, I apologize for the lack of hyperlinks in this post. The Typepad composer hangs up every time I try to create one.

The happy paradox of the SF Half Marathon

I've been doing a few things lately one might call adventurous. One of those things was running the San Francisco Half Marathon.

Treat this post as notes from that experience, which qualifies as both self-absorbed and community-oriented, as well as being a breeding ground for good stories.

First, to those who have never done it and don't think they ever will, never say never. I am a pot-bellied writer with no particular athletic gifts at this point in my life, and I did the half-mari with a fairly light amount of training. Yes, there is pain involved, but the payoff is surprisingly large, and the food for thought is second to none.

Running in this event also costs money. Good running shoes (essential) will cost you $80-$120, and proper socks, shorts, and shirt can set you back a lot more. I bought 3 pairs of good socks for $10 and called it a day. Registration for the San Francisco race is somewhere around $75-$100. Then there's airfare, lodging, and food, but you can enter a local race if you want to, or combine the race with the vacation you were already going to take.

Then again, maybe you've got more money than you need, and are in the market for a place to spend some. Look no further.

And what's the payoff? I'm still processing that, though I have noticed that three days post-race I have not experienced the universal DF experience of downgrading every achievement I've ever done so that it's really no big deal to me. I'm really proud of myself. That doesn't happen very often with Mr. INFP.

So here's my cue to launch into an extended version of my race story, which I now find fascinating to hear from other people, but which in general I think must be a terribly self-absorbed thing to do. I compromise by giving you the short version:

My children and I rose at about 6 AM on race day to take a taxi to the shuttle bus, which took us to the far reaches of Golden Gate Park, almost on the Pacific Ocean. We were to do the Second Half Marathon, 13.1 miles coming in from the western part of the city and ending at the bayfront piers next to the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.

We warmed up for about an hour, commented on the long line for the port-a-potties, admired dogs, took pictures of ourselves, and got excited. Then the race started, and I ran for about six miles, and left the park, and about that time I realized that I was going to finish, probably in less time than I thought I was going to (sub 3 hours was my goal), and the rest of the race was just a bunch of fun interspersed with pain.

Here's what I loved about the race:

• Getting handed water and energy drink and bananas by volunteers along the way

• Being cheered on by spectators with signs saying things like "You Are Heroes."

• Feeling important because I was challenging myself, and being reinforced by others who didn't know me

• Being cheered on by name by a pretty lady who gave me water (race bibs have first names on them)

• Being told by a Hell's Angel on a Harley that "Hey, man, there's only 6 K left."

• Getting a medal put around my neck

• Finding my kids afterwards and taking a picture with them with our medals on

Even the pain was insignificant over against the high of actually running 13 miles with people cheering you on.

I finished in about 2 hours and 30 minutes, and I was kind of sorry when it was over, even though my legs were close to giving out.

I have been thinking about the hero part. I didn't go into the race thinking it was heroic, and I still don't know why it would be heroic in the conventional American sense, but I do think it's heroic in the ancient Greek sense.

A hero in Greek Mythology is anyone -- anyone who decides to go, or is thrown, into an extreme or unusual situation where people are watching and could tell a story about him or her.

A hero is that person "over there" at whom people point and talk about. So a runner who willingly submits to a 13 or 26 mile test (less than 1% of the population completes this type of race) in which people look at and talk about him or her, is a hero in the ancient Greek sense.

After all, the Greeks ran the first marathon.

At the same time, this is an experience where you never have felt more embraced by the community, more within a sphere of acceptance, caring, and praise.

And also, if you do it with your family, you feel like you're right there at your hearth fire, safe and sound.

So this is a paradox. You are both outside and inside community at the same time. Kind of a happy, self-absorbed paradox, because there is no downside. You're challenging yourself to extraordinary feats, while at the same time you're getting strokes for doing just that. Very few Greek heroes ever got to enjoy their hero-hood.

I recommend the half-marathon. Good for your self-esteem for sure, but good for your health, too, and good for chewing over paradoxes. The barbecue afterwards was pretty tasty, too.