You read. You're smart, savvy and aware. So I'm sure you know that online reviews are not always legit. This article delves into an interesting aspect of review fraud, an aspect that is near and dear to all us readers and bloggers. Some of us old bloggers have a permanently skeptically raised eyebrow regarding epublishing/self-publishing. "Why not just blog?" we innocently ask. "Oh. Right," we answer ourselves, "you want to make money from writing. Why give your words away on a blog when you can pimp them out via self-publishing? Well. Good luck with that, then."

People are desperate for online publishing success and paying for glowing reviews because the glut of epublished books has created a drain on the market - it's flooded with too much crap, the good stuff gets lumped in with the crap and ignored. It's the best of times, it's the worst of times. Hence the desperation for reviews which can lead to higher rankings and higher sales numbers.

Which brings some bloggers' attitude full circle. Some of us aren't in it for the money. Some of us do not have delusions of grandeur. Some of us are "just" bloggers. Lowly, "not doing it for the money" bloggers. We're not getting rich, but we're pure. We're WYSIWYG. No fake reviews, no filthy lucre. It's part of the reason I don't use AdSense or sell adspace or profit from my blog in any way. It's mine, all mine, and I can post whatever I want. People can choose to read it, or not, but because money never changes hands, no one owes anyone anything tangible or intrinsic. There are no obligations to be met, so there are no resentments. If you don't like what I post, oh well, I don't owe you anything, you came here of your own free will, I didn't charge a penny, not even click revenue. If you do like what I post, for free, would you pay to read it? Yeah. Me neither. Hence the beauty of blogging. It's there, it's free, if you like it great, if not, oh well.

I don't begrudge Todd Rutherford, in fact I applaud his marketing insight. He saw a huge opportunity - a need for marketing - and capitalized on it. Marketing baby, marketing. Let me be clear on this: I don't agree with faking anything, especially when it involves duping the public. His methodology was flawed. The flaw was his lack of discrimination, which I presume was fueled by greed. Gee, where have we heard that plot line? Oh, right, pretty much everything Dickens ever wrote. But. The foundation of his idea was solid. There is a need for valid, credible marketing in epublishing.

Sure, most ebooks are cheap, 99¢ - $2.99. Not a huge investment, so if it's crap, oh well, delete. And most of us have plunked down money, $10 or more, on a physical book that we didn't enjoy. We have our favorite authors and we pony up the money for their latest books, we support them financially via buying their books because they have given us enjoyment in the past, we trust them to take us on another fun/insightful/scary/whatever adventure again, so we spend the money on their books. When they let us down, we're disappointed. We regret spending that money. We are more hesitant to buy their next book. We'll get it from the library or borrow if from a friend. If the author wins us back into their good graces we may buy their next books, dismissing the "bad one" as an experimental phase.

Publishing is a buyer beware industry. It's wholly subjective. Ever tried to return a book you hated? Try it sometime. I did it once, for the experience of it, to see what would happen. It was the above-mentioned situation. I spent $19.95 plus tax on a book by an author I thoroughly enjoyed in the past. So certain of the author's talent and eager was I, that I bought the hardcover version a few days after it was released. I raced home and spent a weekend reading the book. I toughed it out from cover to cover because I believed in the author, I believed that somewhere the plot would turn, the characters would gain some depth, the prose would be more insightful, and the first couple hundred pages that sucked would be worth the effort and time it took to slog through them. You know, like Great Expectations. No such luck. Because the book sucked. The book really, really sucked. It sucked so badly that it was on the sale table shortly after it was released. I bought the book on a Friday afternoon. I spent the weekend reading it. I felt so duped, so resentful of the author, the editor, the agent and the publisher, so mad at myself for spending the money on the book that I spent my lunch hour on Monday trying to return the book. I had my receipt, the spine was still in perfect new condition and it still had that new book smell.

"I want to return this book," I asserted to the book store clerk.

"Um, is there something wrong with it?" the clerk asked.

"Yes. I could list specifics but I won't waste our time. I'll abbreviate my complaints: It sucks."

"So, you want to return it because you didn't like the book."

"That's right. That, and I was duped by the author and the publisher's marketing team. (pointing to the prose on the back of the dustjacket) This is not a 'gripping, insightful yet wonderfully witty tale of career malaise and social paradox.' It's a boring, pointless whiny rant about how life sucks. Duh. I can read boring, pointless whiny rants on blogs, for free. Technically, (pointing to the back dustjacket flap) that bit about 'from a masterful storyteller' part is true, the author has proved himself to be a masterful storyteller in the past, which is why I bought the book. But this story is not masterfully told. I'll debate whether there's even a story being told in this book."

The book store clerk rolled his eyes. "You can't return a book just because you didn't like it."

"That's not why I'm returning it. I'm returning it because it sucks and it is not what it was marketed to be. I'm returning it because 1) it's a faulty product and 2) it was falsely advertised."

I'm sure book store clerks get a lot of this sort of thing. Or maybe not. But that was the point of my exercise. I'd never attempted to return a book after I read it. I always put the onus on myself when it comes to disappointing book investments. I reason with myself, "There is a library...you don't have to buy it...it's your own fault for spending the money..." and that's that.

But this was different. I took it as a personal insult to my intelligence and good nature. I gave the author a weekend, a full two days, of my life. And I gave up $19.95 plus tax. I realize the author only gets a fraction of the cost of the book, but to us, the consumer, the price of the book is paid for wholly by us.

I didn't get a refund for the book I hated. The store manager gave me a coupon for 15% off my next purchase. The insult to injury came when I couldn't even give the book to my local book swap store. They were flooded with copies and were not accepting any more. Yes. I couldn't even trade the book for an paperback book from the '70s. It was that bad.

You may be thinking, "Should have waited for the online reviews written by people other than the publisher's chosen few..." Not necessarily. The online reviews for this book, even now, several years later, are generally positive. I don't know anyone in real life who likes the book, and since this book's publication many people I know in real life are wary to invest in what that author has since written. I presume the author has such a devoted following that there are several readers who will applaud anything he writes simply because he's their adored darling of choice. They will support the team, even, especially, during a losing season, and write positive online reviews in defense of their star player. And, perhaps, some or many of those online reviews were written by "someone" paid to submit positive reviews.

I'm a trained and experience marketer. I get it. I understand. You want to move inventory. But. I also hold myself and other legit marketing professionals to a high level of ethics. If you don't stand behind a product, don't market it. If you have to pay for fraudulent, positive reviews, the product is flawed and shouldn't be marketed. Take it back to the drawing board, work out the problems until you have a product that merits legitimate positive feedback. From there the marketing takes care of itself.

Which brings me back to the point of the NY Times article on epublishing review fraud. Epublishing is great, power to the people, write on. There are some hidden gems to be found "these days" and I'm in full support of the medium. But. It's creating a false sense of talent which leads to a false sense of entitlement. There may be a few people willing, and happy, to pay a couple bucks for a book on the pros and cons of making necklaces out of dominoes versus mahjong tiles, or a personal account of life as a geologist in Newfoundland in the 1960s. And that's great, that's a couple bucks more than the authors had before they published their books and for the people who were chomping at the bit for books on those topics, it's a glorious dream fulfilled. A win-win situation for everyone involved.

But. A little encouragement can be a dangerous thing if desperation and/or greed set in. The author thinks, "Hey! I sold four copies! People like my book! I'm an author! I'm gonna quit my job because I'm an author, now! How can I sell more books?!" Their thoughts turn to two things: Writing more books, and marketing. They decide to focus on the books they've already written, because, heh heh, writing books is hard. But marketing is easy! They know it's easy because everyone knows marketing is easy and because there are tons of ebooks on marketing! It's a serendipitous moment for new e-authors. They invest the profits from their book on, what else? ebooks on marketing. They get all hopped up high when they learn inside tips and tricks to making money with ebooks. (I'm rich, I'm gonna be rich I tell you, rich! dancing in their heads) They don't stop to consider that the person who self published those ebooks on marketing are just like them: Trying to make a few bucks via epublishing.

Yes. There really is one born every minute.

And this is where things take an ugly, unethical turn down a slippery slope. Their ebooks on marketing told them they need a lot of positive reviews on their book. They try to get their friends, family and coworkers to submit positive reviews on their book. Great! Three positive reviews! Awesome! The money's going to start rolling in any second! When it doesn't, the author starts Googling and finds marketing resources for ebook authors. Most of those resources are review writers. For a fee, the reviewer will write a positive review. The more naive ebook authors may honestly believe these reviewers are reading their books. (I'm cutting slack, being generous, not making assumptions about IQ.) So we'll take the author out of culpability for fraudulent reviews. (I'm cutting slack, being generous, not making assumptions about IQ.)

The pay-for-reviewers, like Todd Rutherford, then, bear the brunt of responsibility in perpetrating the scam. Yep. I used the word. Scam. But. As I stated up front, I'm not begrudging the enterprise. They are filling a need, providing a service, and if authors are a) desperate enough to believe the reviews they're buying are legit, and b) consumers are stupid enough to think all online reviews are legit, well, you know, if you can profit off them, well, that's capitalism, baby. I do not ascribe to that type of marketing, the lack of ethics makes me nauseous and frustrates me because it makes all marketing professionals look bad. Pay-for-reviews is an enterprise based on lies. Period. But so is a good percentage of merchandise hawked online. Buyer beware. Is Todd Rutherford any different than any other snake oil salesman online? I don't think so.

Unfortunately, though, the people involved with marketing pajama jeans or miracle cures for baldness in the form of spray paint are not creating legions of "authors" who honestly believe all they need are some positive reviews and their writing careers will skyrocket. At worst, they're creating a questionable fashion choice by a few women or giving false hope to men willing to spend another $39.95 on creating the illusion of hair. There's a far more sinister result from the eBook reviewers' scam. I have no idea how credible any of the eBook reviewers' backgrounds are - maybe they do know a lot about writing and prose style and editing and have legit comments - but once they sell positive reviews, they lose all credibility. Everyone involved loses credibility. When everything merits 5 out of 5 stars, everything reviewed devalued. When everything is special, nothing is special.

And meanwhile, speaking of devaluing, the epublishing world is flooded to the brink with crap. Which is the point of blogs, for crying out loud! Blogs are where you post badly written crap, or niche crap, or manifestos, or how-to processes for making/fixing off-the-wall items. I don't want to pay to commiserate with someone like me, I want to read their blog. I don't want to pay for instructions on how to repair my parents' circa 1967 blender. I want to go to a blog or YouTube posted by someone like my dad. The second money changes hands is the second the whole spirit of community is lost.

The message is clear: Someone's looking to profit from their words, they're pimping out their thoughts and/or knowledge, and if you won't pony up, you're not going to get to read the words. Okay, maybe "pimping out" is a little harsh. Okay a lot harsh. But you know what I mean. If someone is a truly talented author or has a great knowledge-base, and the drive and patience to get legitimately published, without the aid of get-rich-quick scams, that's great. I fully support their endeavor.

Unfortunately a lot of eBooks I've read to date are not great. Some would make great blogs, and I would read them if they were blogs. But they're not. The authors want me to pay for their words. And I don't want to do that. No matter how good or bad the reviews, fake or otherwise, there are some (a lot of) words I will not pay to read. And I presume most other people are the same way.

ePublishing has brought vanity presses to the masses, and that's not a good thing. It instills exaggerated senses of ability and accomplishment and that leads to an exaggerated sense of entitlement. There may very well be a Confederacy of Dunces lurking in a 99¢ eBook somewhere, in fact I suspect there are several lurking "out there," but they don't need to buy fake reviews. And they shouldn't have to fight for download ranking with "books" that barely qualify as blogs. It's not just up-and-coming or hidden-talent authors who suffer. Credible authors' works are devalued because, gasp, their publishers dare charge more than 99¢ for the download of their latest work. And they're not spending their marketing budget on pay-for-positive-review scams. (at least we presume not, we hope not, we choose to believe not)

Maybe I'm cynical. Maybe I spent too many years in marketing. Maybe I am a savvy consumer. Or maybe I just have the ability to reason. I have never taken online reviews seriously...except the negative ones. If I read online reviews, I head straight to the negative/lowest rating reviews. I find it fairly easy to discern between someone with unrealistic expectations and someone who has legitimate feedback, so I can weed through the "I hate everything" types and glean insight from the legit feedback types of reviews. Consequently, I find negative reviews are the most helpful to me. I consider them "buyer beware" notices. If someone doesn't like a book because it's too sarcastic for their taste, there's a good possibility I might love it. If someone doesn't like a book because it's not up to par with the author's past works, well, I'll get it from the library at some point way in the future when I'm feeling charitable or bored.

Ultimately, the consumer is the one who has final responsibility in all this. I don't condone the lack of ethics in pay-for-review scams, but - presuming it's not children buying eBooks - anyone buying anything based solely on positive reviews deserves whatever buyer's remorse they get.

And. There is a possibility for a silver lining. If enough readers get burned by purchasing highly rated books that turn out to be awful, that will, eventually, lead to a more discerning eBook crowd. That, in turn, will discourage not-so-great authors, who will then go back where they belong: Blogging. And hey, there's always AdSense. There are bloggers who make money, even more than 99¢, via pimping out their blogs to ads, which is a bigger win for everyone involved. Readers read for free, writers can choose to pimp out their words, or not. Win-win for everyone except pay-for-review scammers. Job done.

Weirdest week ever.

Okay, well, maybe not ever. This is me, after all. There are a number of weird weeks in my ever thus far. But. This I'm reasonably certain in the final assessment of my ever this will rank near the top of my weirdest weeks.

Lots of big lessons learned.

Wanna talk about dating and boys and stuff?

Yeah, why not. We haven't done that for a while.

Let me begin by acknowledging my love/hate relationship with the internet. Love it and hate it. Let me follow up that sweeping statement by acknowledging my love/hate relationship with social media. It's the best of times, and it is the worst of times.

Some dogs should be left alone to peacefully slumber. But thanks to social media, those dogs are not allowed to quietly sleep themselves to death. The internet came along (thanks, Al Gore) and social sites came along, and now it's just one big free-for-all of intrusion.

I have my personal accounts set to ultra highest privacy. But, for job sites, like LinkedIn, the whole point is to be "out there." Exposed. Public. Searchable.

I get a few "hi, how are yous?" from some long ago friends and coworkers, and that's usually nice. Just polite, "Oh, hello! Fancy meeting you here!" kinds of things.

I suppose it was only a matter of time before things took a more sinister turn. I'm kind of surprised it didn't happen sooner, but because it didn't, I was lulled into a false sense of security. I foolishly figured that no one "uncomfortable" from my past would bother to search for me online.

And then blam! I got an email from an old boyfriend via a professional site. This is a very old boyfriend. A very, very, very long ago boyfriend. Somewhere between Rock Star and HWNMNBS. We'll call him He's So Dreamy *sigh* because that was pretty much the way I felt the entire time we dated. I was smitten. And I knew I was smitten and I knew because of that my judgment was impaired. So I tried to tread carefully because He's So Dreamy *sigh* was a real charmer. And boy did he have my number. He knew exactly what to say or do when, and said or did it. He was too perfect for me. Even in my smitten state I knew he was too perfect and, hence, not perfect because no one is that perfect and anyone who appears to be that perfect for me is faking it, or not being seen clearly, or a figment of my imagination. He's So Dreamy *sigh* was real, I didn't imagine him. I had physical proof, I kept a few photos, a couple mementos until I moved a few years ago. Although in all the years since we dated he has sort of receded to a fuzzy, dreamlike place in my memory, so on the rare occasions I think about him it does seem like he could have been a figment of my imagination. And I don't think he was faking anything. So, that means I was too smitten to see him clearly.

The great thing about He's So Dreamy *sigh* is that from start to finish, our time together was pretty much perfect. We respected each other. We shared enough interests to understand each other but had enough different interests to keep things interesting between us. We had great communication, so much so that we never argued, we discussed our feelings and reached compromises. And he was the best kisser who's ever kissed me. His kisses were the stuff of poetry. Intoxicating. Transporting. Life altering. Oh yes, the man was gifted with some sort of crazy kiss mojo. The first time he kissed me I honestly thought he'd slipped me some sort of mickey because the second his lips touched mine I felt lightheaded and woozy and I'm pretty sure my eyes rolled into the back of my head. He remains the standard by which all other kisses are rated. Since I'm retired from dating and up on the shelf we can safely say his were the best kisses of my life.

We broke up because the timing was off. When we met, neither one of us was in the market for a relationship. But, that's exactly what we got. So there was always an understanding that the relationship probably wouldn't work out because neither one of us wanted a relationship at that time. Yet we kept seeing each other, we kept caring about each other, and yes, we kept kissing. From start to finish the whole thing lasted about 9 months. Which is supremely ironic because the main reason we stopped seeing each other was children. He was at a juncture in life where, if he was going to be in a serious relationship then he wanted it to be a serious relationship, a lifelong relationship with children. Otherwise he was going to dedicate himself to a deeply focused couple of years dedicated to nothing but his career with no personal distractions. I wasn't quite there, in either of those places, yet. I was willing to adjust my timeline, but he would have had to adjust some serious stuff in his life, he was at an "either or" point, and ultimately it wasn't the right time for either of us to commit to a lifelong relationship and children. Much as I wanted to get married and have children, and maybe with him, I wasn't ready to make that decision then. I needed more time to date him. I knew I was smitten and I knew I need to get a better, clearer-minded, realistic sense of him. I needed more time in my career. And I certainly didn't want him to sacrifice the career opportunities he had ahead of him for me.

We were both heartbroken, neither of us wanted to break up - another irony since neither of us wanted a relationship in the first place - and there were a lot of agonizing conversations. Followed by those kisses which completely impaired my ability to reason. Ultimately we severed ties. We deemed it the only, and best way to end it. No ill will, heartbroken but not hurt. All very mature and enlightened.

He moved. I moved. I got a new job. I started dating new guys. Life(?) continued. I never looked back with regret. I missed He's So Dreamy *sigh*, but I knew we made the right decision. I knew the timing was wrong for both of us and ultimately I knew my judgment was impaired, I knew under all that perfect-for-me-ness there where annoying flaws and traits and habits, an ugly underbelly. And more to the point, he would have eventually discovered my flaws and not-so-cute traits and bad habits, my ugly underbelly. My admiration for his thirst for knowledge would have turned to contempt over his need to always prove a point to the point of beating a dead horse. His chuckling "you're so cute" attitude about my determination would have turned to scorn and disdain over my stubbornness. That kind of thing. And if we made the huge sacrifices required to continue the relationship, resentments would form, his kisses would lose their mojo and we'd see each other through clearer vision. So it was good we ended it. I have always been certain we did the right thing. We each walked away with no hard feelings. Not an easy thing to accomplish, so I have always been proud of us for our maturity and insight.

And that was the beauty of it. We never grew complacent or resentful of each other. Every moment we shared was, well, pretty darned good. And we ended it, purposefully, before anything could creep in to create negative feelings between us. The worst thing about the relationship was the romantically tragic demise of it. I, and I hope he, was left with nothing but sigh and smile inducing memories.

I was perfectly happy to keep it that way. He is my one perfect dating memory. Sometimes I wonder what happened to him, but I push it away with a kiss to karma that life has been good for him. And I leave it at that. I've never been tempted to Google him. I've never looked him up on any social sites. I've never pursued anything other than the occasional recollection of his kisses. I don't want anything to taint my memories of that perfect dating slice of my life. I've never even considered him one that got away. After all, I got away, too.

We dated in the halcyon days of yore before internet stalking. The internet was a real thing when we were dating, but not a huge thing, not a social networking thing, not the thing it is now.

So I was not pleased to see his name in my in box. So much so that I stubbornly refused to open the email for several days. I wanted to delete it without looking at it, but I couldn't bring myself to delete. I was giving myself a cooling off period. "Give it a week or two and see how you feel about it then. You can delete it whenever you want, but once you delete it you can't get it back, so just let it sit there for as long as you need to sort out your feelings about hearing from him. This is Pandora's Box stuff, so tread carefully."

Maybe he has some horrible terminal disease and he's reaching out to you because he's dying. Maybe he's been carrying a torch for you all these years. Maybe it's not even the same guy, maybe it's another guy with the same name. Those thoughts and many (many) more crossed my mind. 

Yadda yadda yadda I finally I just read it. Like ripping off a bandage.

He didn't say a whole lot, it was just a general query to see if I was his old girlfriend and if so, "Hi!" and an invite to join his professional network.

Here's the thing. I didn't mind him finding out that I'm still single (and that was presuming he's married - so no, I'm not hoping to get something brewing again), but for some reason I'm mortified that since he's seen my professional profile, he knows I'm unemployed. That is really upsetting me.

I don't post photos of myself on professional networking sites, so if I don't accept his request, he'll just think I'm a different person with the same name as his former girlfriend. So I decided I could still literally save face.

And.

I had a few drinks and I did the unthinkable. I looked at his profile.

Hey, I'd gone that far, I'd had a few drinks, it was a really weird (and not in a good way) week. Cut me a little slack. 

You can never go home again and I shouldn't have tried. Poof! illusions were shattered and memories were tainted. Oh, he's fine. Based on how he wrote his professional dossier he's still witty and intelligent and talented. It appears he's been extremely busy and wildly prolific and the work samples he posted are impressive. Yay him! I was happy for him. His professional life appears to have followed his plan and he seems to be successful as a result. And he's still handsome. Aged, of course, but still recognizable.

But. He's also taken up golf, cut his hair and seems to spend a lot of time drinking beer in plastic cups with 22 year old blondes wearing bikini tops and Daisy Dukes. He is nowhere near 22. He's older than me. Yeah. He's one of those guys.*  The girls could be his daughters. But I'm pretty sure they're not. For the record, I'm not upset that he's "spending time" with young scantily clad women. Smoke 'em if you got 'em, dude. I'm "upset" that he posted photos "like that" on a professional networking site.

It's in huge opposition to the guy he was when we dated. That guy mocked and ridiculed middle aged men who dated girls "like that." He hated golf. And he kept his hair longer because when he cut it short he thought he looked like a pervy history teacher who's trying too hard to look innocent and pretends to be sensitive and helpful to students in need as a ruse to molest them. I never saw him with short hair so I took his word for it. Looking at the photos, especially with the young women on his arms, he's right. Short hair makes him look like a pervy history teacher wearing a disguise of trustworthiness as a way to seduce young people.

I don't wanna know any of this. I want him to be the singularly perfect guy I dated. I want him to be the guy in my memory, the memory that is shrouded in those mesmerizing kisses. 

But now my lone perfect dating memory is shattered. I was given a time machine, took it for a test drive and didn't like what I found in the future. No one to blame but myself.

Oh sure, the platitudes about shattering illusions being necessary to keep a grip on reality write themselves in this situation, but I don't need a grip on reality. I have a firm grip on reality. And the memories of dating He's So Dreamy *sigh* were the one escape I had from reality. Those memories help me cope with being a spinster. I remind myself that I had a good run, I had some good dating experiences, even one especially great dating experience that included kisses that are the stuff of poetry. I had more than most people get because most people do not get those kind of kisses. (Seriously, they were akin to the things you hear when people describe pleasant acid trips: hearing colors, tasting music, feeling the sky, all of it on some out-of-body plane of being in a different but joined dimension.) 

Mine is a cautionary tale of the dangers of social networking that's been told countless times. When it comes to old flames, leave the past in the past. Were it not for the internet there's no way either of us would ever run into each other. Without the aid of a private detective there's no way either of us could find the other, and even then it might be difficult. But, thanks to the internet, there we are peering into the details of each others' lives. It hit home, hard, that for all the glories the internet gives us, it has taken away some valuable psychology. It's difficult, if not impossible, to leave the past truly in the past. There's always the chance that someone or something from long ago will reappear in some form online. Oh sure, this has a good side, you don't lose touch with people, you maintain friendships, blah blah blah.

But. The kid who purposely hurled a ball at your face and broke your nose in a game of dodge ball in gym class, college roommate you grew to detest, former coworkers who slacked through days and then stole your ideas and presented them at the meeting with the senior manager, the one perfect guy you dated whose kisses were the stuff of poetry...people best left safely tucked far, far in the past can reappear and bring all the baggage and psychology from the past with them. Even if it's a momentary, "Are you kidding me? No way do I want to get in touch with him!" moment before hitting delete, they're there. They force themselves back into our heads.

We haven't lost innocence, most of us were not naive, we knew moving on meant moving on and not looking back. You know, a healthy way to progress through life. Living, learning, evolving. We've lost opportunities for wisdom and insight that can only be gained from time and distance combined with the knowledge that people in our past are truly in our past.

All the more reason to not name names anywhere on the internet. One Google search can open a floodgate of emotions that were neatly processed and tucked away in the memory files. Do you want to know that a coworker of your former flame is angry at your former flame for not putting a cover sheet on the TPS report? Do you want to know your arch rival on the high school debate team is embroiled in a nasty divorce wherein the feuding spouse is posting vitriolic criticism about the sexual shortcomings of your former debate team foe?

Do you want to know your one perfect romance, the guy you though could never be that guy, is golfing and traveling the world drinking beer from plastic cups with fake boobed, bikini clad women more than half his age and posting them on a professional networking site?

Naming names online hurts everyone. It has far reaching consequences. The pen is mightier than the sword. Truer words n'er were written.

The memories of He's So Dreamy *sigh* are still there, you can't change the past. But. You can add to the file. And now, unfortunately, there's a permanent addition to He's So Dreamy *sigh*'s file. I decided to not accept his request. I am getting out quickly, hoping in a few weeks my cherished memories will prevail and all will be psychologically well. And I'm giving him the gift he took from me: I'm letting him keep me in his past.




*The women in the audience who've perused online dating sites know what I mean by one of those guys. The men probably don't know this, but you see a lot of those kinds of photos on dating sites. It's a thing amongst a certain type of over 40 man. They seem to travel around the world going to places where they drink beer in plastic cups with 22 year old scantily clad blonde women. And then they post copious photos of themselves at these events on their dating profiles with titles like, "Me in Barcelona," "Me in Rio," "Me in Monaco," "Me in Shanghai," but the photos have no distinguishable landmarks and the girls all look the same - generic blonde 22 year olds with fake boobs busting out of bikini tops and Daisy Dukes breaking the span between their tanned thighs and flat stomachs. I presume those guys think they're providing a template for the kind of women they want to meet online, visually saying, "See this, ladies? I date women like this. If you look like this please contact me. If you don't look like this, move on to the systems analyst who likes World of Warcraft two profiles over." Because, you know, 22 year old blondes with enormous fake boobs who like to trot around the world in bikini tops and Daisy Dukes spend a lot of time on online dating sites, and when they see photos of women who look like them in a guy's profile they think, "Perfect! This middle aged guy likes to date women who look like me! And he likes to travel the world drinking beer from plastic cups! Awesome! I love online dating! It's so awesome!" 

Can we talk vilification for a moment?

I know, I don't think about it much, either. I don't tend to get angry, or at least angry enough to think about vilification. Typically I don't get angry. I get hurt or sad.

People tell me anger can be a good thing if it's a catalyst for action that leads to justice. Okay, I can see that. But. Typically I just try to accept and forgive. If that results in a little understanding, well, that's a bonus. If I can find the humor in it, so much the better.

I don't go around thinking about or plotting revenge or dreaming of vilification.

But.

I had a moment, well, a couple moments...all right an hour...of desire for vilification. I couldn't sleep and I slid down the slippery slope of recalling injustices. I never do this, but it was a bad night. Alcohol was a factor. It kinda scared me because I was surprised at how many perceived injustices I'm carrying around with me. The fear isn't that I'm repressing emotions, my concern is that, gulp, maybe my friend is right, maybe I have been perceived as a doormat in certain situations because I don't retaliate.

I know I'm not a doormat, I know I was accepting and forgiving and rising above the immediate, but, the other people in certain situations didn't know that. I don't really care what they think about me, their opinions don't matter to me, and the worst thing that could result is that I have a reputation for not engaging in hostile behaviors. That's not so bad, is it? Better that than a reputation for a quick and hot temper.

I think.

The internet and all it's social outposts has opened up huge cans of worms hungry for vilification. I'm not sure that a lot of people even realize what they're doing when they post comments about others on Facebook, Twitter, etc. Most of the posts seem to be rants posted in the moment of emotion. Someone A says or does something that angers or upsets Someone B, Someone B is hurt, angry or offended and instantly lashes back at Someone A in the form of a public comment deriding Someone A. Voila, vilification. I think the point is smug satisfaction, a tit for tat revenge. I'm rubber you're glue, it bounces off me and sticks to you. That kind of thing.

When these situations play out in private it's immature and regrettable, but somewhat understandable. Frustration, hurt feelings, and bruised egos are not patient. They crave immediate salving and because they're loud emotions they tend to fire fast and large synapses that trigger reactions that are not exactly well thought out or deep. Friends, family, significant others all (hopefully) understand that these skirmishes, while regrettable, do happen sometimes and cut us some slack on the presumption we'll cut the same slack for them.

I have a friend who has terrible road rage. It's really bad. Really, really bad. And. Worse. She's a backseat driver. So. When I'm driving with her she's yelling at other drivers and me. This situation has played out more times than I care to recall.

Us in a car stopped at a red light, me driving.
Her: "It's clear! You can turn! Go!!!"
Me: "I count three 'No Turn on Red' signs. I could go but I can't afford the traffic ticket. And I'd rather not knowingly break a posted law."
Her: "No one but you pays attention to those signs."
Me: "Yep, just me and the cops."

Sometimes this turns into a catfight about how I'm such a goody two shoes fraidy cat and how she's an impatient, selfish Type A poster child with anger management issues. Other times the light turns and she's ranting and flipping gestures at other drivers before she has time to have a go at me. We've known each other so long any words said in anger and frustration between us are forgotten less than a mile down the road.

But. Let's say one day I decide I'm sick of her road rage and the insults about my following the rules of the road, and I decide to use her name and post words on Facebook or Twitter to the effect that her impatience and anger management issues are bordering on dangerous and violent. #NeedsImmediateCounseling. I'm not sure why I would do this, as opposed to trying to have a calm conversation about my concerns over her health and welfare, but let's go with the presumption that it was one nag too many about my "inability" to turn on red in 'No Turn on Red' intersections. The presumption being that I am finally fed up with being yelled at about following the rules of the road and obeying traffic signs. Let's say in this rant I mention that my friend and her selfish "if they slow me down or get in my way, rules are made to be broken" attitude is responsible for the breakdown of society and decline of civilization. Again, naming her by name.

The only purpose for the public airing of my friend's dirty road rage laundry is a) to vilify myself and b) embarrass and slate my friend for yelling at me for obeying traffic signs, further vilifying myself.

Why? What's the point? It doesn't make me worry any less about my friend's dangerous driving habits and anger management issues. It's not going to stop her road rage, in fact, it will probably only exacerbate her issues, making her more angry and more Hellbent on not following "stupid" traffic signs. And it's certainly going to elevate her hostility toward me.

Vilification is pointless.

But it's everywhere on the internet. Some of it is "merely" pedantic ranting* and I understand the need to vent. Boy do I understand. But a lot of what I see posted online is disturbing not so much for the insults hurled, but for the immaturity, hostility, self righteousness, judgment and lack of awareness behind the post. Venting...that's understandable. Trying to sort out an issue and get some insight from other people? Commendable. But naming names, judging, assigning blame, publicly? That's taking it to a more sinister place. For reasons that baffle me, a lot of people have public Facebook accounts. Which means if Someone A posts a vilifying rant about Someone B, employers, coworkers, family members including Grandma and nitpicking gossipy Aunt Agnes will see any post about Someone B. Someone B shoots straight past the fair trial and the verdict that Someone A issued is being judged by a jury of peers.

Consider the source, you say? Yes, I say that, too. But. Casual observers, employers, potential love interests don't know the source. They're background checking the subject of the vilifying rant. They, especially would-be love interests, are likely to shy away from someone who has a hot-tempered, self-righteous ranty friend or relation in their circle. Who wants that drama in their life?

It's especially disturbing when the vilifying comments posted by someone I respect. There are things I don't want or need to know about family, friends and public figures I respect. But thanks to the internet it's all right there in my face. Pretty people doing ugly things.

Facebook and Twitter are increasingly cited as devaluing the human experience. When everything is special, nothing is special. When everything happens in the immediate, nothing is worthy of anticipation. When everyone's opinion is globally accessible, no one's opinion really matters to anyone else. I avoid Vlogs like the plague. Why? Because most of them are shouting matches between people who talk a lot but don't seem to listen, even to themselves.

But my increasing concern is the false sense of (instant!) gratification borne of vilifying posts. If a friend posts an insult on Twitter and no one reads it because it gets buried in 100s of other tweets, was it really an insult? Arguable point, but the more I naming names snark I see posted, the more I think, "Throw another insult onto the pile..." There's a lot of negativity being hurled into the Universe. Is that what we really need? Is that what we want?

There's a lot of animosity out there, and we're all being subjected to it. What used to be private skirmishes or insults between friends and family are now public (globally public) floggings. Is that really necessary? Take my friend's road rage as an example. Does anyone need to know my feelings about it, much less read about it online? What does it prove, and more to the point, what does it solve? What will it resolve? Anything? Probably not.

I blog. Publicly. For reasons that continue to (still) baffle me, people read what I post. There's responsibility that comes with that. The main responsibility for me is to protect anyone (other than public figures) I might mention on the blog. I receive a lot of h8 about anonymous blogging. My anonymity negates any credibility. (they say)

A) I have a life, some argue not much of one, but I have a life.
B) That life involves real people whom I care about and don't want to hurt or offend.
And mainly, C) I don't want people who care about me to worry about me. If they knew half of what I'm thinking they'd worry about me, and I don't want that.

And.

I'm not looking for vilification. For me, the personal aspects are not the subject. The bigger picture, the insight and humor and frustrations are the subject. The names are inconsequential minutia. I'm not looking to hurt anyone or lash out at anyone. Just observing and reporting and trying to gain some understanding and insight.**

But.

Maybe I should be a little more forthright. Maybe a little abuse of blog power would be cathartic. Name names. Divulge secrets. Betray trusts. Would it be more interesting to you, more titillating or "real" if you knew my name, the names of my friends and family? It would end up like the Monty Python Blackmail game show skit, but hey, it would be some good vilification.

Wanna know the names of the girls and a few other kids who teased me and played horrible "jokes" on me, and generally bullied me throughout most of my school years? Would it make their actions more real, more sinister, more disturbing if there were names you could Google attached to them? With all the attention on bullying these days I could make several PSAs about all the tormenting I received, naming names and citing specific incidents. I was pushed down on an icy road in front of the oncoming school bus. The bus driver saw who did it. She nearly overturned the bus trying to avoid hitting me while I struggled to slip and slide out of the way. The other kids not only didn't help me, they laughed at me. The bus driver walked me back to my parents' house, told them what happened and who did it. My parents and I had long conversations with the school counselor and our minister about it and ultimately "we" didn't "do" anything out of concern that it would only lead to further retaliation. As it was I'd already had my clarinet stolen, my art projects broken, my snow boots pooped in, I had applesauce flicked in my hair at least once a week in the school lunchroom, my parents' house was routinely egged and one year my father's painstakingly planned Christmas light display was vandalized and rearranged to spell out my name and several vile sexual slang words. I was 9 at the time, by the way. Wanna know the names of the kids who did that? I knew who did it. My parents knew. I could, now, publicly name the names of those kids and list their "jokes." But, now, as then, it serves no purpose. Back then, their defense was that it was "just practical jokes" and their parents backed them up on that, claiming my parents and I didn't know how to take a joke. When it came to theft and damage of property, the parents of the kids responsible said we had no proof and claimed their children would never do such a thing. When it came to me being pushed in front of the oncoming school bus, with irrefutable proof in the form of a signed witness account by the school bus driver, the other kids, afraid of retaliation from the neighborhood bullies, denied that it happened. There's a lot more to the whole incident, but ultimately nothing was done and those kids got away with attempted murder. Would naming them, now, change that? Would I feel any better about any of it? I could go for it, publicly hold those kids up for their actions, and a lot of people think I should. But, I contend that's just stooping to their level, bullying them with the excuse of retribution...over something that happened years ago when we were kids. And based on some of the hometown gossip I've heard over the years, most of them have suffered enough without me publicly slating them for their bullying behavior. Let's just say they're not leading enviable lives. (Yes, I could post that gossip, too...)

Do you want to know HWNMNBS's name? Why? I wouldn't feel any better or worse for publicly flogging him, although given my position of woman scorned I'm allowed a little Hellish fury. He's counting on me to be mature and respectful. He's trusting me. But what do I owe him? Nothing. Some would argue I should have betrayed that trust, airing all his dirty laundry for the entire world to see, attached to his name, globally slandering him so that henceforth any woman or employer who Googles him will read some ugly (to the point of disturbing) bits of information about him. Could I destroy him and his future? Probably not. But I could cause a few uncomfortable conversations between him and anyone who Googles him.

Ditto my former boss. The term limits on my termination agreement have ended, I am free to say whatever I want about my former employer and anyone I worked with there. In the interest of public service I could name names and phone numbers and even post some spreadsheets the IRS might find interesting. Would anyone take me seriously? Maybe. There'd be a few uncomfortable conversations and I'm pretty sure my former boss would hire a lawyer to bring some sort of liable and slander case against me, but ultimately the damage to her reputation would be done. It would take me about 20 minutes to write a full report, with attachments, naming names and citing condemning specifics. At least I could name a few names in a few vilifying posts on Twitter or Facebook, or, on the more sad and pathetic end I could whip up a website devoted to my former company and some of the people who work there. Slander, liable...the truth...no matter how it's taken, most would see it as nothing more than a lame attempt at retribution from a disgruntled employee.

Believe me, there are times, like my recent sleepless night drunken concern about whether or not I'm perceived as a doormat, that I think, "Screw it, screw them, I'm calling everyone who's ever wronged me to task. I'm naming names, dates and deplorable behaviors." I think about compiling a manifesto list of all the people who deserve a public "[expletive of your choice] you!" And it concerns me when the list grows beyond 5 people, because that's a lot of vilifying for one person and a lot of apparently unresolved issues.

But what would I get out of it? A few moments of vindictive pleasure? Ultimately it would just make me look bad publicly and I'd feel bad about myself.

I'm above that sort of thing. I'm better than that. And yes, of course, people who know me count on me being that way. So there would be a surprise element, a big surprise element, because it's grossly out of character for me to stoop to that level and/or to betray trust. Which, in the movies, makes the plot device all the more enticing to screenwriters. The good girl pushed beyond her limits who seeks furious revenge to the surprise of all who know her is a well-worn theme. I notice Lifetime uses this plot device in a lot of their movies. That's how you know it's a trite and cliché move.

So, why, then, are Facebook and Twitter any different? Why the rampant vilifying snark? I dunno. I have no clue why people are so impulsive, so quick to pull the vilification trigger via Facebook and Twitter. Bullying behavior? Maybe. Self esteem issues causing them to want to make other people look bad? Maybe. Stupidity? Selfishness? Emotional immaturity? Probably.

Which is why, if I was granted a do-over with those kids of my youth, or HWNMNBS, or my former boss, or my friend who yells at me for obeying traffic signs - knowing what I now know - I would react the same way. I would not seek vilification or revenge or retribution or vindication. None of it. The only difference would be, if I knew then what I know now, is that I wouldn't allow myself to get hurt or saddened by the situations. That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger. I'm living proof of that. My skin is so thick Ginsu knives couldn't penetrate it. I try very, very hard to bypass victim mode and go straight to "let's sort out what happened so I can prevent it from happening again and then find a way to laugh about it and put it behind me" mode. Not always easy, and it often takes time to gain that kind of insight. You have to ask a lot of questions and be brutally honest with yourself. It's not as easy as quickly lashing out a vilifying remark on Facebook or Twitter. But the results are deeper and longer lasting and ultimately better for everyone involved.



*Pedantic rants - great band or album name. "Professor Snark and the Pedantic Rants"

**And yes, I am guilty of some forms of vilification via 50 First Dates. No I didn't name names, they were changed to protect the innocent, but, they didn't know that I was writing about my adventures in dating. And if Creepy Perfume Guy and the Humping Dwarf were to stumble across the blog, I'm pretty sure they'd recognize themselves. And yes, I did rake them over some hot coals. Albeit in a humor befitting their behavior, but passive aggression is still aggression. And on some level I was exacting some form of revenge for my disappointment at dates that went nowhere. And yes, that has everything to do with me and very little to do with them. All those guys were just being themselves - their creepy, pervy, addicted, violent, selfish, rude, shallow, etc. selves. I was the one who had issues with their behaviors. I am aware that I owe them a debt of gratitude for letting me peek into their personality, um, traits, on the first and second dates. In doing so, they spared me the time, effort and disappointment of getting involved and investing emotion with them only to find out weeks or months into the relationship that they had some disturbing skeletons in their closets.

And I am fully aware that I am guilty of vilification: Each date that didn't work out was another chink in my armor of hope, and my public retelling of dates gone wrong was a way to lick my wound (they didn't wound me, the process did) and vilify men and dating in general.

So yes, I was aware, am aware, that I am guilty of vilification.

Well, that's that. Cheerio UK, Zdravstvujtye Russia!

I can't wait to learn about Russia! We got a little teaser about the Olympic village building progress in Sochi. I like the little factoids and local color snippets showcased at the Olympics. It's the host country's golden opportunity in front of worldwide television coverage. I embrace and applaud efforts made at cultural bridges. Yes, the Olympic games are about sports and athletes, but it's also, equally I think, about international understanding and unity. I realize I'm in the minority on this, and it's probably my years on Model UN talking, but the host countries spend a lot (a lot) of money on the Olympic festival, the least we can do is set aside a few minutes during the coverage to learn about the host country.

Those little moments of trivia and backstory and history and culture add to the international flavor of the games. They give me a moments of, "Huh, I didn't know that. Interesting." Or, "Wow, I wonder..." For instance, as the royal grandchildren sang God Save the Queen it occurred to me that it's kinda weird to publicly sing your national anthem when the opening line is about your grandmother. They're in a sort of conundrum. The Queen herself does not sing God Save the Queen (at least in public) because that would be like singing happy birthday to yourself at your birthday party. You don't sing along, you just sit there smiling politely waiting to blow out your candles. However. The Queen's children and grandchildren are in an awkward manners situation. They're only slightly removed from the song being about them, so the same Queen-doesn't-sing-God-Save-the-Queen decorum would apply by association, yet if they refrain from singing/mouthing it, it would look like they don't want to save the Queen. Although that adds an intriguing Shakespearean aspect to the whole thing, it's kinda disrespectful. I've wondered about this (momentarily) in the past, but with the cameras trained on Wills, Kate and/or Harry at most of the events, there were more public God Save the Queen moments than I've witnessed in, well, probably ever, so it nagged at me more than in the past. I notice they do a sort of tight lipped whisper-sing thing. I suppose they get training on this.

In spite of appearances to the contrary, I was not glued to every second of Olympic coverage I could find. So maybe I missed some Travel Channel-esque spotlight on UK segments.


But.

I find it hard to believe two weeks passed without a trace of:

• The Magna Carta
• The Rolling Stones  Yes, right up there with the Magna Carta. (I mean during the Olympic games proper, not the Omega commercials aired every 10 minutes. That Omega copyright/usage fee check's gotta be a nice for the Stones. Maybe Bill Wyman won't have to sell these anymore.) (And no, Mick's daughter Georgia "modeling" in the closing ceremony doesn't count, either.)
• Dickens I have handed down a verdict that the industrial revolutionaries in the opening ceremony don't count as a tribute to Dickens. Dickensian, yes. Dickens proper, no. 
• Twiggy  Seriously, England, seriously? You prance out Naomi swutting Campbell, Kate swutting Moss and Mick's daughter, but you leave Twiggy out of it altogether? There are several iconic photos of her that could have been used in some way. If we're going to go with fashion as a theme worthy of the Olympic arena (it's a leap, but they did it so I'll roll with it), Twiggy, in any country, must be shown in some format, live or in photos. Ditto Mary Quant. The ode to the Mods was, I guess, a catchall for Mary Quant and Twiggy, but still, a British fashion segment without Mary Quant and Twiggy specifically is just...weird. And incomplete. Maybe Twiggy didn't want to be associated with a drug addict and a bimbo with a violent temper. Can't blame her for that. But then there's the not-so-small matter of Vivienne Westwood. A British fashion segment without Vivienne Westwood? Really? Really, England? What the heck are you collectively smoking over there? Might want to consider rehab because it's clearly affecting your memory as well as your ability to reason.
• Stonehenge  Okay, technically it was shown in some of the intro photo montages. And yes, using it in metaphors about time and new days and strength would have been cliché and trite. But. I mean, c'mon, we all expected it and the omission was weird.
• Darts  Sure, they're not an Olympic sport, but it's a sport (yes, really) and it's quintessential England and it's kind of like archery, so why not a sidebar story about darts? Or at the very least a cool animation of a dart being thrown and having it travel around London and land on an archery target?
• Billiards, Snooker  See above, darts.
• Bears Winnie and Paddington  What did the silly old bear and the one who tries so hard to get things right ever do to you, English Olympic Committee? Eh? We're waiting, Olympic Committee, we're waiting for an answer. These bears are too polite to mention it to you, so I will. It's an abomination to neglect these beloved bears. Oh sure, licensing issues, blah blah blah. And yes, Pooh's gone Hollywood blah blah blah. However, the first encounter most children outside the UK have with the UK is: Winnie and/or Paddington. I have to assume I missed it, there's no way England would fail to include Winnie or Paddington in any of the Olympics. Surely I just missed it.

Say cheese! Which photo op would you choose?

• Wallace and Gromit  You know the penis dancing on his scrotum mascot you paraded all over the games and around town? Here's a better idea: Wallace and Gromit. Everyone knows and loves Wallace and Gromit. They'd be fantastic as ambassadors wandering around the Olympic grounds for photo ops. It's possible the IOC has rules about not using previously licensed characters as mascots. That seems like an IOC rule. But. If not Wallace and Gromit, get Nick Park to design a new, lovable character. He's really good at that. Cracking at it, even. And chances are good it wouldn't be Willy the one-eyed wonder worm and his bouncing balls. Oh. And. By the way, Nick Park is English. You know, from the host country.

Okay. We're all thinking it so I'm just going to say it, get it out of my system and move on as if it never happened.

First, a disclaimer: I absolutely respect and admire the talent, training, athleticism and dedication involved with any sport. Even rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. Actually, especially rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. Some of the stuff they make their bodies do is freaky weird, and in the team competitions they have to perform those freaky weird moves in perfect synchronization with the other team members. I fully understand how difficult this must be, even for skilled athletes.

But.

They're the butt of jokes and not taken seriously as "real" athletes. Which is a shame because the moves they're doing are really difficult.

It boils down to their "uniforms." I truly believe they'd be taken far more seriously if they weren't wearing hysterical costumes and garish makeup.

Yep, marketing baby, marketing. Pare down the costumes, leave the blue eye shadow and glitter bronzer at home. Ta dah! A) Viewers will focus on your athleticism instead of your appearance; and B) You won't be the source of sniggers and raised eyebrows on the medal podium. (Unless you have a, erm, "moment" like Henrik Rummel.*)

Here are a few cases in point.

Synchronized swimming. I know slightly more than the average Jane about this, and not just because I enjoy Esther Williams movies. I spent summers of my years 8 - 13 at Girl Scout camp wherein several hours a day were devoted to swimming skills. There was a big camp finale the last day of camp wherein feats of skill and daring were showcased. A mini-Olympics of sorts. I was also on my high school's swim team. In both these scenarios the subject of synchronized diving and swimming arose. I attended camp with a close friend. We were BFFs from the time our mothers got together for tea and put us in the same crib for naps. We took our swim lessons together, we practiced together in backyard pools, we perfected acrobatic tricks on the same swingsets...so we had an innate symbioses. The synchronized diving and swimming should have been a cinch for us. And, we were, you know, good. Ish. But. Synchronized anything is very, very difficult. Add water, above and under, and lemme tell you, it's difficult. We spent every moment we could get in a pool or lake during the off season to work on our routine for camp the next year and we still a) sucked and b) almost drowned. We took home the "silver" a couple years and "gold" our final year at camp, but that was primarily because a) we handcrafted bedazzled bathing caps to wear during our final routine and the judges gave us credit for our arts and craft ability and b) our toughest competition gave up mid-way through their routine because one of them inhaled water and almost choked to death. Don't let the sequined bathing caps and nose clips fool you, scary stuff, this synchronized swimming.

My high school swim team scrapped the attempt at synchronized swimming after three practice sessions, and we weren't even going for fancy choreography. We were just aiming for an athletic showcase number for an end-of-season swim meet. 12 girls attempting to swim in a circle, submerge and break the surface at about the same time. That was it. Basic stuff. Two girls, regional swim team champs, no less, nearly drowned trying to manage that basic two minute routine.

So. Huge props to the synchronized swim teams. I know you're athletic and skilled and the teamwork involved is phenomenal.

But if you wear outfits and makeup like this, you can't blame casual observers for writing you off as disco in the pool.

I call this, "Ode to Tammy Faye Baker."

Yes, that's a hand making a grab for their lady regions. Discuss. I desperately want to believe the scary anime faces on the Russian team's boobs are an homage to traditional folk art Matryoshka dolls. But. As the team dove and emerged, splashing all the while, the faces on their suits looked like additional team members. Siamese twins attached at the boobs, bobbing in and out of the water in perfect synch with the team. It was hugely distracting. And nightmare inducing.

Why the exaggerated eye shadow ladies? Why?

And this kind of behavior isn't helping end the "it's not a 'real' sport" comments and jokes.

The Chinese swim team (non synchronized) had perfect swim suits. I liked them. They were athletic but had a little flair that invoked dragons and water, but didn't distract from the athletes' moves. Something like that would be ideal for synchronized swimming. A little flair, but basically utilitarian and not a distraction from the skills being performed.


 Okay, let's talk rhythmic gymnastics, shall we?

I will open with the admission that I am fairly clueless about gymnastics. Like most girls at my school, I took "tumbling" intramural sessions when I was young. But when, at age 8, I was already as tall as (or taller than) most Olympic gymnasts, it was obvious gymnastics wasn't in my athletic cards. (Ditto figure skating.) However, until I injured my ankle/foot a few years ago I could still turn a perfect cartwheel (which is where I focused my years in intramural tumbling). The training stuck with me. And thus concludes my knowledge of gymnastics.

I do, however, recall how hard the gymnastic girls trained. My friends and I stood against the wall of the school gym, slack-jawed awestruck, and marveled at what those girls, girls we knew, were doing. Handsprings, flips, twists, crazy scary stuff on the balance beam, weirdo tumbling dance moves. On the playground the gymnastics girls flipped and twirled around the monkey bars. Most of them needed help reaching the higher monkey bars. If I was feeling charitable I'd help one of them reach the higher bars...and then they'd flip and twirl and do some freaky crazy shit on those bars. Sure, I could reach the highest bars, but my attempts to flip and twirl on them ended with painful crotch slams and me eating a dirt sandwich. I eventually wrote it off as a shorter girl's game and gave up. I could turn a perfect cartwheel. That was good enough for me.

A couple girls I knew went on to train and compete at state meets. One even went to "nationals" a few times. And they had to learn how to do the rhythmic stuff - the swilly ribbon, the dances with ball thing, the hoop stuff, all of it. I watched them practice during gym class (from the safety of the badminton or fencing areas) and I know it's not as easy as it looks. It looks stupid but it's difficult.

The image problem, as I see it, is threefold. 1) The props; 2) the dance aspect; 3) the costumes.

Ribbons, small children's play balls, brightly colored hula hoops and those juggling pins don't exactly scream, "Years of training, skill, agility and strength worthy of international competition." Props of any kind tend to reduce a sport to "leisure activity." Why not a jump rope event? Why not a plate spinning event? Or ring toss? Oh, I know, what about a blindfolded pin-the-medal-on-the-gymnast event?  Props (especially silly ones like play balls and juggling pins and ribbons) add an element of hokey to the whole thing. Is this an Olympic event or a Gallagher tribute? Like the costumes, props are a distraction. Viewers end up focusing on the props instead of the athlete, and the takeaway is, "It's just ribbons and balls and hula hoops and juggling pins. That's stupid and doesn't belong at the Olympics."

It all comes down to this moment. In her mind she hears a stern Bela Karolyi-esque coach yelling, "Use your eyes to make love to the sparkly ball! Jazz hand, dammit, JAZZ HAND!!"

So, does she work children's parties with Lolo the clown on weekends? If they have to use juggling pins could they at least use pins that don't look like they came in a Fisher Price playset with ring toss and bubble wands (ages 18 mos. - 3 years)?

The girls are such good gymnasts that they make it look easy, as if contestants voted off Dancing with the Stars could head over the the gymnastics hall and win a consolation prize in rhythmic gymnastics. All that's missing is scores for best jazz hands. I know that's not the case, one look at these girls' muscles and flexibility tells you there is some serious training going on behind the scenes. But they're choreographed and they use jaunty, sassy dance moves between the gymnastic moves and that makes it seem, well, kinda cheesy and just glorified dancing.

Or stripping.

This year, especially, the moves and held positions are, well, in a word, pornographic. And it's not because my mind is in the gutter. Most of these routines look like an interpretation of Whitesnake videos. Take a look at these stills. I dare you to look me in the eyes and say men around the world are not jerking off while watching this. I felt like I needed to leave a stack of dollar bills on top of my television after watching some of the routines.

WTF? No really, WTF?  "Just squeeze, squeeze, squeeze your way to thinner thighs!"

I once took a stripper aerobics class. Don't judge me. My friend had a free coupon. The teacher, an actual stripper, showed us this move as a pole dismount.

The sexual metaphors write themselves.

Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

Mainly, though, I blame their image issue on their costumes. Like synchronized swimming, the costumes have to be seen to be believed. And they're a huge distraction from the athletes and their performances. The 2012 batch of rhythmic Olympians really went for the gusto in their costumes. They took it so far beyond lace and rhinestones that it's difficult to articulate what they wore.

Maybe This Time... If the whole gymnastics thing doesn't work out she has a bright future as a dancer in Cabaret. Five, six, seven, eight and leap and twirl and leap and twirl...

Anyone who's ever attended a Greek wedding doesn't need me to explain that she's on the Greek team.

I have no idea what's going on here, or how it's in any way athletic, but the costumes are awesome.

The Israelis, however, get my vote for the gold. Their dominatrix outfits, complete with harnesses, cement the reputation as, "The Sport of Strippers." Bondage fans the world over rejoiced when the Israeli women took the mat.

The classic, "Sacrificing of the Dom" move.

Okay. Got that out of my system.

Ladies of the pool and mat, I admire your agility, strength and athletic prowess. I really do. I'm just saying, you know, from a marketing perspective, there are some tweaks you could make to improve the reputation of your sports.

And by the way, in lesser known women's sports, the US women's basketball team is doing fabulous and poised to bring home gold. You go, girls. High five. Literally.





*Okay, since we're getting it all out of our systems, here...we have a pretty good idea what sort of heat a lot of the spandex and lycra clad male Olympians are packing. (the popularity of men's swimming is not due solely to the US medal dominance) In re: Rummel: If that thing's not fully loaded, I, for one, would like to see a comparison of what kind of heat he packs when he is, erm, cocked and ready.)