***
Let me ask you, whoever actually takes the time to read what I write, what would you think, say, feel if I told you, “I love you, unconditionally. You’re very talented. You have a wonderful vocabulary and brain…but your living space is a pig mess. You are wasting your talents, doing whatever you are doing right now (which just might be honing your supposed talents, or just occupying your already troubled mind with some art therapy). You could look much better than you currently do. And, I wish you would let me help you fix yourself up…because, as you are, you’re not going to get the things in life you seek.”
Would you nod in compliance and promise to make improvements?
Would you curse and spit and throw things–including foul language–back at me, adding, “Who are you to talk like that about me!?” Would you make a public scene, damage property and risk being bagged by police?
Or, would you simply feel bile rise up the length of your throat and tension mount in your veins until you wish to scream and massage those pains away?
Would you struggle sleeping if someone repeatedly used such contrary words? Would you feel even worse if I violated your personal space, after several warnings and previous violations…er, forgiven (*cough* allowed to pass with trailing resentment)?
I’m inclined to go with option 3. But, that’s just me. [Or, are there actually others who feel the same?]
This is the crisis I face almost daily with my family, some members more than others. Not one member of my family leads an entirely healthy life. Not one lives up to the standards of my parents…who probably failed or broke their souls trying to live up to the standards of their parents. Yet, all are prone to being very opinionated without compassion, not even in an emotional/mental crisis situation. In fact, I am almost certain…certain members have a shady version of that lacking-emotional-awareness condition Elon Musk admits to having. They are loud-mouthed, ignorant Italians who are quick to ostracize me as a hothead out of control, even when I curb my own judging/opinionated impulses to attend their needs.
I don’t have the arsehole gene–at least, not anymore–that allows a person to spout insults and then excuse them as “hard truths.” If I ever do spout off, it’s after incessant prodding, much the way I took on my first childhood bully. He relentlessly criticized my young appearance behind my back. My brother told me to ignore him. But, every person has their limit of tolerance. And, when mine finally snapped, I turned and nailed the taller, older boy between the eyes without even seeing what I did; my eyes were dead and dark with anger, no mercy. The kid pushed one button too many times, reckless without conscience or respect, unwise beyond compare.
Even if I can spout off and call out what I think is wrong with my family–some would say I’m doing it right now–I take no pleasure in it. I don’t smile, afterward, like other members of my family do, making me think they are possessed. I once hit someone in the family for wickedly smirking after spouting off at me. I don’t applaud my action but stand by it. If I was too casual with such offense, I’d justify it all of the time, like those who “cuss like sailors” excuse their foul language. Instead, I have a raging conscience which occasionally overflows with stored up anger and frustration with how sick and stupid this world has become. Just writing or speaking about what bothers me makes me ill. Yet, if I don’t write this out, it seethes under my skin. Consider this my personal therapy session. Welcome to a violation of confidentiality.
Now, if you asked your family for a vacation from speaking to each other, just to have a few days without quarreling and listening to them bicker about you and everyone who’s not in the room, would your family respect that request or reject it and throw more hostile, threatening, stomach-turning dialogue in your already distressed face, like my family does?
I see myself in my father when he refuses to put up with “the silent treatment.” If anyone stops speaking to me, I tend to go after them and prod them to reconsider. But, if I ever sound like he does, I should be punched or shot by the person I am prodding. It’s just dumb, wrong and unfair. [Would any other member of my dear family confess the same?…wish to be punished for their stupidity? Only to fake a sad face and play for mercy, like a child saying they didn’t mean to do something. If I hit them, they’d go right back to verbally lashing at me or make threats.]
Another family aspect that has grown intolerable is gossip. My family struggles to speak with each other but seems to have no problem talking about others when they are not in the room. And, how am I to respond? Join in and be just as wickedly mousy? Speak without conscience about the one or ones who irritate the family member seeking my agreement (not my honest opinion)?
My parents, who might as well be divorced, constantly clash and then turn to me to take their side while venting about the other parent. My siblings, when they are not barking at their spouses/girlfriends/boyfriends in front of me, will confess what is not going so well with those spouses/girlfriends/boyfriends. Do I tell them to grow up and put on their big-people pants? Do I get loud, opinionated and tell them to “suck it up?” No. But, I DO (now) tell them–as calmly as possible–I can no longer tolerate the discussion, because the sheer weight of all that relationship conflict has further impacted my already troubled heart. I don’t offer my ear before they lay the load on me; I don’t get a choice.
Hearing about people not in the room feels like a plot to kill them. Anything I say could contribute to another fight or achieve nothing other than riling my family. Similarly, venting about someone not in the room leaves me with a somewhat guilty, unpleasant feeling. I understand how my family might desperately need counseling, but I am not the strongest person to take that job, right now. It is I who need a good counselor who won’t cost a fortune, limit me to an hour every week or two and pressure me to start taking risky medication. And, if we ALL need counseling, then is my whole family doomed? Cuz it sure feels like a wildfire about to consume the planet.
How many hours must I play counselor without being given the same breathing space to speak from my heart without confrontation and ridicule? How many times must I have the same argument about something I refuse to change, perhaps only because I’ve been poked and threatened so many times that I feel like a cat in a cage being poked with a stick.
When am I going to change? When am I going to change? When am I going to finally concede and live up to the standards of each and every judgmental member of my family? Never. And, the more they resent and prod me, the more I want to die. It may sound unsettling to hear/read, but I almost will getting fatally ill and letting illness take my life…because I can’t seem to do myself in (like so many famous faces have already done, leaving me rattled by their grim choices)…and I cannot find the courage to finally separate myself from my family, once and for all the remaining marbles in my precious yet deeply damaged head.
The mere fact that I cannot go to any member of the family with a seemingly simple problem/question without facing more challenges than a person on the lowest benefit rung of the USA insurance scheme…is disgusting. It’s always the wrong time…or too much talk…or me being a coward/baby. Yet, when any member of my family shows a need for help, do I ever…EVER dump upsetting words on them before lending a hand? No. Not unless they upset me, first. Not unless I’m already carrying a heap of resentment from recent conflicts.
I once asked a seemingly simple question about one line on a tax form. It took four days and three family members to realize I’d just have to find the answer another way, myself.
I helped my brother move a house-load of crap he could not refuse collecting from “friends” simply because the rest of the family was harping on him, and he’s my brother.
[Now, before you point out I called his collection crap, understand my family has a sickness for collecting which verges on hoarding. My brother is a “sentimental” sort who, like his (my) father, hates to see a “perfectly good” whatever get scrapped. But, without any logical plan and place for that thing, my family adds it to a collection, threatens storage space limits and goes on collecting until there is no more space and a purge is forced…only to pick up the habit, again, and restart the ugly cycle. No, the household wasn’t full of crap, but there were plenty of things no member of my family was ever going to use, including my displaced brother. Dare I say the smarter, more sensible solution would have been to let all of the “stuff” go wherever and to whoever it may attract and leave the ugly incident/scene with only the essentials to go on living independently, without requiring family to house a large portion of the hoarded items. And, isn’t it sickening to think my family would complain but comply with such assistance for my brother but not me? If my sister offered to help me, she would only do so to get the things SHE covets, as she is prone to do. Isn’t she sweet for helping herself out of my jam?]
Knowing he was already in distress, I didn’t turn and wave a finger at him, lecture him without pause for conscience. If he cried out “Enough!”…I wouldn’t keep badgering him. But, if the task had gotten to me, exhausted my tolerance, I might have opted to walk away. There were moments when I felt taxed, depleted, endangered by excessively heavy things while feeling concerned about a recently repaired elbow. I risked my well-being for him without argument. Can any member of my family do the same? Not yet, they haven’t.
Yet, how can I expect my kin to change? They’ve been this way so long, even before I found my voice, the very same voice I am–on one hand–praised for my intellect…and–on the other hand–insulted for talking too loud, too fast, too soft, too much. I’ve simply endured them so long, letting them push me to my breaking point. And, because I am so lousy at making friends, I feel without any other outlet than this blog. How sad.
Venting over.
Don’t be afraid to say something. But, be wary of doling out advice, especially if it is laced with critique. I am not in a tolerant mood.
Writingbolt's Creation 
Sometimes…Olympics Commentators Suck
Tags: 2024, athlete, athletes, athletics, broadcast, celebrity, commentators, comments, condition, editorial, exhaustion, fame, France, interview, judge, judges, judging, media, Olympics, opinion, Paris, press, PTSD, respect, sportscasting, stress, summer olympics, technical, television, therapy, timing
****
I’m going to come right out and say it. Most of the commentators for the Paris 2024 Summer Olympics (and probably every other Olympics I have seen) suck. I’m speaking specifically about the “American” commentators, including those foreign accents who have found comfy seats among the American-English-speaking folks. [If you watch the Olympics in some other country and dislike your commentators, I’d be interested in hearing your story.] It doesn’t matter how velvety-smooth your voice is (I’m looking squarely at the stout, brown-skinned, bald man with glasses who is…everywhere…like a VISA credit card); you people cannot restrain yourselves enough to give your American athletes, your celebrities of choice, the very people you have to interview, more respect when they are in poor condition to respond.
Key words: in poor condition…and have to interview. We know you have to interview them because they’ve been advertised and sponsored better than cars in a NASCAR race or horses in the Kentucky Derby. But, interviewing someone when they are out of breath and probably don’t have enough oxygen in the brain to sensibly respond? That’s just dumb…and rude.
[And, flashing a pretty face while laughing does not excuse you, either, Miss Maria Taylor, miss late-night, golden-brown goddess, miss supermom. The laughter feels a little forced, canned, at times. But, you seem to have better luck with interviews, maybe because you get the night shift and “next day” moments and are not typically seen with athletes right after their events.]
If you DID have respect, you’d ask different questions and wait with them until the athletes can breathe easier. But, no, every damn interview has to include “What does this medal you just won mean to you and to your country?” [But, more importantly, your country.] And, you cannot wait to ask these stupid, repeating questions, as if someone is holding a gun to your head. [And, it’s not a starter pistol.]
The nerve you highly polished morons have to mistreat these fragile souls who risk their lives to get a medal for their countries. I’d like to put all of you through the paces and then jab a microphone and fifty cameras in YOUR faces. See how YOU feel in the hot seat.
In your haste, all you accomplish is getting the worst from your interviews. Sure, you probably curb some negativity, because the athletes are depleted. But, that’s also lucky and risky thinking. If I was in one of those interviews, gasping for air, dripping with sweat, I just might let a few words fly that wouldn’t sit well with broadcast TV. I might end up a news feed scandal for what I said. And, I’d have you careless jerks, with your pressed suits and bleached smiles, to thank for my scarring slip.
I have to wonder…do the athletes have the opportunity to refuse? Can they bypass the microphones and cameras waiting just a short distance from whatever they call a finish line in their event? Can they shake their heads and walk away, giving themselves time to regain strength and, maybe, tidy themselves before answering stupid, repetitive questions? If not, shame on the rules and/or customs of this venue. And, if the athletes repeatedly fall prey to the microphones, hoping they will be asked/told something reassuring just to hear the same tiresome, annoying dialogue they hear after every other “run” they take, that’s also very sad.
If you must talk to someone when they’re out of breath, try asking how good it feels to be done with the event. Ask something that helps relieve the athlete of their current exhaustion and/or distress. Offer some encouragement; say they are okay, now that the trial is over. Tell them to have some fun if they’re not required to compete again. Don’t give them some patriotic BS or expect them to wave the nation’s flag for you. And, give them a towel or water bottle!
Now, you might point out the interviews that take place some vague time after the events, when the athletes have had time to don fresh, dry, sometimes stylish clothes and groom their hair (if they have any). In those instances, sure, there is more respect. But, there is still the chance stupid questions will be asked. I think there is some dumb writer behind all of this who preps a carbon-copy list of questions some lousy high-school teacher would give his or her class. Every year, every group, the same questions get used.
The athletes seems more interested in how the medals contain bits of the Eiffel Tower, but you’d rather ask about patriotism. What do you THINK the medal means for their country?! It means a digit gets added to the damn medal count you can’t stop discussing!…as if medal counts mean everything or more than the bonding of nations. Good grief! The athletes offer you opportunities for unique discussions, and you throw recycled formal letters in their faces.
[‘No wonder interviews produce bile in throats, making those interviewed shift uneasily in their tiny, uncomfortable seats and roll their eyes. Yes, I said bile.]
I’m also extremely sick of the commentators who feel the need to judge every little move an athlete makes, down to the tenth of a point and the hundredth of a second. Let’s just say gymnastics is really, REALLY annoying to watch, in that way. I get excited watching a swimming relay; and then some technical jerk says the last swimmer for the team I favored lost by a hundredth of a second. I don’t want to hear that! What’s next? Losing by one thousandth of a second? Spare me. Spare the world that PTSD.
Imagine failing to get a good grade in school or get the approval of your boss at work because you were a hundredth of a second late with your work. It’s no wonder athletes become edgy, paranoid, egostical. I’d have a breakdown, too, if I heard three or more people moan about me missing out on a medal by such a small margin. Give them a break!
She came in fourth! Okay? That’s all you have to say. You can kiss the precision of your modern metering technology or make detailed notes in your meticulous journals when the microphones are off.
Then there’s the tendency for commentators to become drunk with crowd noise and fumble their way through commentary. Words spurt from their lips in the heat of the moment, skewing reality, not always making sense. I’d be the same way if I had to talk about gameplay while playing any game. Maybe that’s a sign; maybe we don’t need comments on every single move athletes make. We don’t need to talk about how that female athlete’s legs bend or how her lead would look even more impressive if you took away the hurdles…in a hurdle-leaping race. [What sense does that make?] If you take away the hurdles, it would certainly alter the results. You don’t need to make the leader of the race sound like a goddess. She’s still human. Egos get shattered every day in athletics. Occasionally, environmental factors interfere.
[Hey, why don’t you ask the AI you keep pitching and supporting to comment for you? Oops. There go your jobs, struck down by the Salesforce. ‘Not impressive. ‘Most non-triumphant.]
So, I’m telling all of you commentators to back off and “slow your roll.” I don’t care what financial pressure is on your back. You tell your bosses to back off, too. Show these laboring athletes more respect. Because, if you don’t, you can dig out your fat wallets and purses and pay the medical bills of the people you hurt with your impatience and carelessness…and those annoying repetitive questions! Athletes shouldn’t have to invest in bug repellant to get rid of mosquitoes like you. Lindsey Vonn shouldn’t be in commercials for sleep aids. [She should be soaking up the sun at some beach with me! Ha. The Password is…companionship.]
What about Colin Jost you say? Well, in short, I’m not a fan. I personally think he’s very self-centered and privileged. He won a lottery to sit (and stand) in Tahiti, where he makes light of everything and continues to seek the pity of women (and gay men), young and old, for his…mishaps. Sure, what he has to say is better than the repetitive and meticulous stuff other “pros” are saying, but that’s more sad than good. Give me a microphone, baggy shorts and some sandals; I’ll serve you similarly slick and more witty lines with a less polished image (I confess) and less focus on myself. I might know even less about events like surfing and do less research while humbly soaking up as much culture as I can. I’ll ask athletes questions that open up their hearts, make them laugh and dry their tears.
What about Snoop Dogg you say? Well, he sure got the golden ticket, the all-access pass. And, sure, he comes off as a nice, humble guy…in a way. But, the commentary that comes out of his mouth is sort of like the babbling you do when you’re in a dream. It doesn’t always make sense; so I can’t classify it as an interview or satisfying. It’s like watching a cook sample food someone else made during their cooking TV show; they can’t quite speak clearly with their mouth full of delight (if they aren’t lying through their wet lips). He just keeps vocalizing some sort of feeling about everything he has been so blessed to experience. The visuals he shares (with the cameras) are more pleasing than what he has to say. I’m honestly a little envious…until I see all of the other celebrities in attendance, and then I start to wonder exactly how much access has been given to wealthy and otherwise famous faces.
I feel like the 2024 Paris Olympics is a lavish party I failed to attend, and, even if I did attend, I wouldn’t be comfortable around so much wealth and fame. I’m not exactly the sort who gets excited about acquiring autographs and photos with people who don’t know me and don’t likely give a crap. This event is bigger than any Oscars or Emmys night, with more than one large building full of “big names.” I’ll just keep admiring the view of the Eiffel Tower from the beach-volleyball setting and forget what was bothering me for a while.
I’m Writingbolt. This isn’t my job. It’s a sort of habit.
Okay, judges. What’s my score? A 4.95 out of a possible 5? And, yet, I missed the podium by one hundredth of a point? I don’t get a medal? Well, @*$&* you. I didn’t really need a score or medal, anyway. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be at some Nice beachside cafe, listening to the surf and dousing my irritation in something saucy and sweet.