You already know Michael Phelps is an Olympic hottie, and he’s a pretty good swimmer too. But what I didn’t know, and what kind of makes him even more of an Olympic hero to me, is that when he was younger it was predicted that he’d never be able to focus on anything, because Michael Phelps has ADHD.
Starting with preschool, teachers complained: Michael couldn’t stay quiet at quiet time, Michael wouldn’t sit at circle time, Michael didn’t keep his hands to himself, Michael was giggling and laughing and nudging kids for attention.
As he entered public school, he displayed what his teachers called “immature” behavior. “In kindergarten I was told by his teacher, ‘Michael can’t sit still, Michael can’t be quiet, Michael can’t focus,’ ” recalled Ms. Phelps, who was herself a teacher for 22 years. The family had recently moved, and she felt Michael might be frustrated because the kindergarten curriculum he was getting in the new district was similar to the pre-K curriculum in their old district.
…In the elementary grades at their suburban Baltimore school, Ms. Phelps said, Michael excelled in things he loved — gym and hands-on lessons, like science experiments. “He read on time, but didn’t like to read,” she said. “So I gave him the Baltimore Sun sports pages, even if he just read the pictures and captions.”
She will never forget one teacher’s comment: “This woman says to me, ‘Your son will never be able to focus on anything.’ ”
… When he was in fifth grade, during his annual check-up, Ms. Phelps and the family physician, Dr. Charles Wax, discussed whether Michael might have A.D.H.D. — attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. By then, the Phelpses were a swimming family. (Michael’s older sister Whitney at 15 was ranked first in the country in the 200-meter butterfly, though her career would be cut short by a back injury.) Dr. Wax’s children also swam, and he’d noticed Michael at the Phelps sisters’ swim meets. “Michael used to run around like a little crazy person mooching food off people,” said Ms. Phelps.
The doctor suggested sending assessment forms to his teachers. Their consensus: Can’t sit still, can’t keep quiet, can’t focus.
Well, it looks like someone hadn’t heard of hyperfocus.
On my next-to-last day in Memphis, before flying home, I finally made my pilgrimage. No, not to Graceland. I never really had any desire to go there. Besides, I knew that when I got home, most of the people who knew me and knew about my trip wouldn’t ask if I went to Graceland. At least not first. If I was going to visit anywhere in Memphis, there was one place I had to visit first. So when I co-worker told me that several people were planning to visit the National Civil Rights Museum — which includes and incorporates the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated — I knew that was where I was going to go, if I went anywhere else in Memphis.
I remember walking through the exhibit, and finally making my way to the King Room, looking through the glass that protected and preserved it, and then walking through an adjacent room and stepping out onto the balcony next to where King was shot. I remember looking across the street and seeing the window of the boarding house where James Earl Ray made the fatal shot. I remember walking through a tunnel, across the street to that house, and looking into the room from which he made the shot. And I remember walking past James Earl Ray’s car when we finally left the museum.
I stepped out into the sunlight, at last, with the rest of the group —all of us blinking our eyes, trying to get used to the light, grateful for the awkward silence, yet feeling the need to fill it with something profound or moving, but coming up short. The thought I kept to myself was how strange it was that in Memphis people ended up visiting a monument to someone’s death, both named — at birth or at birth as a celebrity — “King.” I didn’t think about then, what comes to mind now: how many deaths will receive no monument in Memphis, or be remembered even a year later.
I haven’t made a secret on this blog that I’m a recovering alcoholic. (In fact, last month I celebrated 16 years of sobriety.) So, I was intrigued when I found Kevin’s link to Addict’s Almanac — Tye Dowdy’s series of posts over at Street Roots. When I clicked through to the posts, I was glad I did.
Like Kevin, Dowdy’s experiences are very different from mine, but mostly on the surface. Reading it, I felt at first the familiar feeling I had in some of my first twelve step meetings, listening to people talk about the wreckage addiction had made of their lives.
As a 23-year-old whose drinking career had been relatively short, but who was fortunate enough to recognize a wake-up call when I got one, I couldn’t relate to the stories I sometimes hear about DUI arrests, lost jobs, lost marriages and relationships, lost health, lost fortunes, etc. I remember mentioning those feelings to my sponsor, who said to me, “Well, if you go back out and start drinking again, all that and more could be yours.”
Since then, I’ve always been drawn to the stories of other addicts, not just because I find them informative, but also because it’s a reminder that beyond the surface of age, location, economic class, drug of choice, etc., we’re pretty much the same underneath.
Dowdy’s piece should be required reading for anyone holding forth on the “drug war.” I could get into my thoughts about that, but that’s a much longer post.
My one trip to Memphis didn’t include the expected pilgrimage to Graceland, and I never saw the ghost of Elvis (impersonators notwithstanding) even though I stayed on Union Avenue. Even if I had I’m not sure I’d have followed him to Graceland. I say expected, because almost everyone I met who wasn’t connected with the conference asked me if I was going to Graceland. I said no, but what I didn’t share was that I’d already made up my mind where I was going while in Memphis, and my itinerary didn’t include Graceland. Not even a walk down Elvis Presley Blvd.
The first was one of my favorite songs, from which I borrowed the title of this post. The second was a book I read a few years ago that actually makes it hard for me to answer “yes” to the question in the poll.
Say what you want about “Hollywood Values.” This is a pretty great thing to do.
The trio of actors who replaced Heath Ledger in his final film have donated their fees for the movie to the late star’s young daughter.
Jude Law, Colin Farrell and Johnny Depp all signed up to take on Ledger’s character in Terry Gilliam’s The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.
Gilliam said: “They didn’t take money - it goes to Heath’s daughter.”
… Gilliam said: “The great thing about it was when Heath died those three actors came along and saved the day. It’s now four actors creating one character….
“The three actors were totally heroic coming in because this doesn’t happen very often, where there is a tragedy and very famous and successful actors come in and say OK we’ll do whatever it takes to help. To be part of that is wonderful.”
Although Ledger had not updated his will to include his daughter Matilda or his ex-partner Michelle Williams, his family promised that she would be an “absolute priority”.
I don’t know what they’re salaries were for this film, but these guys pull down some significant bucks. Depp, as of 2006, commanded $15 million per picture. Law pulled in $9.5 million for Closer in 2004. And Farrell banked $10 million in 2006. I don’t know what Ledger’s salary was, or how much these guys were paid for The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus, but I think they ought to be applauded for this, as well as for their performances.
I only went to Memphis once, and I left knowing there was much of it I hadn’t seen. It was 1998, and it must have been August, because the city was crowded with people there for the anniversary of Elvis Presley’s death. I was there for a conference about HIV/AIDS prevention and treatment. It was an odd coincidence, and one that made it fairly easy to tell conference attendees from the tourists who were there to celebrate or experience one of Memphis’ three major attractions: Elvis, Barbeque, and the Blues. They were all everywhere.
You weren’t out of the airport before you encountered all three in some form, and they were still there when you left, so you could take them home with you. (You could even — I was amazed to find out — order your barbeque at the airport and have it Fed-Exed home. Depending on how long your flight was, it might arrive before you.) Downtown, Elvis’ images and impersonators were in abundance. (I think every hotel may have had one of the latter.) You could stand in the street and be wrapped in the sent of barbeque and the sound of the blues. And that was just the block where my hotel stood.
The American Civil Liberties Union filed a complaint with the Judicial Inquiry Commission against Covington County Circuit Judge Ashley McKathan of Andalusia, said Olivia Turner, executive director of the ACLU of Alabama. The complaint said McKathan violated ethics rules and the U.S. Constitution by ordering the group to pray.
Four years ago, McKathan donned the Ten Commandments robe, he said, to publicly acknowledge his belief that the law is based on more than just words written in law books.
The ACLU complaint said McKathan dropped to his knees and prayed aloud during a court hearing in February. He told the 100 people in the courtroom that he was not afraid to call on the name of Jesus Christ, witnesses said, and ordered all to join hands and pray, according to the complaint filed soon after the hearing.
The hearing was for a case in which the pastor and several deacons of Morning Star Missionary Baptist Church in Monroeville, Alabama, sued the church’s former secretary to gain possession of financial records.
OK. I’ll confess to breaking at least a couple of these. I’ve broken no. 1 countless times, mainly because of poor reception. If I get a call at work, the reception in my office is a little spotty, so I’ll end up walking to the empty office across the hall while saying “Hello?! Hello?! Can you hear me?” pretty loudly because they can’t hear me. At least not until I get across the hall. In the meantime I’ve got to sound like an idiot long enough to make sure I don’t lose the call between point A and point B. If the empty office across the hall is occupied, then I might end up standing in the hallway sounding like an idiot. A loud idiot.
There there’s my good friends at WMATA. (The picture above is one of their old posters.) There are two bus stops at the end of my street, one on my side and one on the other, both for buses that will take me to Metro stations roughly equidistant from my office. So, I can catch either. The one across the street comes a little earlier, and that’s the one I prefer. But the bus arrival times are more like a window period. It may arrive a few minutes early, in which case I’ve already missed it by the time I get out the door. Or it’s running a few minutes late. The problem is, I don’t know which is the case, but I need to know soon, because the bus on my side of the street comes just a minute or two later (though sometimes they arrive at the same time.)
So, I end up calling WMATA’s number, to get the scheduled arrival times. Their system is voice automated, and it never fails that I have to shout over the noise of the traffic, and the damn thing doesn’t understand me anyway. At least I’m outside, and there’s no one around for me to annoy.
By the time I got out of my meeting this afternoon, and the rest of the day finally opened up, I thought today would be a wash blog-wise. Certainly, it was unlikely I’d post anything, since I still have a ton of things I haven’t even read yet. So I checked the stats, just to see if anyone had stopped by, and found a lot of visitors coming in from YouTube. YouTube? Why would I be getting visitors from YouTube?
It’s funny, what memories come back to you, just from reading a news story. I finally read, this morning about Cullen Jones and his Olympic win.
Bronx-born swimmer Cullen Jones didn’t just help power the U.S. relay swim team to Olympic gold - he just may have shattered the stereotype that blacks can’t swim.
Although Jones isn’t the first African-American swimmer to make the Olympic squad (he’s the third), or the first to win a gold medal (he’s the second), he figured in one of the most exciting races in sports history.
And that thriller will be replayed on Olympic highlight reels for generations to come. “I hope this exposure from the race today, a kid can see this and say, ‘Wow, a black swimmer - and he’s got a gold medal,’ ” Jones, 24, said. “The stigma that black people don’t swim ended today.”
…Jones was 5 years old and living in Irvington, N.J., when his parents took him to a Pennsylvania water park to cool off. His mother, Debra, didn’t want him to go down a slide in an inner tube because he couldn’t swim.
Jones should have listened to his mother. When the inner tube flipped over, he panicked instead of letting go and then passed out.
It took CPR to bring him back to life. The next week, his mother sent him for swimming lessons at a YMCA in nearby Newark and then the John F. Kennedy Aquatic Center, which is also in Newark. Jones took to the water immediately, but wasn’t a standout at first, his coaches said. “At first he was an average swimmer and he progressed,” said Elliott Bradley. “The more he progressed, the better he got at it. I never thought he would go this far. I’m very proud of him.”
This is something I’ve never quite been able to get my mind around for a number of reasons, the most mystifying being that evangelical right wingers think this is supposed to win the rest of us over to their way of seeing things. I mean, it amazes me on a daily basis that anyone, anyone who takes even a minute to think about it actually buys this bullshit.
In the Bullshit Department, a businessman can’t hold a candle to a clergyman. ‘Cause I gotta tell you the truth, folks. When it comes to bullshit, big-time, major league bullshit, you have to stand in awe of the all-time champion of false promises and exaggerated claims: religion. No contest. No contest. Religion. Religion easily has the greatest bullshit story ever told.
Think about it. Religion has actually convinced people that there’s an invisible man — living in the sky — who watches everything you do, every minute of every day. And the invisible man has a special list of ten things he does not want you to do. And if you do any of these ten things, he has a special place, full of fire and smoke and burning and torture and anguish, where he will send you to live and suffer and burn and choke and scream and cry forever and ever ’til the end of time!
But He loves you.
He loves you, and He needs money! He always needs money! He’s all-powerful, all-perfect, all-knowing, and all-wise, somehow just can’t handle money! Religion takes in billions of dollars, they pay no taxes, and they always need a little more. Now, you talk about a good bullshit story. Holy Shit!
– George Carlin Politically Incorrect, May 29, 1997
Sometimes I’ll come across an article focusing on family and friends remembering the victim, and may be able to glean a little more information. But just as often, those friends and family may not have known — may have guessed or inferred, or may have assumed since they were not told — that their loved-one or their friend was gay. Co-workers who have worked beside the victim for years, friends and family who have known the victim even longer, may simply not have known who their friend and love-one really was. That is, until they become the victim of a hate crime.
That was the case with the murder of Victor Manious. When I filed away an article on Manious’ murder a couple of months ago, I intended to get back to it, and I did. But I didn’t expect to find so much information on the case, or to spend much time with it. But the more time I spent looking in to it, the more I was reminded of a few other stories, which raised some questions for me.
You discover all sorts of things, when you check out your incoming links. Like the fact that Matthew Yglesias is apparently all moved in to his new home at Think Progress, and has added me to his blogroll. I've returned the favor, which reminds me that it's probably time I updated the blogroll again...
I probably shouldn't say this, but I work on K Street. I've even bumped into Robert Novak once, when we were both pedestrians, crossing the street in opposite directions. Now, I'll have remember to keep an eye out, and look both ways before I cross the street, lest Robert Novak run into me.
I don't really care about the Madonna/Alex Rodriguez affair story, because I'm not married to either of them. But in this day and age why would anyone (who's not "in the business" and getting paid for it) intentionally record their sexcapades on video? Why, when there are a thousand different ways for someone to get and distribute that video? How dumb do you have to be to make a 'sex tape' nowadays?
Maybe I'm taking this the wrong way, and I know these aren't Warren Buffett’s actual words of widsom, but nothing irritates me more than hearing things like "Happiness comes from within," and "Find happiness in simple pleasures." From a billionaire? Easy for him to say...
Gimmick or no gimmick, I would sodance with Lance. Hey, I took ballroom dancing in college, and was pretty good at it. Later, I learned to two-step in a gay C&W bar, and was pretty popular because I was a good follower. Not like dragging around a sack of potatoes. So, Lance, you can lead if you want to...
I knew there was a reason I'm not buying an iPhone today. (Besides the fact that I don't "need" one, and the reality that I don't need to spend that much on a tech purchase. It looks like Apple's having a pretty bad day, along with people who did buy iPhones that currently don't work due to server problems.
Starting with preschool, teachers complained: Michael couldn’t stay quiet at quiet time, Michael wouldn’t sit at circle time, Michael didn’t keep his hands to himself, Michael was giggling and laughing and nudging kids for attention.
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