The punishment of Prometheus (he was chained to a rock and had his eternally-regenerating liver torn out by an eagle every day) has always been a popular topic for Western artists, and why not; it's full of action poses and furious birds and gave everyone the chance to draw hands. A real win-win! And yet: Over time, folks got a little sloppy, and eventually, more often than not, Prometheus and the eagle looked like boyfriends…
I was born with a strip of red hair that my parents liked to fashion into a Mohawk until it finally reached the rest of my head. My father’s grandfather had red hair, and someone on my my mother’s side must have—it’s a double-recessive trait, meaning it has to be passed along on both sides.
If you’re like me (constantly hungry, bespectacled, obsessed with dogs), your formative makeup years were not the blazingly bright 1980s or the “various shades of morose brown” early 1990s but the shiny, proto-futuristic, low-waisted years of the early 2000s.
In the middle years of the 1930s, when everyone was unhappy and the history books have pictures to prove it, my father rode the rails from coast to coast and town to town learning to hate the many and varied relations on whose charity he lived. He started out a boy of eight, holding onto a small sister with one hand and a smaller dog with the other, and ended a boy of twelve.
Okay, folks, clearly I’m doing something a little different with this, my final column in this amazing space we all love so much. How could I let it be Businesslady as Usual during such a strange and transitional period?
I love lifting with a strength and dedication I didn’t know I was capable of. I love how much of what I learn in training is applicable to real life. This is growth. This is progress. This is not failure.
When I found out at the age of 22 that I was not somehow failing at being liked by others, but that a series of horribly well-meant mistakes by my parents, teachers and pediatricians had kept me from the autism diagnosis I should have had when I was eight, the only thing that cheered me up for months was hunting for serial killers in Copenhagen and Malmö.
If Barack Obama were your dad, you would know you shouldn't ask him for help with your government homework, but you’d do it anyway, and he would go on and on and on for so long it would be like the damn State of the Union. You wouldn't be able to escape, so you'd start keeping track of how many times he said "Let me be clear" (15).
Today in Ms. Frizzle's class we were learning about the body. "What body?" Carlos kept asking anyone who would listen. "Somebody." Ms. Frizzle laughed uproariously every time he said it. "Somebody! That's good, Carlos!" Ms. Frizzle was in a good mood today.