Olympic Spirit is Star Trek Spirit (originally posted at Stays Put May 31, 2009):
Like everyone I’ve met who’s life and work are truly integrated, Leila is pretty-much one thing all the time. In her case--a dancer. Even during the most mundane of conversations she sort of sways rhythmically on her feet; and oftentimes without any cue, her eyes will gently roll-up into the back of her head as she swoons Stevie Wonder-style to a melody only she can hear. She’s a trippy chick.
Leila and I run in different circles, and now that our mutual friend Jake is gone, I never really see her at all. Except on accident, which is how I bumped into her yesterday.
I was on the 6 train heading down toward Union Square, writing in my notebook for what will now have to be a later blog post when a hand suddenly slapped my legal-pad. I jumped out my seat prepared for a fight, only to find Leila already dancing on the balls of her feet with her hands in front of her like a boxer.
“C’mon Lodo you fuckin’ egghead--you wanna fight?” she asked.
“What ya doin’ there smart guy?”
“I was just writing something for my blog.”
“Writing?” she said with the condescension of someone who’s pure physicality and never read a book in her life.
“Yeah, you know. The written word. The thing that separates us from the animals. Bedrock of society. ”
“Um hmm,” she said, still bouncing on her toes and flailing her arms around. “Well, what’re you writing about?”
“Nothing you’d care about. The Olympics.”
“How do you know I don’t care about Olympics?” she asked, stringing together a combination of benign punches to my bicep, “What about the Olympics?”
“..Welll,..just about the whole idea of the Olympics. You know, the Olympic spirit and all that.”
“No shit,” she responded as she approached the sliding subway doors to get out at her stop. “That’s cool, I like the Olympics.”
“Sure man,” she said as she stepped backward out the car and on to the platform, “there’s dancing, and tight outfits, and crazy fashion, and big Jamaican guys, and...you know the whole planet coming together to get their freak-on. I love that stuff. It’s like Star Trek.”
“Star Trek?” I asked as I struggled to maintain eye-contact amid the boarding passengers that came between us, “What does that mean?”
“I mean its like Star Trek,” she said as doors prepared to close. “Olympic spirit is like Star Trek spirit. Put that in your moron blog!” she said as the doors proceeded to close.
And then, before the train could pull away, she ran toward my window, turned 'round Misty May-Treanor style, bent over, and pulled down her spandex hip-huggers to reveal the crack of her ass and one of those Star Trek emblems tattooed on the small of her back.
I went back to my seat, stared at what I'd written thus far, and then wrote: Olympic spirit is Star Trek spirit.
Not sure its great writing, but it rings true.