stepford soldiers

A couple of articles worth checking out in the NYT and WP respectively today.

Catherine Orenstein writes interestingly on The Stepford Wives and its relationship to the Cinderella myth.

Narratives of physical transformation can be read as symbolic of our desire to be seen, and loved, for who we really are — and to find love, recognition and acceptance that transcends stereotype, class, age, poverty and physical imperfection. The truly climactic moment of Charles Perrault's famous 1697 version of "Cinderella" is not the moment soot stains disappear from the heroine's cheeks; rather, it is the moment when she is recognized, while still in rags, by the prince — thanks to her ability to fit her foot into a tiny slipper (a detail that, incidentally, most likely derives from China, where foot-binding produced a standard of beauty and womanhood).

We could say, then, that the myth of self-transformation is really about recognition of the inner person, perhaps explaining why so many "improved" contestants on "The Swan" and "Extreme Makeover" say they feel for the first time that they look like their true selves.
At what point, though, does a myth about recognition, acceptance and truth become just the opposite — a tale of artifice and disguise?

Myths often contain the seeds of their own inversion, and so it is in this case. In our quest to be Cinderellas, we are risking becoming her impostor stepsisters — eagerly slicing off toe and heel (as they do in the Grimms' version of the fairy tale) to fit into a false shoe.

And, on a completely un-Cinderella note, other than I suppose getting to dress up fancy, Stephen Hunter writes about being one of those soldiers who has to stand, stand, stand during a different president's funeral.

What I recall about the long, long March 30 wasn't the waiting, but the waiting. I mean the waiting. You are at a posture called parade rest. It's doable. It's not a crucifixion in muscular agony. Still, to stand absolutely motionless for hours -- I guess it really was about four or five -- is exquisitely unpleasant. The feet ache, the knees ache, tingles, shoots of pain, tickles, itches, bladder pressure, all these things register on your own private radar screen. The true professional achieves Zen nothingness and time ceases to exist as a force in the universe. Your humble private first class was not so lucky. For him, time was a scuffle of tiny rat feet across his forehead that lasted through several centuries.

The worst part is the sense that just out of your peripheral vision the world is changing. It's having a blast, it's reinventing itself -- women no longer wear clothes, someone is handing out free money, love is bustin' out all over and you can't see it. You'll never see it. The weight of curiosity is far more devastating than the weight of the rifle or the cramp in your toe or the memory of a beer enjoyed what seems geologic epochs ago. You ache just to crane your tight neck two inches to the left . . . but you dasn't. Even I never did, and I was a hopeless amateur; the guys today won't, either.

I made the mistake of watching a bit of the coverage of the caisson last night, but had to tune out when I realized that Barbara Walters seemed to be the closest thing to a mediating force on the lovefest tip. That's saying something.

Oh, and is Ticket To Ride the new Kill Dr. Lucky? The blurb on The Morning News' summer recommendations list would suggest it may be so. (There's lots of other good stuff on there as well.) (Via Maud Newton.)

Good evennnning, as they say in Translvania.

worm: "Jubilee," Patti Smith
check out: Superman: Secret Identity by Kurt Busiek (the first likable Superman -- ever!)
namecheck: Iban "Is it dope or did he just have one of those great days on the mountain?" Mayo