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Commentary Quote

Olympics: What I Want To See/Paralympics

“Self doubt is a much greater disability than a guy who’s missing both his Calhounlegs.”–Heath Calhoun

Unless you’ve been living under an abandoned fiberglass pickup camper top in the high grass back in the corner of the yard, beside the compost pile, you’ve probably seen this commercial from AT&T.  I’ve seen it at least a dozen times, though I didn’t remember what exactly it was advertising.  As a sentimental, soppy-eyed old fart I was transfixed by the imagery.

I wondered: who the hell is this guy?  But my TV is too old and small to read the tiny white print that says his name, so I kept wondering for a week or so until I finally found some answers.

http://www.bustle.com/articles/15108-who-is-heath-calhoun-10-facts-about-the-paralympics-skier-att-commercial-star

Very quickly, I wanted to know more.  The more I read, the more I found.  It turns out that Mr. Calhoun has a fan or two…or two million.

Forget the figure skating, the curling that we pretend to think it’s cool because it’s so strange and liking something that boring has a certain ironic cachet, I want to see this badass and his competitors burn down the mountain, and I want to see it front and center, in prime time.  In the age of so-called “reality tv” with it’s scripted “reality” its fix-is-in pretensions of competition, and its limp, vapid, sub-division values, why not give us the true reality of folks like Mr. Calhoun, whose response to getting dumped on by a shitstorm of rotten luck is to suck it up and show the rest of us how to live?

Inspiring, right?  Moving. Brings a joyful tear to your eye?  Sure it does, but let’s not forget the simple fact that, in the end, this wild-minded legless guy is hurtling down a mountain on a chair, strapped to a mono-ski.

Follow Mr. Calhoun on Twitter here:

 

 

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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