There are so many reasons to hate Lance Armstrong.
For some, it is enough that he cheated his way to the top. For others it is that he lied about it repeatedly. And for yet others, such as Linda Holmes at National Public Radio, it’s about the way he lied, arrogantly flinging indignation in our faces.
And then there’s all the stuff unrelated to his fraudulent cycling career. Such as the way he abandoned his wife, who had raised their kids while he was off biking and supported him while he fought cancer, so he could have an affair with singer Sheryl Crow. Before moving on to actress Kate Hudson, fashion designer Tory Burch and child actress Ashley Olson (she was 21, he was 36).
Hell, the magazine Ask Men came up with no less than ten reasons for hating Lance Armstrong, ranging from his shallow and self-entitled political aspirations to the fact that he hangs out with Matthew McConaughey.
Why does everyone hate Matthew McConaughey?
No matter. I don’t hate Matthew McConaughey. And I don’t hate Lance Armstrong either, though he probably deserves it. Because to me, hating Armstrong is uninteresting.
For starters, it’s just too easy. But beyond that, hating Lance Armstrong is uninteresting because at this point, Lance Armstrong himself is terribly uninteresting. He’s a walking cliché.
The rise, fall, and rebirth of a celebrity figure: we’ve seen it so many times that it’s a trope.
In Armstrong’s case, the rise came through his Tour de France victories, the fall came with the lies about and revelations of illegal doping, and the rebirth begins tomorrow.
In a move that is terribly banal and predictable, he sat down to do an interview with Oprah Winfrey, another phenomenally uninteresting person.
Actually, Winfrey’s life story is riveting. It’s when she assumes the role of daytime talk host that I lose all interest.
The interview took place on Monday and airs tomorrow.
Of course Armstrong will admit what everyone already knows. And of course he’ll be contrite. And of course Winfrey will offer some questions (all of which he probably saw in advance) that are designed to look “tough,” but are really just meatballs disguised as hard balls.
And of course it’s all a contrivance geared to boost Winfrey’s ratings at her flagging cable network, and to help us muster some sympathy for Armstrong as we watch him get teary eyed and begin to rehabilitate his public image.
And of course my only tears in this matter flow from boredom. And of course I won’t bother watching it. But millions will.
Some people will fall for it, no doubt. You can, as Honest Abe pointed out, fool some of the people all of the time. The likes of P.T. Barnum and Oprah Winfrey count on it.
And many people will watch it with a deep sense of irony and/or cynicism, deriving satisfaction from judging Armstrong, or just the cheap thrill that comes from rubbernecking the wreckage.
But I say, Fuck that.
Let Armstrong choke on his lies and suffer the worst of all fates. Let him have no rebirth. Let his fame parch like raisins in the sun. Let us banish him to anonymity.
Let us ignore both, the hoary billionaire ringmaster and the prancing toothless lion, who are selling tickets to this unseemly charade.
Let us tear down this this paint-by-numbers sideshow, and start anew with a fresh canvas, untainted by these blandest of all hues, which we’ve seen so many times before.
Let us, very quickly now, be done with it.