(Sat, Feb 11, 2006)
Hooray, it's Olympics time of bi-year again, this time with the frozen one and all the weird cold-people sports. I love the Olympics. I just sit there and eat pizza and drink beer and watch all those people get all exhausted just for me, all of them taking it so seriously but never as much as the announcers, most of whom they only drag out of their YMCA hostels once every two or four years to yammer about shit nobody usually cares about even a little. They'd probably jump through flaming hoops with coyotes tied to their backs if enough cameras showed up. I can't wait to laugh at them some more.
Right now I'm watching Women's Ice Hockey, which is like real hockey only it's slow, there's no hitting, and everyone is generally clumsy. Take Wayne Gretzky, tie a coyote to his back, weights to his ankles, maybe blindfold him, accuse him of betting on unrelated sporting events, and so on. There's more action on golf courses where Tiger Woods decided not to play that week.
Last night was the Opening Ceremonies, and that was just awful. It was replete with the now standard wacky flying people and glowing amorphous ballet, and was mostly just chintzy overall. The stadium, contributed years ago by Mussolini, was run-down and small and smelly, the people all poor Italians from the slums of northern Italy's dying industrial cities where the chickens and coyotes are basically taking over everything, and the program about as entertaining as Women's Ice Hockey. They were trying to showcase all the stuff that makes Italy great I suppose (and this is Italy qua Italy, which keeps the Roman Empire out of it -- some kind of historical jurisdiction thing, I don't know), so they actually had a Ferrari doing donuts on the stage (hundreds of terrified athletes scrambling desperately to get away from it); they had some scantily-clad chick in a wobbly clam-shell (and reality should probably not try to imitate art really); they had some dude pounding on an anvil with flames shooting out everywhere (*cough* Brokeback Mountain *cough*); and lots of outfits designed by fashion gurus. And lots of weird filler too: they had Yoko Freaking Ono address the audience (in English, and she still can't speak a lick of it). And Peter Gabriel singing Imagine (which probably set off the Iranian contingent into an orgy of flag burning). And Susan Sarandon for some reason, marching next to Sophia Loren who is like 90 years old now (but still looks better than Sarandon). And finally all the athletes marched out to American pop hits from the 80's. It was like a satire of itself.
But then, then!, after wading through those oceans of foul-smelling cheese to get there, out comes Luciano Pavarotti to sing Puccini's Nessun Dorma aria from Turandot, one of the most beautiful, most perfect pieces of music ever created, and the old master tenor hit it just perfectly, and I fell to the floor weeping I was so overcome by it. Hot damn, those Italians are a people full of contrasts, huh?
Right now I'm watching Women's Ice Hockey, which is like real hockey only it's slow, there's no hitting, and everyone is generally clumsy. Take Wayne Gretzky, tie a coyote to his back, weights to his ankles, maybe blindfold him, accuse him of betting on unrelated sporting events, and so on. There's more action on golf courses where Tiger Woods decided not to play that week.
Last night was the Opening Ceremonies, and that was just awful. It was replete with the now standard wacky flying people and glowing amorphous ballet, and was mostly just chintzy overall. The stadium, contributed years ago by Mussolini, was run-down and small and smelly, the people all poor Italians from the slums of northern Italy's dying industrial cities where the chickens and coyotes are basically taking over everything, and the program about as entertaining as Women's Ice Hockey. They were trying to showcase all the stuff that makes Italy great I suppose (and this is Italy qua Italy, which keeps the Roman Empire out of it -- some kind of historical jurisdiction thing, I don't know), so they actually had a Ferrari doing donuts on the stage (hundreds of terrified athletes scrambling desperately to get away from it); they had some scantily-clad chick in a wobbly clam-shell (and reality should probably not try to imitate art really); they had some dude pounding on an anvil with flames shooting out everywhere (*cough* Brokeback Mountain *cough*); and lots of outfits designed by fashion gurus. And lots of weird filler too: they had Yoko Freaking Ono address the audience (in English, and she still can't speak a lick of it). And Peter Gabriel singing Imagine (which probably set off the Iranian contingent into an orgy of flag burning). And Susan Sarandon for some reason, marching next to Sophia Loren who is like 90 years old now (but still looks better than Sarandon). And finally all the athletes marched out to American pop hits from the 80's. It was like a satire of itself.
But then, then!, after wading through those oceans of foul-smelling cheese to get there, out comes Luciano Pavarotti to sing Puccini's Nessun Dorma aria from Turandot, one of the most beautiful, most perfect pieces of music ever created, and the old master tenor hit it just perfectly, and I fell to the floor weeping I was so overcome by it. Hot damn, those Italians are a people full of contrasts, huh?