Olympics Review (part 1)

With Dallas locked in the throes of a week-long deep freeze; with temperatures hovering in the 20s since last Friday; with a dangerous sheet of ice on our roadways making any travel perilous at best... a single man in a frozen metropolis does not have many options with which to cure his boredom (at least, not many that can be discussed in a family blog...).

So instead of whittling away the frostbound hours in pursuit of some unsavory, flesh-oriented goal, I decided to brew some hot coffee, don my long underwear, sweep the decaying JumboJack wrappers under the sofa, and settle in for a Winter Olympics marathon.

Under normal circumstances, I cannot be bothered with anything Olympic-related. Any sporting events which boast Norwegians and Swedes as the favorites cannot possibly be worth my (or any other self-respecting Texan male's) valuable time. But something changed over the course of the last week.

I discovered the greatness of Johnny Weir.

That's right, Johnny Weir. The overly-flamboyant, resplendently gay American figure skater whose swank ensembles and willowy moves on the ice have had me spellbound for days.

Admittedly smitten at the first sight of this ice-skating sprite, I discovered some veeeerry interesting facts about Johnny while I was reading his bl-- er, I mean, his blog just popped up, or something, while I was looking at all my usual boxing and hunting websites (websites which I have bookmarked, I'll have you know!).

Anyways, little Johnny seems to be dealing with some, shall we say, identity issues these days. Here's a quote:

"...I don't think I'm a diva, or pompous enough to be in the position of acting like a diva. I like things to be the way I like them to be. And if that's diva, then I'm sorry for that. I wasn't born to be the next Michelle Kwan or Dorothy Hamill."

Uhhh... just a regular guy's observation here, Johnny.... but Michelle Kwan and Dorothy Hamill are chicks. You're a dude. You may not be the prototypical "man's man," but--and I'm just assuming here--you do still have the requisite parts that make you a member of the male gender....
Or maybe I'm just behind the times on this one. Maybe I missed the interview with LeBron James when he compared himself to Sheryl Swoopes.



"Yes, I'm beautiful. I see you staring at me. Ask yourself-- 'why can I not avert my gaze from Johnny's sculpted physique?'"



But how can I sneer at a (wo)man who is so intensely athletic, yet also so fabulously privy to the latest trends in fashion and accessories?? Another quote from Johnny:

"...The next morning the papers came out and all of a sudden I was causing a stir because I was wearing a chinchilla scarf that someone thought was a boa. First of all, boas are so out. Secondly, I would never wear a boa to a press conference."

Gasp!! A boa to a press conference!!? The gall! The nerve! Johnny would never do that!

Actually Johnny, you would do that. You know why? Because you are a flaming homo. You're a queer for the ages. Not only that, but you're a figure skater! Nobody cares what you do. You're not misunderstood, you're not misquoted, you're not persecuted... you're a gay ice skater. You wear glittery costumes and you hang out with little girls and you skate in front of a crowd once every four years. We don't care. Now go away.

One just loves lipstick and spandex and all things sparkly.... the other one is the girl on the left.

Glittery spandex unitard- $100... Live-in hairstylist- $4000... Ice skates- $150... Being totally oblivious to the smoking-hotness of the two Russian skater chicks in short skirts next to me because my loins are quivering to have gay monkeysex with the dude at the other end of the photo- PRICELESS.

One more great quote from Johnny's blog:

"...I got a lot of criticism about my costumes, my hair, my programs, basically everything that was visible to the eye got picked apart. Why am I skating? Why do I keep putting myself through this? I decided to get back to that happy place where I can do no wrong..."

Ok Johnny, you get back to that happy place. Just make sure I don't have to hear a word about you for another four years.

Sure, I soured on Johnny Weir, but that was before I became enamored with the beautiful Russian skater, Irina Slutskaya.

Athletic, graceful, and flexible, Irina Slutskaya is the best thing to happen to me since, well, Johnny Weir. And can you really blame me?? If I've learned one thing in 30 years, it's that any super hot, extraordinarily limber Russian girl whose surname begins with the word "Slut" is worth a second--if not a third and a fourth--look.

Irina embodies everything that's right about the Olympics: she's young, she's talented, she can easily position her leg behind her head for extended periods of time while still wearing her boots. And if that's not the Olympic Spirit, I don't know what is...

So much more caught my eye during my Olympic marathon, and I'll share the rest of my thoughts tomorrow. But honestly, I'm just counting down the hours until my sweet Irina Slutskaya begins her quest for the gold (tuesday night). Until then, I'll ruminate on the plight of speedskater Shani Davis, and attempt to determine if his deep-rooted, seething anger has anything to do with this hilarious picture of him:

Heck, I'd be mad too...