There are no doubt other bloggers out there doing a bang-up job of blogging the Olympics, but I just have to say a few things.
Actually, wait a minute. There should be some sort of shorthand for that kind of sentence, because I find myself using it all the time in here. In other words, I guess it’s some sort of fear of being predictable, of saying what thirty other people at my subway stop haven’t already said, with more feeling, about fifteen hours before. When you write about politics, TV or anything else to do with culture, there’s always this voice that says “some blogger in North Platte, Nebraska had the final word on this already.” I guess all I can hope is that I bring something to the table. As Sting said, “Anyone can sing ‘Slip Sliding Away,’ but only Paul Simon has that voice’.”
Where was I? Ah yes, the friggin’ Olympics. I have been silently obsessed with the Olympics since 1976, when as a randy 8-year-old, I had a crush on Nadia Comaneci that could fuel a hundred thousand suns (she’s still gorgeous) and thus spent every waking moment at the tube, even thrilling at archery and the triple jump.
The 1980 Olympics sucked for obvious reasons (because of Afghanistan, if you remember) and the 1984 Olympics awakened some uncomfortable feelings I had about abject American jingoism. To me, the ’92 Barcelona and the ’96 Atlanta Games brought back the same breathless childlike anticipation. Even now, I can gauge the effects of the Celexa by seeing if I get choked up at any awards ceremony (I do