There are few times in my life when I am overcome with patriotism. As discussed on this very blog, I have a powerful aversion to politicians, and tend to equate pride in my country with things like country music and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. Don't get me wrong, I know that America is way ahead of, say, Bangladesh as far as crappy places to live, but every time I see that Chevrolet commercial with "This Is Our Country" playing in it, I'm caught between aggravation and nausea. However, every four years, one event inevitably brings out the proud American in me, despite all of my eye-rolling and judgment. That's right, I am an Olympics junkie. Specifically the Summer Olympics...I find the Winter Games to be a nice diversion, but a) the male athletes tend to compete in sports in which their uniforms actually qualify as clothing and b) all of my favorite TV shows go into repeats for the duration of the event.
These past two weeks were no exception...I was in bed alone when Jason Lezak won the Men's 4x100 Meter Relay, and was actually pumping my fist and cheering for the USA. Granted, the NBC announcers were prattling on about how Michael Phelps could still win 8 gold medals because of Lezak's swim and I was far more interested in watching the male swimmers help each other out of their skin-tight body suits, but I CARED. I was thrilled when Nastia Liukin won her All-Around Gymnastics gold medal, and was almost overcome when Shawn Johnson, in her final event of the games, won the gold medal on balance beam. I was so into the US for the past few weeks, I might as well have draped myself in an American flag and taken a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out apple pie, chanting "Iraq Sucks!" and rooting for the Yankees.
Until August 23rd.
What happened on August 23rd, you ask? August 23rd was the final night of competition in Beijing; most of the events being broadcast were Track & Field, but one great eye-candy competition remained: the final of the Men's 10m Platform Diving. For those of you who don't watch the Olympics, diving is about as popular as oxygen over in China, and whenever the coverage moved to any diving event, the Beijing Water Cube was rocking like a Bon Jovi concert in New Jersey. And on this particular night, the Chinese divers were attempting to sweep the entire diving competition, winning gold in all 8 events, a number which NBC officials were sure to tell viewers at least fourteen thousand times was very significant in the Chinese culture. The audience had reached critical mass, and I was half expecting the fans to throw beer bottles at each other.
Diving also happens to be about as popular as oxygen in the gay community, largely because swimmers no longer wear Speedos, and water polo takes place underwater. Divers generally spend more time out of the water than in it, and also do things like run directly to shower next to other hot men in teeny-tiny little briefs before jumping right into a hot tub with their aforementioned compatriots. Believe me, I am not a general supporter of the plum smuggler as bathing suit...I tend to think that most people could benefit from more rather than less coverage. However, Olympic athletes tend to have the kind of bodies that can not only pull off the banana hammock, but actually just use it as a framing device for rippling abs and ripped thighs.
However, in addition to this, Diving was also the home to the only out male athlete competing in the entire Olympic games (naturally, softball and soccer had a few lesbians, but let's face it, the women are, by and large, much more sporty than us). Young Matthew Mitcham from Australia was carrying the torch for all of us. He has said that he doesn't want to be known as "the gay diver" but just as "an Australian diver who did really well at the Olympics," a request that I think most people can understand. Nevertheless, tough tits, Matthew was the only gay we had in the Olympics, and we in the community were glued to the TV watching him.
And as we were glued to the TV, the following happened. Matthew won. In the final round of dives, trailing China's Zhou Luxin by over a hundred points, Matthew hit his most difficult dive in the competition, earning the highest point total EVER awarded in the Olympic Games to get the gold medal. To say that I was beside myself would be an understatement. I was actually sitting next to myself, and looking at myself jumping up and down like a crazy person, for while my patriotism might be suspect, my gay loyalty is extremely strong. It made me want to drape myself in a rainbow flag and take a lap around Carroll Gardens while handing out condoms, chanting "George Bush Sucks!" and rooting for the end to the production of all acid-washed denim. I couldn't wait to listen to the NBC announcers talk about all of the hardships (depression! anxiety attacks! early retirement!) Matthew had overcome to end up one of the greatest stories of these Olympics. I was poised to see his medal ceremony, and ran over to my computer to make sure that "I Will Survive" was playing, so Matthew would be honored by both the Australian and Gay National Anthems. Eagerly, I awaited the inevitable post-dive interview where he would thank his boyfriend and his mother. I looked up from my computer, having cued up Gloria Gaynor, and saw...NBC had switched to another event. It was probably Michael Phelps winning his eight gold medals for the eighteen thousandth time (yes, we get it, he swims very fast). I quickly grabbed my TiVo remote and rewound, convinced that I had accidentally jumped ahead in the recording, but no. NBC had just cut away after Matthew won and spent no more time on the event or it's historical significance.
To say I had an acid flashback to when Crash won the Oscar over Brokeback Mountain would only be a lie insofar as I have never dropped acid. For all of the gay film-makers, actors, and writers, we as a community really produce some abysmal movies, many of which play directly into the stereotypes we spend most of our time fighting against. We get one movie, ONE, that truly deserves to win the Best Picture Oscar, and we lose to Crash, a pandering, obvious morality tale with all the shock and originality of Two and Half Men repeat. We get one athlete, ONE, that not only competes in the Games, but actually wins, and we get no athlete profile, nor any real broadcast time devoted to his event. NBC claims that they don't discuss athlete's sexuality, but they have no problem talking about the (female) track and field star whose boyfriend is on the New York Giants, or the Italian swimmer who stole her chief rival's boyfriend and coach in early 2008. So, actually, NBC just doesn't discuss athlete's homosexuality, as if they are afraid that they are going to produce the FCC's follow up to Nipplegate.
For those of you that may have missed Matthew's final dive, you can go here, and see the last three divers in the final round. And for those of you who, like me, wanted to see the medal ceremony, you can go here; just make sure you have your gay anthem of choice cued up! Oh, and I recommend watching the whole clip...at the end Matthew climbs up into the bleachers and kisses his boyfriend on the cheek, which was apparently far too much for NBC to show on national TV. They're right, the raw display of sexual energy is really out of control.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Like a Fine Wine
There have been a few outcries over the lack of new blog posts over the past few weeks, and all I can say is that I am sorry. Sometimes it's hard for inspiration to strike when I feel like I have 25 emotionally abusive boyfriends on the active roster of the New York Metropolitans. However, the requests for more posts warmed my heart, and made me feel missed in my absence, so I aggressively started searching for more inspiration to bring me back to the computer keyboard. And today, dear readers, I have found it. I found it in a place I wasn't expecting, from a person I don't think of often, at a time when I was sitting at work and really probably should have been doing something to at least pretend like I was earning my paycheck. Who inspired me, do you ask? Cloris Leachman. Yes, that's right, Mary Richard's old landlady pulled me from the depths of writer's block with this little gem on the Comedy Central Roast of Bob Saget.
First of all, allow me to say that I do not generally take in Comedy Central's roasts of various celebrities. It seems that the only more obvious way to announce that your career is over is to star in a VH1 reality show (I'm hoping the exception to the this rule is Margaret Cho). Also, generally speaking, I don't find them particularly funny...it seems like a bunch of comedians getting together to tell their most vulgar jokes and try to twist them around to make them about a specific person. However, Ms. Leachman has really broken the mold here. For one thing, her opener about John Stamos was clearly not a joke written for another purpose and reworked for the broadcast. With all the artistry of an old pro, Cloris really made me believe that she was going to to introduce dear old Johnny boy to the business end of her Oscar. Also, beseeching someone to clock her in the face so she could see some stars was sheer poetry in its brilliance, particularly coming right before of a close-up shot of Lori Loughlin (returning to TV this fall in 90210 Redux!), Dave Coulier (really Alannis? "You Oughta Know" was about this guy?) and a group of comedians that I would have difficulty naming.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, while this is funny (naturally), where exactly are we going here? Well, dear readers, we're going to discuss aging gracefully. Ms. Leachman is currently 82 years old, and has clearly aged like a fine wheel of parmesan, becoming sharper and more flavorful with each passing year. When I try to picture my 80ish relatives cracking wise about using an old award for a sex toy, an error message pops up and my brain crashes like a computer caught in a porn cycle. Since I'm approaching 30 (which is only slightly off of 82 in gay years) I find myself looking more and more to our older compatriots to see how they deal with getting long in the tooth.
This is obviously not something that is much of a concern for the Chinese women's (girl's?) gymnastics team. Half the world is crying that their athletes are not of legal age to compete in this year's Olympics, and admittedly they look to have an average age of about 12. Of course, all people accusing the Chinese of fudging birthdates are trying to make it sound as if they are protecting the rights of the athletes, when actually it's probably just sour grapes at the possibility of literally losing to a 10 year old girl.
However, far more relevant to this post is the story of one Oksana Chusovitina, the silver medalist in women's vault. This is by far my favorite story of the Olympic Games, and for those of you who missed it, get this. Chusovitina is 33 years old, and just competed in her 5th Olympics in gymnastics, a record for female gymnasts. She competed in her first Olympics in 1991, or a full year before Shawn Johnson was born. Pretty cool, but wait it gets better! She has young son, Alisher, who was diagnosed with leukemia in 2002, and when she brought him for treatment in Moscow there was no guarantee of care due to staffing shortages and a need for upfront payment. So she got a German Citizenship, and began competing for the German National Team in order to finance her son's operations with the prize money she received. And his leukemia is now in remission and he is training to become a gymnast. Needless to say, when this story was related to me while I lay in bed, shot up on Nyquil and completely exhausted, it caused me to have the same basic emotional reaction that Bambi did when I was 7, and cried myself to sleep wishing that my mother was around.
On the surface, there isn't much connecting these two stories. However, both are considered past their prime in their professions (even though one has about 50 years on the other), and yet both are still at the top of their fields. I think of Leachman like a delicious Sauvignon Blanc, crispy, refreshing and surprising in ways you never expect. Chusovitina is like a sturdy Shiraz, bracing and strong, a never-let-you-down workhorse. I hope to age like these women; after all, if I'm still in good shape and single when I'm 35, my attraction to 45 year old silver foxes will be much less creepy and much more pursuable. So here's to them...and here's to me having the opportunity to someday say on national television that my only purpose for being somewhere is to f*ck David Wright.
First of all, allow me to say that I do not generally take in Comedy Central's roasts of various celebrities. It seems that the only more obvious way to announce that your career is over is to star in a VH1 reality show (I'm hoping the exception to the this rule is Margaret Cho). Also, generally speaking, I don't find them particularly funny...it seems like a bunch of comedians getting together to tell their most vulgar jokes and try to twist them around to make them about a specific person. However, Ms. Leachman has really broken the mold here. For one thing, her opener about John Stamos was clearly not a joke written for another purpose and reworked for the broadcast. With all the artistry of an old pro, Cloris really made me believe that she was going to to introduce dear old Johnny boy to the business end of her Oscar. Also, beseeching someone to clock her in the face so she could see some stars was sheer poetry in its brilliance, particularly coming right before of a close-up shot of Lori Loughlin (returning to TV this fall in 90210 Redux!), Dave Coulier (really Alannis? "You Oughta Know" was about this guy?) and a group of comedians that I would have difficulty naming.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, while this is funny (naturally), where exactly are we going here? Well, dear readers, we're going to discuss aging gracefully. Ms. Leachman is currently 82 years old, and has clearly aged like a fine wheel of parmesan, becoming sharper and more flavorful with each passing year. When I try to picture my 80ish relatives cracking wise about using an old award for a sex toy, an error message pops up and my brain crashes like a computer caught in a porn cycle. Since I'm approaching 30 (which is only slightly off of 82 in gay years) I find myself looking more and more to our older compatriots to see how they deal with getting long in the tooth.
This is obviously not something that is much of a concern for the Chinese women's (girl's?) gymnastics team. Half the world is crying that their athletes are not of legal age to compete in this year's Olympics, and admittedly they look to have an average age of about 12. Of course, all people accusing the Chinese of fudging birthdates are trying to make it sound as if they are protecting the rights of the athletes, when actually it's probably just sour grapes at the possibility of literally losing to a 10 year old girl.
However, far more relevant to this post is the story of one Oksana Chusovitina, the silver medalist in women's vault. This is by far my favorite story of the Olympic Games, and for those of you who missed it, get this. Chusovitina is 33 years old, and just competed in her 5th Olympics in gymnastics, a record for female gymnasts. She competed in her first Olympics in 1991, or a full year before Shawn Johnson was born. Pretty cool, but wait it gets better! She has young son, Alisher, who was diagnosed with leukemia in 2002, and when she brought him for treatment in Moscow there was no guarantee of care due to staffing shortages and a need for upfront payment. So she got a German Citizenship, and began competing for the German National Team in order to finance her son's operations with the prize money she received. And his leukemia is now in remission and he is training to become a gymnast. Needless to say, when this story was related to me while I lay in bed, shot up on Nyquil and completely exhausted, it caused me to have the same basic emotional reaction that Bambi did when I was 7, and cried myself to sleep wishing that my mother was around.
On the surface, there isn't much connecting these two stories. However, both are considered past their prime in their professions (even though one has about 50 years on the other), and yet both are still at the top of their fields. I think of Leachman like a delicious Sauvignon Blanc, crispy, refreshing and surprising in ways you never expect. Chusovitina is like a sturdy Shiraz, bracing and strong, a never-let-you-down workhorse. I hope to age like these women; after all, if I'm still in good shape and single when I'm 35, my attraction to 45 year old silver foxes will be much less creepy and much more pursuable. So here's to them...and here's to me having the opportunity to someday say on national television that my only purpose for being somewhere is to f*ck David Wright.
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