O.K. So I've tried to keep this under wraps because I realize admitting this exposes another layer of geekiness that people don't want to be privy to, but I'm brimming with so much excitment, I almost can't handle it.
Eeee!!!! The Winter Olympics are almost here ya'll!!! I'm about to plotz!!!! I love the Olympics. Like obsessively love the Olympics. Currently, I'm scheming with a friend on how to get to China for the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing. She said she might have some family members who could score us some janitorial positions at one of the auditoriums. I'd gladly scrub a thousand toilets to witness first hand the air rifle competition. I gladly scoop horse poop to be present of the equestrian events. Just as long as I am there to bask first hand in the glory that is the Olympics. That's how far my love goes, people!!!!
But honestly, it's the Winter Olympics that owns my heart. It grasps my attention like no other. But really, what's not to love? The Winter Olympics has it all: The short program, the speed skating, short track speed skating (or as I like to call it, Rollerderby on Ice), the ski jumping, the long program, the luging (Dear God the Luging!), the bobsledding, the tandem bobsledding, the skeleton, the pairs figure skating, the anticipating the myriad falls, trips and bunch ups in pairs figure skating (please let there be an accident involving lederhosen, that's all I ask), the pairs skating judging controversy (There has to be another one of those. It actually gave Costas something interesting to talk about for once), that one event Picabo Street was in before she retired, the events Bode Miller might not get to participate in any more because he’s a beer guzzling motor mouth, the International Homosexual Parade otherwise known as Male Figure Skating, the medal the will be revoked from some bastard Canadian's hands for testing positive for Marijuana, the compulsory figure skating event. Have I mentioned figure skating?
I can hardly stand it!!! I'm not sure I can wait for February!!! Hurry up and get here Winter Olympics!!!!
I could probably psychoanalyze where my love of the Winter Olympics comes from, but I'll refrain from boing you with the details. Just kidding. I'm totally going to bore you with the details. I can't completely recall my exact age (I'm guessing about 10, just giving age calculations) but I romanticize it more as the age in which I was on the cusp of adolescence, that tender age in which niavity combined with adoration can be a somewhat explosive combination. My parents informed me that a cousin of mine would be in an event in the Winter Olympics. I obsessively watched the Olympics for any mention of him. I actually didn't get to see him, or his event or any mention of his event, (but I later found out he placed 12th) but it brought on a kind of fervor in me that no other sporting event has brought on before. I became kind of enamored with this event that only happens once every four years.
And then the ‘92 Winter Olympics. And then I became more than enamored. I became obsessed. I can pinpoint my obsession of all things Winter Olympics and also to figure skating to one man. Well he's more of a legend actually, at least in my mind: Philippe Candelero (Can I just take a second to explain how bad I want this? Because, I want it bad). Oh Philipe you flamboyant Frenchman you, how I've come to love and adore you so. You've become this kind of mythical creature in my head, this kind of Hercules-like figure that slinks into the forefront of my mind, taking off his shirt to a medly of tunes featuring Bruce Springsteen's "Made in America" or to Will Smith's "Wild Wild West" only slink back out again only to slink back in again when my parents decide to bring up that unfortunate incident in which I fried a TV in the name of Candelero (long story, maybe someday I’ll actually recount it here). I even made Fighting Nun sit through the lamest figure skating exhibition (and I should know, I’ve sat through the Icecapades. In Person. Twice) known as Brian Boitano’s something or other skating with the zzzzzzz somewhat sober. In person. Just for five minutes of Candelero skating with his shirt off. Fighting Nun is soooo dedicated.
The Candelero was pretty much the gateway drug to my addiction to the Winter Olympics. And I need my fix. Bad. I’m itching here man. I’m like Brad Renfro in a treatment center. I’m like Leif Garrett in jail. Again. I’m jonesing. Only I don’t want to get clean. I want my feeeeexxxxx. So bad in fact, I’m even jonesing for the horrible parts of the Olympics. You know which parts I’m talking about. The announcers that crawl out of who knows what rocks every four years to bring us "enthralling commentary" on the exciting sport of... women’s curling. The annoying player vignettes that last For. Ever. that describe in excruciating detail the trials and tribulations that an athlete from the small village of Zuzbeckistaniovitch had to got through, including the death of her father in a freak chain saw accident but somewhow still found a way to train and compete, blah-blah-blah-rampant-pandering-to-the-sobbing-masses-cakes. The painful athlete interviews Bob Costas conducts after an athlete’s brilliant win or harrowing loss, which take forever when they could be showing the women’s downhill semi-finals. I’ll take it all, just as long as I have my Winter Olympics.
Only 23 days to go!
P.s. I’d like to make a promise to you, dear readers (all two of you) that I will recap all the ups, downs, and mehs that these wonderful Winter Olympics have to offer. Stay tuned.
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