The Winter Olympics are nothing more than a two week serendipitous media blitz bookend by pompous melodramatic ceremonies. The ceremonies, multi-million dollar escapades punctuate the Games while distilling a host culture to a glorified simplistic haiku; an easily palatable capsule developed for ease of global consumption. Give me another pyrotechnic exclamation chased with a cinematic shot of North and South Korean walking hand-in-hand with a splash of pop culture musical melange. The substance of the winter games is figure skating. The athletes constantly injected by a stream of media bravado that just like their sequin encrusted leotards (hot pants) blinds them to their own Olympic egocentrism. The Olympics are the only platform where ice skating matters; even if just in a feigned capacity. They are a place for young gay boys to sit around a living room and openly giggle. A place for even the most metro to exude a fluffed up essence of testosterone; a truly detestable event that women force men to watch just so they can get even. These 'hallmarks' of daring and dance are propped up by a tepidly constructed foundation of athlete montages (where every athlete is deserving and resilient) and Bob Costas fireside chats. We deserve better, a more holistic view of the adrenaline that is the Olympics. High definition replays of Anja Paerson's crash and Skeleton dashboard cams. I want to live the Games, to feel the power, the sensation; like when you bite into a York Peppermint Patty. Instead I idly wait, wondering if Cris Collinsworth is going to make out with Shaun White during the next gold medal interview.
19 February 2010
Boredom beyond Sequins
The Winter Olympics are nothing more than a two week serendipitous media blitz bookend by pompous melodramatic ceremonies. The ceremonies, multi-million dollar escapades punctuate the Games while distilling a host culture to a glorified simplistic haiku; an easily palatable capsule developed for ease of global consumption. Give me another pyrotechnic exclamation chased with a cinematic shot of North and South Korean walking hand-in-hand with a splash of pop culture musical melange. The substance of the winter games is figure skating. The athletes constantly injected by a stream of media bravado that just like their sequin encrusted leotards (hot pants) blinds them to their own Olympic egocentrism. The Olympics are the only platform where ice skating matters; even if just in a feigned capacity. They are a place for young gay boys to sit around a living room and openly giggle. A place for even the most metro to exude a fluffed up essence of testosterone; a truly detestable event that women force men to watch just so they can get even. These 'hallmarks' of daring and dance are propped up by a tepidly constructed foundation of athlete montages (where every athlete is deserving and resilient) and Bob Costas fireside chats. We deserve better, a more holistic view of the adrenaline that is the Olympics. High definition replays of Anja Paerson's crash and Skeleton dashboard cams. I want to live the Games, to feel the power, the sensation; like when you bite into a York Peppermint Patty. Instead I idly wait, wondering if Cris Collinsworth is going to make out with Shaun White during the next gold medal interview.
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