-V-
08/17/08, 02:49 am
OK, we get it already! Michael Phelps can propel himself in water faster than everyone else. His 8 gold medals this week is more than anyone in Olympic history. Terrific. If they added another eight more different lengths of pool races, he'd have 16 golds by next week. And if they added 32 varieties of tiddley wink competitions, the best tiddley winker would surpass Phelps as the "greatest Olympian".
I have to admit that, generally speaking, I enjoy watching the Olympics. It reminds me of truly golden moments I shared with my father and the rest of the family while growing up. Something to cheer for together. And today, I can't help but appreciate the artistic splendor of the female form as it spins through the air off an Olympic diving board or as it is captured by the women's beach volleyball camera crew that never misses an opportunity to cash in on a rear shot. Besides, life shouldn't only be about work, and like music and the other arts, human beings need more than just food and sex for stimulation.
But the reality is that the Olympics are indulgent activities performed, for the most part, by rich kids who have the unfortunate luxury to devote most of their childhoods to fulfilling their parent's dreams or a country's aspirations. To work and strive, every 4 years, to jump an inch higher, do something a second faster or more effectively manipulate some kind of ball, among other things. And all the while we have announcers like Bob Costas perpetuating the illusion of grandeur, telling us how excited we should be. How historic and memorable it all is. And then we forget it all until 4 years from now when we're reminded, again, about how excited we should be that one group of guys can row, row, row their boat faster than the other guys.
The sad truth is that for every 5 guys that win the gold for rowing hardest and fastest, a thousand others, despite much training and effort, only rowed their boat "gently down the stream" to futility and anonymity. Is that something to cheer about? And what determines who I cheer for, anyway. The color of the flag on their uniform? I'm past the days of rooting for John Wayne and the cowboys against the indians.
That flag on the volleyball players bikini and her ability to spike the ball are no more representative of what my country is about than her ass is. And anyone who thinks differently might as well live in China where they believe a decadent opening ceremony display will be indicative of their standing in the world and "saving face" is a national priority.
I'm not impressed by their ability to make hundreds of their people perform synchronized displays like assembly line machines. I will be impressed when they stop using tanks to suppress the political expression of their citizens. Or if they had let the little girl who prepared for months to sing the opening song, sing it live instead of using her voice track behind a "cuter" girl with straighter teeth who they substituted at the last minute.
And I'll be more impressed with the world community as a whole, when we start giving out gold medals for academic achievement and community service instead of gold stars, and pass out the gold stars for the people who can throw a spear the furthest. That's my Olympic dream.
I have to admit that, generally speaking, I enjoy watching the Olympics. It reminds me of truly golden moments I shared with my father and the rest of the family while growing up. Something to cheer for together. And today, I can't help but appreciate the artistic splendor of the female form as it spins through the air off an Olympic diving board or as it is captured by the women's beach volleyball camera crew that never misses an opportunity to cash in on a rear shot. Besides, life shouldn't only be about work, and like music and the other arts, human beings need more than just food and sex for stimulation.
But the reality is that the Olympics are indulgent activities performed, for the most part, by rich kids who have the unfortunate luxury to devote most of their childhoods to fulfilling their parent's dreams or a country's aspirations. To work and strive, every 4 years, to jump an inch higher, do something a second faster or more effectively manipulate some kind of ball, among other things. And all the while we have announcers like Bob Costas perpetuating the illusion of grandeur, telling us how excited we should be. How historic and memorable it all is. And then we forget it all until 4 years from now when we're reminded, again, about how excited we should be that one group of guys can row, row, row their boat faster than the other guys.
The sad truth is that for every 5 guys that win the gold for rowing hardest and fastest, a thousand others, despite much training and effort, only rowed their boat "gently down the stream" to futility and anonymity. Is that something to cheer about? And what determines who I cheer for, anyway. The color of the flag on their uniform? I'm past the days of rooting for John Wayne and the cowboys against the indians.
That flag on the volleyball players bikini and her ability to spike the ball are no more representative of what my country is about than her ass is. And anyone who thinks differently might as well live in China where they believe a decadent opening ceremony display will be indicative of their standing in the world and "saving face" is a national priority.
I'm not impressed by their ability to make hundreds of their people perform synchronized displays like assembly line machines. I will be impressed when they stop using tanks to suppress the political expression of their citizens. Or if they had let the little girl who prepared for months to sing the opening song, sing it live instead of using her voice track behind a "cuter" girl with straighter teeth who they substituted at the last minute.
And I'll be more impressed with the world community as a whole, when we start giving out gold medals for academic achievement and community service instead of gold stars, and pass out the gold stars for the people who can throw a spear the furthest. That's my Olympic dream.
