Kissing the gold

Complete and total domination. Awarded the highest marks under the new scoring rules, the Kim Yu-Na dynasty began tonight. It was the triple crown; the prefect no hit game; the Grand Prix, World cup and the mother of all Grand Slams. The greatest exhibition of figure skating evah. South Korea is drowning in OB (Korean beer). What percentage of the inebriated population will wake up tomorrow with Kim Yu-Na tattoos, ink, etched in a riotous haze from the previous night? Kiss the ring. There's a new sheriff in town.

Zamboni Fest

Monday, I almost fell off my chair and dropped my sweet donut in the Temescal when reading that women's figure skating,world-wide, is the highest rated spectator sport (this includes the telly) of the winter Olys. Whaaaat? How could that be? It's a man's world, isn't it? Chicks dancing with blades on their feet, pull in a higher rating than ice hockey (let's go slam some guys against the plexi) downhill racing, or speed skating? Whose smoking what here? Are guys really peeking through their armpits at divas on ice as they hoist one at their neighborhood tavern? Or are the women of the world controlling the remote for this event? Zamboni time, Tuesday night. No Eastern Euro prima donnas. But plenty of short-lived drama. Kim Yu-Na, the young Korean star, laid the wood on all her rivals. When the dust cleared in the compulsories, her score of 78.5 shattered her own personal best record and vaulted her to the lead for the showdown on ice in tonight's free skate. If she wins the gold, there will be rioting in the streets of Korea. First born daughters, and yes, maybe even a son or two might be named after her. Hell, they might even change the name of the country to Yu-Na land. Her compulsory skated to the James Bond theme was sophisticated. Sexy. And perfect. Just like 007. If you missed it...man up and you tube those two minutes.
Today at 38,000 feet, over the Pacific, I almost hurled the contents of my breakfast burrito. For 20 minutes, I felt like I was trapped on the Matterhorn in Anaheim. Disney gone ape. Airplane tripping the lights fantastic. Did my life go streaking past me? Not exactly. I thought of income taxes and poi. Strange but true. The barf bag stayed intact.

'Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when...'

I cracked open the bottle of 2004 Grignolino Port (Heitz) from Alyshia and Mike last night. Premature celebration of crossing over into another year, and after 2 shots I dozed. On the couch, vintage position, with the telly blaring. I woke just in time to see the French, Czech Republic and Swede skiers crash in spectacular, vertical, spine-altering fashion as the women's downhill run played out in brutal, icy, treacherous conditions...drama so riveting it compelled you to watch. Scared witless, I reached for the Boukha, fig brandy, and poured myself a wake-up shot. I felt like it was 1976; hunkered down in a motel all stony with my one of my girlfriends watching the Oly's from Innsbruck, the Men's downhill. Fog and wind? Or was it me? I don't know. Last night was deja-vu all over again. Lindsey Vonn. Hurtling down the mountain hitting pockets of ice over a course that punished and pulled skiers through G force riptides as they fought violent sweeping curves. High altitude insanity! A spectacle layered with anguish. Competitors had only one day to make a preliminary run and examine the course and even that was daunting and questionable. I could barely watch Vonn as she careened through the turns. Bigger than most of the other women and using men's skies, a frenetic blur. Franz Klemmer or was it Lindsey Vonn? If you watched, you knew this was special. That it was hall of fame greatness right before your eyes. The stuff of legends. The stuff you keep and conjure up on a winter day when you're telling some kid a story about athletic determination, sacrifice, and the the will to achieve at the highest level...winter oly's 2010.

Rock the Tassle

I borrowed the title quote from Johnny Weir. Dangling from the upper left shoulder of his outift last night, a pink tassel. Is anyone surprised? Johnny skated well but made several landing errors. Others were better...Plushenko, the Russian dagger, the Kong of the ice rink, and Lysacek (Weir's US of A rival). Johnny is a long shot to medal, but it's the Olys and it's sports and strange things occur when it's the world stage. I'm a little bitched out by NBC's prime time schedule. Four hours of Olympic gorge. Every night. Really. Does anyone have the time to indulge? DVR's and Tivo's are burning hard drive well into the early morning. The women's snowboard cross, a grueling event, peppered with jumps that skies a 'boarder 100 feet into the air, had many stories but the two biggest were: Maelle Ricker a Canadian winning the gold at home, and Lindsey Jacobellis, forever linked to the 'hotdog' move which cost her the win at Turin, skidding off course in the semi-final. Underneath all this nationalism, and hoopla, I am always amazed and secretly pleased by the development and inclusion of women in more winter and summer sporting events as the decades slip by. It's not just about your mother's figure skating, downhill and slalom anymore. The NY Times today ran a story on title IX. Call it what you will, but the power of physicality can flip a lifetime switch on. Class room competition, as Alice said, feeds your head. Individual and team sports in the athletic arena provide a tangible link to discipline, reward, and the challenges of failure. The image of young Lindsey Jacobellis at Turin in 2006 biffing the last jump and then rising to take the silver; her tenacity in world competition to reach Canada only to lose again. At face value, what title IX provided was a means to an end... a shattering of tradition, yes, which leveled the playing field for every girl and insured, in the end, that there is a horse to climb back on.

The Olys are Coming

So, there's this guy, Johnny Weir, who will be figure skating for the US of A in the Olys; Johnny is flamboyant; an outrageous fashion plate...a regular pain in the ass to Peta...who's wild about fur and Lady GaGa. A virtual goldmine for news and quotes, Johnny never met a mic he walked away from. In a sport that registers 100% on your gaydar, Johnny is a prince who wants to be king. He's every straight man's worst nightmare. At 12, an eternity past the age of serious development and training for the sport, Johnny Weir discovered he could move like a swan over water. He was so good that he floated over the frozen rink like an effeminate lyric winning 3 US national titles and leaving the public to ponder his outrageous in-your-face image. His costumes (he designs them all himself) evocative hymns of sequins and fur suggest just enough: a hint here, a titillation of the soul there, the fabricated passion of his choreography on ice. Can Johnny be world good and shine in Canada? With a tough Russian coach, and supportive team, does Johnny have the ability to erase his previous disappointments and climb to the top of the highest podium? Several weeks ago, on Monday, Sundance began featuring Johnny Weir in 8 episodes of a series entitled, 'Be Good Johnny Weir.' Win or lose, expect fireworks in Canada. What a show his performance will be.

The Other Payton

I noticed last year that a flock of crows had moved into the neighborhood. Every morning, a couple of noisy Jackdaws roost on the sloping roof across the street or straddle the power line which cuts through the horizon in front of my window. Monday was designated 'eating crow' day. Pass the 12 gauge, please. Humbled by the 'ballsy' play calling of Sean Payton, I had to bite my lip and sit and watch the Saints take it to the Colts. In the stands on Super Bowl Sunday fans from New Orleans were crying after the game. No one could have predicted this rush to glory. It is a script that defies reality, and makes a heathen like me think uh, maybe there is divine providence. This was one of those golden moments in the sports world; obliteration of collective pain...a blockbuster upload of endorphins; an athletic achievement which raised up the dead and swelled civic pride. They're partying on Bourbon St like it was 1994. To those of you who don't care or find sports boring, and missed this shimmering moment, well, it was bigger than 'The Who,' and it was magical. The other Peyton, (someone had to lose) #18 of the Colts, will brood all summer long. He won't forget Miami too. Best gazillion dollar commercial was the Betty White snickers spot. Betty White, generation blue rinse. Is there a hotter star now? SNL should be on their knees at her door cause they don't make them like Betty anymore.

Pass the Pork Rinds...

The forecast is for clear Miami skies. The Who's hauling ass on stage at halftime. Expect pyro and manic. Gazillions will be spent by corporate America for 1-2 minute spots; the game itself has all the earmarks of becoming an instant classic. The Colts playing for Indianapolis, home of the 500 and IU basketball; and the Saints playing for the city that knows resurrection. While the rivers of beer and liquor flow; as faces get stuffed with chili and dogs and burgers and chips and exotic glop; as the humble pork rind, a warped Proust deliciousness known to all my homies ( Chinatown, rack swinging crispy skinned pork fat to die for) uh, for centuries, but crowned the 'now' in snack by gourmet gurus is religiously consummed..really, I'm laughing...CBS, drinking the same swill NBC was gulping while dealing with the sniping Late Night talk-show hosts has decided to air a pro life spot by Tim Tebow during the football festivities. WTF? Focus on the Family, the sponsor, is anti-abortion, anti-choice and homophobic. And then to add to it's pile of steaming bull, CBS, with kool aid dribbling down it's collective suited chin, rejected an ad for a Gay dating service. Scott Fujita, a linebacker for the Saints, who is pro choice and openly for gay rights, did not shy away from questions about the CBS decision. He had no objections if the gay ad had aired, but he understood how that might offend people. An NFL player (he went to Cal) that is not afraid to vocalize his opinion on inflammatory topics is a rarity. I wish him well on game day. From my perch in front of the 54' inch flat screen on Sunday, it's Peyton all day, baby. Final score: Colts 30-Saints 24.