Winter Olympics

I love the Winter Olympics. God help me, but I love 'em.

I know it's popular right now to disdain them. Jim Rome (who openly hates them (and who (not coincidentally) is a sneering idiot)) says that it's impossible to follow sports we don't care about, played by athletes we've never heard of....and all that compounded by the 10 hour(ish) tape delay from Italy. I see that American Idol (that paeon to all that is selfish and ego-driven and mean about America) is smoking the Olympics in the ratings.

I've heard others say their only interest in the Olympics is in the medal count -- how the U.S.A. is doing in gold and silver -- and since we traditionally don't do that well in the winter sports, there's no reason to watch.

I get their point; I do. But they're wrong, all of 'em.

What the Olympics offer -- far more than any other sporting event -- is the opportunity to witness rare and stunning dedication and courage. I think of Kerry Strug, doing her last vault with a broken leg and sticking the landing to lead her team to the gold medal. She had to be carried off the mat, but she stuck her landing. Kerry's vault may be the most inspirational and amazing sports memory I have. I think of Zhang Dan -- the chinese skater who crashed spectacularly during her pairs event (looked to me, when she went down, like she broke both knees) -- getting back on the ice, nailing her jumps, and earning the silver medal.

Contrary to popular belief, the Olympics is not about jingoistically cheering for Americans above all else; it's not about counting medals. Don't get me wrong -- I always want the American team to do well, and sure, I root for 'em. But that's not why I watch. I watch to see the athletes reaching heights that can only be imagined by most of us. Heck, reaching heights that (in most cases) were only imagined by the athletes themselves.

These are athletes that, most of 'em, won't earn in a lifetime what a mediocre baseball player will earn this year; yet they train and focus with a dedication that would shame most of the finest pro athletes that ever played.

The Olympics matter, current snideness aside. Do you think Tonya Harding would have whacked the Kerrigan chick over any other figure skating event? This is the Olympics, and they matter.

No, I don't get curling. No, I can't discern the difference between the fastest bobsledders and the slowest...but I can see the joyous elation on the face of a bobsledder when he learns that he has vaulted into the lead by one-hundredth of a second.

This is sports. This is what sports is. It's competition for the joy of it; it's competition that drives you to be far more than you ever thought you could be, far more than most humans can ever be. This is drama, and inspiration, and I love it.

Reviews

I started this blog (and (rather defiantly) named it "Try and Stop Me"), because whenever I see anything, read anything, hear anything, I tend to regale (read: bore) my friends and loved ones with my opinions on said item.

Given that, I can't believe it's been a couple of months since I regaled/bored about anything. It's certainly not been that I've had no opinions in those months...yet I've not felt (quite so) compelled to foist 'em.

Part of me wonders why that is; and yet another part wonders why I (or anyone) would ever think of expounding upon anything, given a world that is subjectively perceived through these eyes only, parsed by my cold-firing brainstem only; recapitulated through these sticky fingers only.

I mean, why would anyone -- anyone! -- care about my thoughts re: "Narnia" or "Forever Odd' or the Winter Olympics? Given that some people actually think that "Married with Children" was something other than drek, it's clear we don't all think or perceive alike. So why bother to read a review, much less write one?

Reading someone else's review can -- sometimes -- help me decide whether to see a particular movie...but unless I completely know and trust that reviewer -- and unless I have previously found their taste and sensibility to be fairly lockstepped with my own -- it's rarely of much use. Reading a review of a movie I've just seen is equally non-edifying, usually. When I agree with the review, the review simply restates what I already believe, which doesn't really help me....and when I disagree, the review itself is simply (in Tedworld) relegated to the (huge) psychic crap pile.

Yet I read 'em anyway....probably because (I suspect) it engenders a feeling of community. It's nice to think that someone else loves "The Princess Bride" or "Charly". It's comforting to know that someone else is completely mystified by professional wrestling. When someone mentions that they think "Bye Bye Birdie" was an evil plot hatched upon Broadway for the express purpose of making audiences stupid, like some theatrical terrorist plot, I want to be their friend for life.

So why do I write 'em? Do I think I'm always right, or that anyone would/should care? Oh, no, no, no. Not at all.

I have learned that -- for me alone -- I like the process of formulating a review. It engages my brain about the movie/book/cd/show/event I've just experienced, which enriches the worthy experiences in my memory, and helps defang the (manifold) drekky ones. So writing a review becomes a sort of personal thing -- an adjunct to my journal, a thing done for me.

And yet. And yet....do I want someone to read these reviews? Yeah, I do....and I wonder why.

So. I'm (as best I can) re-committing to produce reviews. They're a part of me....and read or unread, I (mostly) like doin' 'em. Coming soon will be reviews of Dean Koontz's "Odd Thomas", and "Narnia", and "Spellbound", and "Will and Grace" and "My Name is Earl" and the Winter Olympics.

Try and stop me.