Today on Alphabet City: Jon Paul blames Chef for his lack of enthusiasm for the Winter Olympics.
Living with a Mexican can have unsettling consequences. For example, I blame Chef for my somewhat diminishing interest in the Winter Olympics. Every four years, it’s the same story.
“There’s nothing egalitarian about the winter games. Many of the sports put warm countries at a disadvantage,” Chef complains.
“Wow, Mexico, so bitter. It’s not like you do any better in the summer games,” I can never resist.
“It’s okay. I like watching how much fun you have watching the figure skating,” he teases sweetly.
He’s right really. Unlike the summer games where I’ll watch almost anything and everything televised, the winter games pretty much come down to figure skating for me. Sure, I might put on women’s slalom or moguls on as background while I flip through a magazine, but my eyes are glued to the screen for men’s figure skating.
Let’s be clear—it has nothing to do with the athleticism and everything to do with the outfits. The sparklier—and tighter—the better. Since I was a just coming out teen, I’ve been enamored by the muscle bound thighs and rock hard butts. In my heart, Brian Boitano was my first winter Olympic boyfriend.
To be fair, Chef isn’t solely to blame for my current lack of interest—NBC is. I found excruciating and oddly amusing Tom Brokaw’s nearly 10-minute video lead-in montage treating Canada’s historic friendship with the US as if it were the subject of Ken Burns’ next 13-part documentary.
But that was nothing compared to the announcement that Mary Carillo is going to be hosting the “late night” coverage. She and I have been at odds over her constant haranguing of Serena and Venus Williams’ off-court pursuits. It was nice to see that someone at NBC agrees with me since they dispatched Mary to the Arctic Circle to carry the Olympic torch while Matt Lauer got to walk a block with it in Vancouver. Still, I don’t want to go to sleep with images of Mary in my head. Anyone remember Pat O’Brien’s fireside chats from Lillehammer? I thought he was so sexy in those turtlenecks.
In deference to Chef, I tried to tone down my enthusiasm for the opening ceremonies, although to his credit I could tell he was really trying with Vancouver. We played a game awarding points to each other for guessing the next Canadian star to be featured onstage. He beamed when Bryan Adams came on stage (too easy, really). I earned extra credit for calling Joni Mitchell (could there be a sadder song for the opening?). But come on, where was Celine?
As the competitors entered the arena, we of course critiqued their outfits. And as Mexico’s time neared, I just couldn’t help myself.
“Hey maybe this year, Mexico’s team will have doubled in size. To two!”
“No, I have confidence. Probably three,” he said, nonplussed.
And at that moment, in walked the proud delegation from South of the Border—1 lonely guy, a 51 year-old fellow with the very Mexican name Hubertus von Hohenlohe. A Prince, evidently, descended from an Austrian family, and he lives in Liechtenstein.
“Ay! It’s the same guy! Every Olympics! He only gets to go because he can pay for it. Typical Mexico,” Chef said.
As the time for the United States delegation neared, I decided I wouldn’t applaud or comment, so as not to rub it in. But as they appeared in their smart Polo puffy jackets, Chef shouted!
“Yeah, U-S-A! Go U-S-A!”
He laughed at the shocked expression on my face.
“What? It’s the first Winter Olympics since I became an American citizen. That makes it all different,” Chef said proudly.
It certainly does. Suddenly, things look a little brighter for me in Vancouver.