Chasing Ohlimping Gories

Dinner last night at Bold at Texas Corners.  Seafood bisque and a glass of an Oregon Pinot Noir. We had Pacific barramundi flown in “fresh.” Outfit from Hawaii ships the fish packed in dry ice; it arrives in a brown UPS truck. I’m guessing farmed fish, not wild-caught, but magnum delish. Bold has the right idea about a restaurant: It’s about the flavor, stupid. [IATFS]

Whew boy. Then home to watch the Olys. Friday night we watched Vancouver’s  opening ceremonies, NBC commentators characterizing it — compared to Beijing’s over the top half-billion — as intimate and small, this go-round for a price-tag of forty-or-so million buckaroos, US, not Cannuckian. Meanwhile, up on there on the beastly luge run, they like…failed(?) to put pads on naked steel girders, and thus a 21-year-old Georgian was turned into lugean mush. Today the course was shortened something like 800 feet and the racers were still cutting the finir line at 90 mph.  NBC says it won’t show the death tape anymore, but they should so everyone can see just how poorly the preparations were for lugers.

All of this strikes us as somehow overdone and underthought. Where the hell are the professional amateurs who used to plan and people such games? Or is that just a  trick of my old-man memory? One of the mogul skiers last night — not yet twenty five reportedly has had something like six reconstructive knee surgeries. For what, knee replacements at forty, hips at fifty?In pursuit of gewgaws dangling from ribbons?

Oh yeah (Oy),  much heralded and ballyhooed Ohlimping Gory is about individual pursuits and excellence, not countries and nationalism, but at the end of each evening’s telecast we get a medal count  summary by country.  Each set of games has the stench of money on it, like something nasty on the bottom of your shoe. Maybe it’s always been a group-grope toy for bunches of  edge-living rich boys, feeling no need to justify whatever, leaving us now with amateur professional amateurs building venues, you know, lowest bidder wins the gold — an enduring and endearing capitalist koan. Contracts: There’s the real mettle at issue.

What is the sound of an unlet lowball contract?  And oy, Day One of the compo has been zipped up and we have four medals: 1 gold, 1 silver, 2 bronze. But who’s counting? Over.