Clinton, South Carolina, Wednesday, February 21, 2018, 10:50 a.m.
The Winter Olympics is big. Or perhaps they are big. I believe Olympics is singular, but I’ve seen it both ways.
It’s (they’re) bigger than I think. I watch them almost subliminally. I write blogs such as this one while it’s on TV, but I don’t pay attention. I fall asleep at night with it on, and my last waking sensation is the swishing sound that accompanies something called curling.
Curlers swish away with some high-tech equivalent of a broom, thus affecting the course of a high-tech equivalent of a rock.
I like the events that are objective better than the ones that are subjective. I prefer the events determined by stopwatches more than the ones determined by judges’ cards. Figure skating is grateful, but I don’t have enough knowledge to tell you why one is better than another, unless, of course, one falls and the other doesn’t. This leads to a phenomenon in which I find myself hoping one falls.
It has changed my viewing patterns. It has increased my reading. I have the Olympics on TV when there is nothing else I want to watch, and since I don’t want to watch the Olympics, I read. I’m really enjoying a mystery called The Case of the Purloined Pyramid. Last night I watched a live Facebook feed of Dale Watson playing honky-tonk country music in Memphis.
I’d probably read more if TCM wasn’t running “31 Days of Oscar,” though I’ve seen most of these classics before. Late Saturday night, I became fascinated with A Passage to India. It kept me up till 2 a.m.
Of the Olympics, many tell me, “There’s more to it than that,” and I reply, “Well, there has to be.”
I like downhill skiing. And ski jumping. And ice hockey. Not enough to have watched much of them, though.
Maybe it’s not cold enough here. Maybe the United States doesn’t win enough medals to please me. Maybe I don’t know. I just can’t muster the interest to watch. Back when I was younger, I might have felt guilty about that.
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