SLIPS OF THE TONGUE (ON ICE)

Ten Reasons Why NBC Will Never Hire Me as an Ice Skating Commentator (overheard in my living room last night during the men’s long program at the Winter Olympics.)

1. (Loud gasp) Oh, shit!!! He fell!

2. Well, he kind of ran of gas. But he’s cute.

3. (Another loud gasp) Damn! He fell again! That one had to hurt!

4. I don’t like his music choice. Ice skating and heavy metal guitar don’t mix.

5. Bless his heart. He tried.

6. What movie are those songs from? They're so familiar. Gershwin. Damn, I can’t think of it! There’s the name of a city in it. New York? No, that’s not it.

7. (More loud gasping) Oh, nooooo! He fell! Doggone it. And he was doing so good.

8. Wow! Look at the nose on this guy!

9. His skate shoe has come untied! Well, that’s a pisser!

10. An American in Paris!! That’s it!! (see #6)

Scott Hamilton, your job is not in any danger.

GROWLING BACK

An epiphany came to Big Bore and me yesterday when we were taking an afternoon stroll about the neighborhood--being harassed by a couple of yappy mutts violating the town leash law, which happens ALL the time around here. When it comes to dogs, I seem to attract trouble. I think they must smell the cat fuzz on me.

“I wish you had your camera with you so you could take a picture and report this problem to the police,” BB said.

“Ooooh! I like that idea. I can keep a notebook and pen in my camera bag and write down the time and location of the picture. I’ll become an official Wayward Dog Patrol Person.”

As the barkers got closer to us, he picked up a rock. “They’ll usually back off if you bend down and pick up something and pretend that you’re going to toss it at them.”

The dogs kept coming. So much for scientific theories. We weren’t attacked by them, but it still ticks me off that owners are so irresponsible. I’ve lost track of the times I’ve been bitten and chased by dogs in this town--sometimes with the owners standing right in their yards yelling at me, “He won’t bite!” Yeah, right. Maybe he won’t bite you, but I look like lunch!

So, I’m going to follow up with BB’s stellar idea and start walking with my camera patrol bag. I might even get a special shirt made up that says, “Beware of Mad Woman.” I can’t wait to get started. In fact, I’m foaming at the mouth.

KEEPING A STEADY HEAD

The men’s figure skating short program was on the Winter Olympics TV menu last night, so I had to be there to judge and cheer them along. I’ve tried ice skating before, and it’s not that easy just to stand up and lollygag around the rink, let alone do leaps and spins, so I admire their grace and athleticism. I consider myself somewhat of an armchair expert. After all, I know the difference between a flying camel and a triple lutz.

When watching the guys last night, I joined commentator and former Olympic gold medalist Scott Hamilton in jumping for joy for the elements that were “nailed,” as Scott would say, or groaning in sadness when there was a miss.

There was one skater, I think he was Swiss, who wasn’t so hot at jumping but he could spin faster than a top on speed. He was crazy. At one point I thought flames were going to shoot out of his skates and he’d blast right out of the arena. How he could come out of those spins and continue skating was beyond me. I would have been in another time dimension flat on my dizzy, whiplashed face. “Wow! Oh, my god! This guy can move!”

Big Bore, who was in the adjoining room piddling on the computer, heard the commotion.

“Are you having an orgasm in there?” he asked, knowing full well I was watching the Olympics.

“This guy is the best sit spinner I’ve ever seen!”

“Well, calm down. You sound like you’re watching a Kansas-Missouri basketball game.”

True. But I get so excited when they do well. This is the Olympics, after all, and I want everyone to do his best. They’ve all been training for four long years to reach this point, so I don’t want to see some poor schmuck pop out of a triple axle and have his dream go kaput in a split second. I suppose that’s why it’s called, “The Agony of Defeat,” though.

The men’s long program finals will be televised on Thursday night. Look for that spinning whiz--his name is Stephane something--but keep a few tabs of meclizine nearby.

PUCKING AROUND

Yesterday Big Bore and I were discussing what event we would enter if we were physically fit and bold enough to be a Winter Olympian. He said he’d always wanted to be on the luge or the bobsled--low to the ground and faster than a speeding bullet. I wouldn’t mind trying the bobsled provided I was seated in the middle of my teammates so I could hunker down low, close my eyes, scream, say my prayers, and throw up all at the same time.

Ski jumping won’t work, either. Propelling into orbit without a parachute doesn’t appeal to my better senses. And speed skating won’t crack it because I’d get dizzy going in all those circles. Same with figure skating. One spin and I’d be a goner. The mere idea of BB and I being partners in ice dancing is hilarious. We can’t even stay in sync with each other shuffling on the living room floor in our stocking feet.

I think I would be better suited for the women’s ice hockey team. Not the goalie but maybe a forward. The uniforms are heavily padded and hide all the flabby body parts, and there’s a stick to lean on when I’d get tired. There’s lots of other players on the ice at one time, so no one in the crowd would be focused just on me. I could muck up and maybe no one would notice.

Big Bore thinks ice hockey would be right for him, too. When I asked him what position he’d want to play, he said he’d like to be the hockey puck.

“That’s not a position, goofus!” I said.

“I know, but I think it’d be fun to just skate real fast and then hurl my body into the net. A human hockey puck.”

"But the players would be whacking you with their sticks!"

"Oh, there wouldn't be any sticks."

I don’t imagine the International Olympic Committee is ready to sanction this idea, but if overweight middle-aged men replace pucks in the 2014 winter games stick-less ice hockey competition, remember where you heard about it first.

WATCH OUT FOR FALLING COUCH POTATOES

As much as I hate this blasted cold weather we’ve been having the past two months, I have to admit I’ve been stuck to the boob tube watching the Winter Olympics since it started over the weekend. Once upon a time, I used to head out to Colorado and ski, ski, ski. I reached intermediate status, but I never caught the hang of moguls, those egg carton-like bumps that accomplished skiers quickly maneuver around--knees together, upper body straight--bam, bam, bam! Awesome, dude!

The men’s mogul run last night took the contestants between 23-25 seconds to complete. At my prime, I figure the same run would have taken me between 23-25 minutes. I was the worst mogul-er on the mountain. I’d ski around a few, lose control, rest. Ski around a few, lose control, rest.

Deep powder was another challenge I failed to conquer on the slopes. I would usually end up knee-deep in snow, unable to move. Like being stuck in quicksand. Once, at Loveland Basin, two snowboarders came to my rescue and helped me up, but as soon as they zipped on out of sight, I sunk again. Finally, I just removed the damned skis and stomped on down the run in my boots until I got back to the packed stuff. What a bitch.

But don’t get me wrong. Most of the time I loved skiing--especially narrow trails with few people around to get in my way. I can still feel the exhilaration of going on my favorite rambling runs at Steamboat Springs--Why Not, which leads into Right-O-Way--on the northern edge of the mountain. On a clear day, the sun cutting through the surrounding trees, this was two miles of total bliss. I’d just ski these two runs over and over and wish time would stand still.

I don’t think I’ll ever go downhill skiing again, but I’m glad I did when I was younger, had a strong back, and didn’t detest cold weather. Cross country skiing might not be so bad to try now, but I think I’ll just stick to cheering on the experts at the Olympics. Lounging on the sofa watching TV is more appealing--much warmer and safer. No losing control and rolling onto the floor (“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!“) or getting stuck between the cushions. Ahhh-the thrill of victory!!

LOVE IS IN THE AIR

The Flaming Bore has never had big expectations on Valentine's Day. I've never received or really wanted a box of chocolates. Cut flowers never seem to last very long. The jewelry I would like to have is never within the budgets of the men who've been my significant others over the years. Just give me a sweet card with a message from the heart and I'm happy. So, with that in mind, last night as we were settling down to watch TV, Big Bore had an "Oh, My Gosh" moment that sounded like this:

"Oh, my gosh! Did you buy me a Valentine card for tomorrow?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I'll be back!"

He rushed out the door and returned about 15 minutes later, relieved that he'd found something appropriate to keep himself out of the doghouse for today. His endearing sentimentality is linked to self preservation.

When the late author Erich Segal wrote the words, "Love is never having to say you're sorry," he should have added, "because you remembered to get your sweetheart a card for Valentine's Day."

Here's to love and lots of it.

A SWINGING IDEA, PART TWO

Niner out of St. Joe, Mo. says she’s jumping on the bandwagon for the Adults-Only Park that I advocated a few days ago. In fact, she wants to expand it to a camp-size facility catering to all us old farts who want to relive our misspent childhoods without the fear of being laughed at or harassed by little whippersnappers. Here are some of her great ideas:

Roller skates and a padded rink, bikes, outdoor bowling, paddle boats, and the greatest sidewalk sport ever invented--jacks!! Like moi, Niner is a nut for those little metal spikes and the rubber ball used to gather them up. I’ll bet you she knows all about onesies, twosies, Eggs in a Basket, and Around the World.

She also wants to have piped-in music (oldies rock, I hope) and a health food bar with veggies, salads, and juices. Nothing junky. I can live with that. She didn’t say anything about having a doctor on duty, but we might want to seriously think about it. The only area of disagreement we have is on pets. She wants them left at home, but I think cats should be allowed in case I get lonely.

Now, she has some concern about how we’re going to get local governments to provide the funds for our pipe dream. I haven’t got that all worked out yet. Perhaps we can just pool our Social Security and other retirement benefits and at least have enough money to put on a jacks tournament or something. Start small, you know, and work up to the big stuff. Hopefully Niner and I won’t end up in the Adults-Only Loony Bin before our plans our realized.