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WHO IS CHARLIE?
On an episode of TV's "South
Park," role model Cartman once warned everyone to "Watch
out for Charlie in the Trees."
And I like to think that'll set the tone for my Outsports.com
column. I like to think of myself as somewhat dangerous, or cunning,
but above the fray, watching down upon the sports scene like a
slimmed-down version of the Slice Blimp. Or the Fuji Film Blimp. Or
the Shamu the Killer Whale for Seaworld Blimp.
Only I'm not in a blimp. Nor am I a blimp. I'm not even in the
trees, in actuality. I'm just above it all.
You may be wondering: what's up with him? Why is he qualified to
write a sports column for the premier Web site for gay athletes and
athletic supporters? (Cheap pun, I know, but there are some thing's
that I'm just not above.)
Why am I qualified? Well, I will have you know that I am
experienced with all facets of the sports scene due to the fact that
I share my house with a dark, muscular, good-looking retired
athlete.
OK, so the retired athlete is a ex-racing greyhound that I adopted.
Greyhound racing is a sport. And he is cute as a button.
And to protect the reputation of my retired athlete life-partner,
you know, for the sake of all those potential endorsements, I write
about the sports scene under a nom de gay, Charlie - in the Trees.
E-mail
Charlie
Past Columns
Why
I hate the Redskins
Give
me Jeter over Cruise
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These Games Are in
the (Arm)Pits and I Love 'Em. By
Charlie In The Trees
Special to Outsports.com
LAS VEGAS-Of all the world’s major sporting events, the Olympics are the closest
to a carnival of the homoerotic.
You know the story. Based on the ancient Greek ideal, the original Olympiad were nothing less than a celebration of
male beauty. The ancient games were in the nude. Well, except for wrestling.
There, each combatant got to wear a thin layer of olive oil.
The modern Olympics are still a celebration of homoeroticism. (And,
given the large number of women’s events, a celebration of lesbo-eroticism,
too.) At their best, these games are the perfect confluence of athleticism
and aesthetics.
 All of which leads to the subject hand. The games of the
XXVII Olympiad are the pits. Shaven pits that is. Those are what I’m obsessing over
after the first week of the broadcast.
I am surprised that the shaven male armpit has become so common outside
the world of swimming. The gymnasts are just as male porn star smooth as
the swimmers. Of course, with the advent of the hideous, all-covering
full-body suit, we’re really not sure just how clean shaven the swimmers really
are.
The Thorpedo is the worst. With his clavicle-to-wrist-to-ankle all-covering
bodysuit, Ian Thorpe looks like some nightmarish Victorian era time-traveler
teleported to Sydney 2000. Like Helena Bonham Carter in some Jane Austen
movie. It’s all too modest. Unless he’s hiding open sores the size of
Queensland province under that suit, show some skin, boy.
With a few exceptions, the male swimmers do not look that attractive
these games. The tank top style full-body suit is embarrassingly feminizing,
don'tcha think? With their swim caps on, and their smooth arms and hairless
pits, the typical U.S. swimmer looks totally gender neutral. They can’t
even out-butch those testosterone-rich 1970's East German women.
And, don’t you think we should all owe a salute to the Russian Rocket
Alexander Popov. Militantly anti-bodysuit. His comment: “I’ve got my
own skin.” And it’s very good to see him wearing that for his Olympic
swims.
Fortunately, gymnastics is now at the vanguard in bringing clean-shaven
male pits into the hearts and homes of middle America. The homoerotic
hairless ideal is now king in the world of male gymnastics. Long live the king.
With their bulging pecs and guns, the male gymnasts pull off the body-shaven
look better than anyone. I think I speak for all of folk when I ask,
rhetorically, is there anyone hotter looking right now than Alexi
Nemov? Nothing girlie about Sexy Alexi and those clean pits. The guy is so
hot he makes Blaine Wilson look like Randy Johnson.
Ukrainian heartthrob Aleksandr Beresch and Nemov’s moody teammate Aleksei
Bondarenko also pull off the totally smooth look in very masculine style.
It makes the sight of a hairy-pitted American, like Sean Townsend, almost
jarring. I know you’re just barely old enough to drink, Sean, but you
ever heard of a razor? Compared to the rest of the gymnasts, furry-pitted
Sean looks like the Olympic representative from Planet of the Apes.
One last comment about gymnastics. Which is flaming brighter: the Olympic
torch, or Tim Daggett doing color commentary? Man oh man, Tim, put away
your Madonna records and eat a steak. Butch it up, dude.
THIS MAY
be Olympic season, but it’s September, so it’s also football season. Just a couple of quick football side notes:
First: I caught some of the Cowboys-Skins MNF game the other night, just to
root for the giant meteor. Unfortunately, not one even showed. But I
had to watch, just in case one crashed down into Fed Ex field. I certainly
didn’t want to take a chance and miss that. And it was on live TV no
less.
Not tape delayed from several days earlier (or weeks or months, who knows?)
like some sporting events discussed elsewhere in this column.
I know what I’m about to say is controversial, but here goes: I liked Dennis
Miller. He’s really gotten much better. He’s sporadically funny. He even
sometimes has an insightful football-related comment that stuns Dan Fouts and Al
Michael. I think the experiment is working.
Second: On the other hand, the R*dsk*ns are not an experiment that is
working. Remember back during the Cold War, they had the “Doomsday
Clock.” It was supposed to measure how close we were to nuclear annihilation.
Whenever some major world event would occur, the clock would be moved
closer or farther from “midnight,” depending on whether the news was good or
bad.
Long way for a weak joke, but the punch line is just around the corner.
Well, in honor of the Washington football franchise, I’m starting the
“Norv Doom Clock,” to measure how close Norv Turner is to doom as coach of
the Deadskins. Anyway, you can start your own variant at home, such as a
“Brad Johnson Personal Doom” clock, measuring how close we are to Jeff George
(himself a form of nuclear holocaust) quarterbacking the Skins team.
(I believe that clock is now at 11:59:57.5.) Or, perhaps, the “Danny Doom
Clock,” measuring how close we are to the Superbrat owner spontaneously
combusts with rage.
After the Cowboy loss, with that listless final drive, the “Norv Doom”
clock has been moved a whopping 45 minutes closer to midnight. The Norv
Clock now stands at 11:45. And ticking.
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