Now that my show has opened, we've had a bit of time to take in the Olympics, which has been nice, not only since the wife and I are both suckers for the Olympics, but also to not think about the fucking show, about which I will spare my tens of readers any more detail.

(Unless, of course, you want it. The reviews are in, and they range from the tepid to the venemously harsh, so hey, it might be a bad show. However, given my exceedingly dim opinion of what passes for theatrical criticism in this blighted town, I'm not terribly surprised. [And I've received some very good reviews in my time, some of which were really laughable, just so you know.] One reviewer trenchantly observed that our show was "not funny." Seriously, that was the meat of the review; her only other identifiable complaint was that the thrust of the show struck her as redolent of a "Patch Adams" kind of attitude, which is almost profoundly idiotic to anyone even remotely acquainted with the work of Peter Barnes, whose hatred of authority of nearly any kind informs most of his work. [She also took time out to indicate that it was really hot that day. Slow down, woman, I need to take notes!] Seattle critics are kind of like barn gnats: they're mildly irritating, but pleasingly easy to ignore.)

Anyway, so we've been digging on the Olympics, in all their burnished, soft-focus glory. NBC as usual makes them exceedingly hard to watch, with typically color-saturated and mournfully scored mini-biopics about how Jed Barnswallow blossomed from forgettable country hick into OUR NATION'S BEST HOPE FOR JAI ALAI GOLD, all the while calling his Momma back home in Goat Fuck, Indiana every night, makin' sure that the outhouse didn't up an' collapse! Then we cut to a series of ads by upstanding corporate sponsors like McDonald's or Heineken (the diet of hardcore athletes everywhere), and then back to Bob Costas's watery, joyless eyes. I like Bob Costas, but he has that Dick Clark Ageless disease, so I expect that at any moment, Egyptians might show up with cruel hooks to pull his brains out of his nose.

"My God! I'm not dead yet! I still have vibrant hair!"

"You died in 1986. Try not to struggle. It'll be easier."

"AAAAAAAAHHHH!"

"Imhotep is going to love this hair."

So we watched a bunch of stuff. We were already energized by the utter failure of the NBA mooks, and took great happiness in their horrendous defeat by . . . who? I prayed that it was Estonia, but that was too much to hope for; it hardly mattered. Italy? Ghana? Cameroon? Who cares. I don't hate America, really; I just hate its awful sense of entitlement and fait accompli with shit like this, so it was really gratifying to see certain NBA stars staring weirdly, as if they were unexpectedly ambushed by panthers. No, fellows, those were just other basketball players. I wish to hell I could see their cell phone charges. "Agent . . . agent . . . OH MY GOD! WHAT THE FUCK! . . . agent, agent, agent . . . "

We watched some other dumb stuff, like synchronized diving. Or, as I like to think of it, Stepford Diving. Synchronized swimming has a lot to answer for, really. Isn't Cirque de Soleil still around for things like this? I know it sounds snotty, but I just can't care. The whole thing carries this eminently whiffable stink about Vegas shows that I can't get over. I kept waiting for trained tigers to make the jump too.

Also less than helpful was the woman commentator, who retains her job as professional scold. "Oh, no!" she screamed. "Whatserface heeled over at the end!" Well, she did jump off of a thirty-foot scaffolding, while you're seated comfortably in leather. (I assume it's obvious that I loathe most commentators.) Meanwhile, the undercam records the luckless ladies readjusting their swimsuits, while Scold continues to howl. "I just don't see how they'll advance." Hey, hey! Then we're all lucky that nobody gives fuck what you think!

[Note: The couple in question advanced.]

Then we were treated to the men's gymnastic competition, which I must admit I really groove on. No offense to the women's competition--which I know I'll take flak on, since I regard them as tiny little whores--but I just love the men's; they blow me away. [I don't have anything against tiny little whores--which all female gymnasts resemble--but they're just not my cup of tea.]

The reasons I like the men's competition so much--and why I so strongly dislike the women's--is the whole "artistic" bullshit. I dislike the implication that women are more fucking numinous and artsy, while the men--which I do like--get to enjoy the freedom of not having to Perform their Silly Horseshit while accompanied by Karla Bonoff.

Lord, I'm tired. Can we pick this up another time? Maybe after they blow, well, anything else?