I like the Olympics. Pretty much everyone does.
It's one of the last remaining available instances of (mostly) guilt free patriotism and earnest celebration.
It's also an occasion for some serious pomp. Which is sort of bad if you're like China and people are, you know, starving while you're building a big dumb structure, but it's also really cool. Remember Bjork in Sydney? Wearing a football-stadium sized dress of the world that unraveled? That was sweet as hell.
But that is nothing compared to the 1992 Barcelona Olympics (thatIjustlearnedabout).
Two things about the Olympic torch you should know.
One: It's initially lit in Greece. With the rays of the sun, using a parabolic reflector. That's all kinds of historically rad.
Two: Nothing will ever compete with Antonio Rebollo lighting the flame in '92.
Oh my goddddddddd (he is small because he happens to have polio in his legs by the way)
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Penelope Cholmondely raised her azure eyes from the crabbed scenario. She meandered among the congeries of her memoirs. There was the Kinetic Algernon, a choleric artificer of icons and triptychs, who wanted to write a trilogy. For years she had stifled her risibilities with dour moods. His asthma caused him to sough like the zephyrs among the tamarack.
1 comment:
Can you imagine how fantastically horrible it would have been if he missed? Not just an arrow falling into a crowd, a FLAMING arrow.
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