Give Me A Wardrobe Malfunction, Please

I’m fed up with perfection which assaults you anytime you turn on your TV, starting with the blond vacuous female talking heads and news readers that fill the screen of every channel and pass for news anchors. They all look like clones of Paris Hilton. Every blond hair is in place just so, their make-up is flawless and they’re holding forth on world events. They look mint. Never mind that they are incapable of an original thought and haven’t got a clue what they’re talking about. I’m always hoping that their teleprompter go berserk. Where are the Walter Cronkites, the Peter Jennings, the Chet Huntleys? Where are the warts, the blemishes, the things that make us human? It’s depressing. I’m tempted to reach for the vodka bottle in despair.

I was watching the Olympic opening and closing ceremonies from Beijing and the picture you saw was everyone doing their thing in unison. No one stepped out of line, nobody moved right when everyone else moved left. And those soldiers who hoisted the Chinese flag up the pole. The old Prussian generals must have turned over in their graves in envy. The staging of all the hundreds of sporting events went without one flaw.

I was looking for at least one wardrobe malfunction or some other screw-up. I have to admit, I was poised to see my hopes fulfilled, when one of the Jamaican women sprinters in her enthusiasm at winning almost let one of her nipples peek out from under her skimpy track suit, but no, the camera cut away before my prurient desires could be satisfied. I was hoping for one of those Chinese sky-walkers to come crashing down or at least trip and stumble. But I was foiled. Just more clones. I confess I’m attracted to bedlam.

And what is it about those sports like race walking, rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming and diving? I mean, true, some of these race walkers had pretty agile butt cheeks, but what’s the point of walking when you could reach the finish line much faster by running? I can maybe see the attraction, if you watch these guys from the back, but from the front, they look ridiculous. If I want to see that kind of hip and butt action, I can watch Fashion TV. Those models are just as anemic looking, but they don’t have hairy arms and legs.

And waving a red ribbon through the air or doing the hula-hoop doesn’t strike me as sport. At least they should have used one of those giant foam hands with the extended finger and do some variation of the tomahawk chop while skipping rope and swiveling their hips. I could get into that. And what about those women with the clamp on their noses? That’s a very unattractive accessory. I’m sure Martha Stewart would have some suggestion for them. What’s next for Olympic sports? Juggling, hopscotch, synchronized chess?

I was drawn to the contact sports. I was thinking that boxing, wrestling and all those Asian martial arts would surly generate some havoc. I don’t know what the judges were looking for, but these guys were whaling on each other and no points were ever scored. The outcome seemed orchestrated. The closest they came to anything resembling chaos and the only bright moment for me was the Cuban taekwondo fighter, who finally lost it and did what they all should have done – kick the referee in the head and cold-cock him. That Cuban should have been up on the podium for doing what needed to be done. He’s on my and Fidel’s highlight reel. I cheered for him.

In disgust, I switched to coverage of the Democratic National Convention in Denver. I thought, surely politicians south of the border are not perfect. I was looking for mayhem a la Chicago 1968. But I was thwarted again. True, the various media tried their best to conjure up some perceived controversy with the dames who interpret body language and voice inflection, but that was pretty lame stuff. I was hoping for a brawl or at least some nasty sound bites, some cat fights. What I got was bland political correctness. Yada-yada-yada.

There was Hillary – again with the peach pant suit, which makes her look like she should audition for a clown gig with the Cirque du Soleil – freshly coiffed, with a determined smile pasted on her face and regretful eyes, exhorting her followers to forget about the past and vote for the guy she had derided as a lightweight only weeks earlier. Everyone seemed overjoyed and cheered and waived their blue UNITY and CHANGE signs in unison. There is an Olympic sport in the making – synchronized sign waving. The Chinese would probably win that event too.

Hand me the bottle. I'm in pain.