The Greatest, Most Handsome Olympian Ever
Wednesday, August 8, 2012 at 10:41PM With the Olympics over and fans of the games falling back to the futility of surfing for inspiration, let me give you something to look at. Something that will light a little fire, and have your inner wolves baying at distant skies. Let me give you this man:
He is an icon of athletic artistry and, despite his macho prowess, still pulls off just a touch of androgynous son of dictator. He burns a stare outward. Laserlike it etches his passion, scorching a trail from his genius unseen to the target of his desire. That is not you, Buster. YOU! Ha! He will not let you in his sideburn helmet. He barely tolerates you on the sidelines, idling and ogling. We are bleacher bitches, bums of the lesser achieved, and only lucky not to be hurt by the intensity frothing out of the speckled paste that is his Chilean skin.
"Chile?" you ask as if you had no idea that kickass could come from such a faraway place. As if Patagonia and wine were enough for South America's down under. We'll take his face and carve it into Easter Island; make it the most powerful gaze to last millennia, and perplex the shit out of future anthropologists.
Back down. Back away and don't look into the soft stools of his tired gaze. Don't burden him with your own flabby imagery. Make way and scatter the word of his greatness. Run, mortal, run. It's the least you can do before you wilt and blow away. Pansy dust to his towering thistle.
This man won't have it, but you need to take it. Why?
Simply because he is. He is who he is, and no one else. That could be a bad thing, you know, for example, you're a little creeped out by a guy who looks like Ron Howard and Hitler's love child, but this guy does not care if you care. He says, "I look like a creepy cop who'd take secret videos of you showering and then plant cocaine to shut you up, but I don't give a damn if you give a damn." That's admirable, and to take it to the international stage, and in tights, is a giant burst of don't-give-a-fuckness that deserves gold and the national anthem to be re-written and performed by this man rocking a two-headed guitar on top of a Trans Am. He'd do it too, and you'd be blown away that someone, someone not unlike a stripper with stretch marks, would get up in front of others looking like that. But there's something even more going on here. Somewhere between this guy's closeted Republican senator haircut, and the rainbow dance club eye brow ring thing, is the steely stare of a competitor. A competitor who runs like the wind, if the wind ran like a scared little girl from a spider.
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