Sunday, August 12, 2012
Closing Time
As a general matter, I do not watch the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics. Frankly, I find it kind of depressing to know I'll no longer have access to 24-hour coverage of BMX and floor hockey, and that has only been compounded by NBC's previews of its new fall shows. I would rather watch footage of Michael Phelps cleaning his oven than sit through an episode of Animal Practice. I mean, yes, I'll still have a few shows to watch, but how can they compare to the sheer drama of watching Lolo Jones' whole world fall apart before your very eyes?
But this year, I did have to at least check in, so as to not miss the return of the Spice Girls. The bits and pieces I saw were rather underwhelming. Some band that was not The Who covering The Who. Someone who was not David Bowie covering David Bowie. A bunch of supermodels for some strange reason. George Michael looking bloated, singing Freedom, in a segment somehow unconnected to the supermodels. Meh.
The Spice Girls did not disappoint, however. They were much as we remembered them. Sporty, still with ugly shoes and a vaguely lesbian vibe. Baby, still doing her best to appeal directly to the pedophiles of the world. Posh, still corpselike in her intensity. Ginger, still looking like she wants to be somewhere else. Scary, still the one you sort of forget exists. And the pantsuits! Oh, the pantsuits. I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. Or, on second thought, forget it.
As a general matter, I do not watch the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics. Frankly, I find it kind of depressing to know I'll no longer have access to 24-hour coverage of BMX and floor hockey, and that has only been compounded by NBC's previews of its new fall shows. I would rather watch footage of Michael Phelps cleaning his oven than sit through an episode of Animal Practice. I mean, yes, I'll still have a few shows to watch, but how can they compare to the sheer drama of watching Lolo Jones' whole world fall apart before your very eyes?
But this year, I did have to at least check in, so as to not miss the return of the Spice Girls. The bits and pieces I saw were rather underwhelming. Some band that was not The Who covering The Who. Someone who was not David Bowie covering David Bowie. A bunch of supermodels for some strange reason. George Michael looking bloated, singing Freedom, in a segment somehow unconnected to the supermodels. Meh.
The Spice Girls did not disappoint, however. They were much as we remembered them. Sporty, still with ugly shoes and a vaguely lesbian vibe. Baby, still doing her best to appeal directly to the pedophiles of the world. Posh, still corpselike in her intensity. Ginger, still looking like she wants to be somewhere else. Scary, still the one you sort of forget exists. And the pantsuits! Oh, the pantsuits. I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. Or, on second thought, forget it.
