Water Drips Down My Shame

Tuesday, July 27, 2004


So the U.S. Olympic Synchronized Swimming Team was on David Letterman the other night.

They did a demo performance.  About four minutes long, set to music from Fantasia.

And there I am, lounging on my couch in my boxers and my socks, 1 am (because it's recorded on Tivo), and I'd never seen an Olympic synchronized swimming team before, so I watched.

As most Olympians are, they were firm-bodied, confident, quite attractive.  Swimming suits, in a pool.  The recorded orchestra picks up, I'm enjoying their performance, perfectly matched to the music.

And on a particularly nice closeup of taught, toned thighs fleshing themselves just above the water's surface, I notice a music edit.

A cut in the music track; it jumps from one part of the composition to another.

I rewound it to hear it again, and yes, it was a music edit.  Not a particularly good one, either.  Fifteen seconds later there was another.  About twenty seconds later there was another.

There I am!  Single guy, underwear only, late at night, no roommate.  Scores of ridiculously fit women flaunting their bodies, their athleticism, their tight swimsuits, and they're dripping wet!  They thrust, they heave, they twirl, they present their legs, their shoulders, their chests, their posteriors for me to observe.  Gaze at me, they cry, become mildly aroused by our beauty in motion.

Again the music jumped.  Infuriating.  The tempo changed, the rhythm skewed, instruments disappearing and reappearing unnaturally.  I sighed in exasperation.

Why in the name of Christ am I listening to the music edits?  Nobody knows.  Twelve people in the world probably noticed the cuts.  Eleven of them didn't give a crap.  Who cares?  It's for the Late Show!  It's a swimming routine!  There is absolutely no reason for those music edits to be decent.  None.  Why can't I look past it?  Why can't I ignore it?

I completely lost track of the female women dancing about my television.  As the music and the choreography crescendoed and climaxed, my eyes were glazed, seeing nothing.  I was listening for the music to jump, and shaking my head, teeth clenched, breathing labored, silently chastising the amateur audio engineer who made those shoddy edits.

Lord knows the many sins I should have been committing amidst such a flagrant beautification of the female body.  But I did none of them.  My geekdom overcame me.


I am not a man.

posted by Scotty 2-shots at 1:50 AM