Closing Blues

By Starwatcher


Warning: I was feeling out of sorts, and let Blair do my ranting for me. So, no plot, no action, lots of dialogue. A couple of bad words.

Author's Notes -- I love the Olympics, or rather, the idea of the Olympics. Unfortunately, in America, televised coverage is unevenly balanced between the sports, and is heavily Amer-centric. This time around, the final straw (for me) was the extremely rough editing and poor presentation of the closing ceremonies. I was appalled, and livid, and Let Blair do my talking for me.


Jim Ellison tossed another handful of popcorn into his mouth and decided that watching the closing ceremonies of the Olympic Games with Blair Sandburg was the only way to do it. During every commercial break, his favorite anthropologist kept him entertained by expounding on the history of the customs being depicted, the dances, the food, and the costumes, hypothesized about the spectacle they might see in Beijing, compared it to what he remembered of previous closing ceremonies... The man was in his element, and Jim just sat back and considered it part of the entertainment. Cold beer, hot buttered popcorn, and an evening relaxing with his partner and best friend after a hard day -- The best things in life really were the simple moments, he reflected, and felt privileged to share these moments with Blair.

But all good things come to an end; he raised the remote control as the closing credits began to show on the screen, but was halted by a cry of outraged disbelief.

"Wait a minute! That's it? That's fuckin' ALL!?!" Blair sounded as if the Jags had quit playing after the first basket.

"Yeah, Sandburg, that's all. You see those names scrolling down the screen? I don't know about Greek tradition or Chinese tradition, but in the great American tradition, that signifies the end of a show. High time, too; we need to be at the station early tomorrow."

"But... but..." Amazingly, he seemed at a loss for words. It didn't last long. "I feel gypped!" he exploded. "There should be more!"

"Sandburg, it's eleven PM. They danced, they sang, they passed on the flame to the rest of the world and then blew it out... what more do you want?"

"Jim, I want all of it! I want every word of every song they cut away from to interview an athlete. I want every step of every dance that they gave us just a taste of before they cut away to commercial. This is a world-wide celebration, and NB-fuckin'-C squeezes its coverage into two and a half HOURS!?! There've been years that I had to stay up till the wee small hours of the morning before the closing ceremonies finished! This is just... just... it's positively obscene!"

"But, Chief, I thought you liked the athlete interviews, and all the background commentary. You wouldn't want them cut out, would you?"

"Loved 'em, and no, I wouldn't want them cut. I'm just sayin', they could have shown the interviews, AND the complete dances, AND the complete songs... This is Greece, man, they invented spectacle, and some pencil-pusher P-T-B sabotages the totality of it to make it fit in a predetermined time. Greece oughta sue!" he finished bitterly.

Jim sighed; Sandburg's expounding on the uneven coverage and exposure of the various events had been a constant, muttered background to the games for the past two weeks.

"Sandburg, let it go. You can't change it, and it really won't affect the course of history. Ah-ah!" He held up a cautionary finger as Blair took a deep breath to continue his rant. "Wouldn't Naomi be giving you the same advice?"

The deep breath was expelled as Blair accepted his friend's advice. "Yeah, you're right. It just gripes me, man, when I know the good stuff was being presented, but high-powered jerks prevented me from seeing it."

"Can't be helped, Sandburg, unless you win the lottery and outbid NBC for the coverage. Got an idea, though..." He waited until Blair's eyebrows signified his interest. "We can go upstairs and celebrate the closing ceremonies much more satisfactorily."

"Jim, I swear, that's becoming your answer for everything." He shook his head in mock disapproval. "Sex doesn't cure everything, you know."

"Doesn't it?" He pasted a thoughtful look on his face. "Well, maybe not, but it cures a helluva lot; can't hurt to try this time, can it?"

Blair's thoughtful look was considerably more convincing; he probably practiced in front of his classes. "Maybe you're right; I suppose it really can't hurt to make the experiment. So..." The eyes he raised to Jim's were now twinkling. "Twenty-meter dash up the stairs? Ready-set-go!"

Ellison snorted and followed the enticing tush of his now and forever partner in all things as it scampered upward. He figured it would only take him about thirty minutes to reduce his lover to a state where he couldn't even say 'Olympics', let alone complain about the televised coverage. A tough row to hoe, but someone had to do it, and he was just the man for the job. Gold medal performance, too, he thought smugly, though in this case, there'd be a tie. Both of them won at these games, and he intended to keep it that way for the next sixty or seventy years.


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