Russian Hangover

It’s usually very difficult to find a seat in the Business Class lounge at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport. Today is different. Somehow the travel gods are helping me out of this place. In an hour I can send this out  . . . the final post. Then it's 12 hrs 45 min nonstop to LA.

In Sochi this morning it took all of 25 minutes to go from the hotel lobby through security to the Business Class Lounge next to Gate 1.

The adrenalin that has coursed through my veins for nearly 3 weeks has dissipated. The exotic adventure is nearly over. Over at Gate 22 is a big-ass Aeroflot Airbus which will soon take me home.

The Party is over. After tonight’s closing Ceremony, Olympic Park will once again become a Ghost Town. What will they do with 5 giant stadiums in a circle around a flame that will soon be extinguished? What about the enormous International Broadcast Center or the gargantuan Olympic Park Railway station?

The big stadium may become a practice field for the local pro soccer team and host a few games during the 2018 World Cup. But what about all those billions of dollars of purely Olympic infrastructure?

We’ve all heard the stories: The IBC will be a shopping mall (no potential tenants yet). A hockey stadium will be dismantled and rebuilt in Siberia (The city canceled few months ago) . . . .

Russia will have a different hangover than me.

Leaving the Truck last night I took one final look at the sparkling structures of Olympic Park. It will never look like this again. I will never feel like this again.

That's because I directed what will more than likely be my last Olympic figure skating routine. I moved up front from my “overlord” perch back into the Director’s Chair for the last hurrah.

Unless lightening strikes, I will leave 30 years of figure skating behind. It is bittersweet closure. It’s been a great run. I feel lucky. A wave of emotion rolls through my body as my eyes well up with tears.

But the real tears flowed earlier - One last Winter Olympic camera meeting. My family of camera boys were there: Kerry, Nick, Wojo, James, Brownie, Andy, Sam, Gary, and The Wooman. We have been a band of brothers for many years. But it turned into a full-fledged Bon Voyage Party for me. The entire compound of nearly 80 people crammed into our catering tent for the last meeting of Planet Skate. My core crew should be in Rio but this was the end of 32 years of Skates.

Dear friends like Sandra Bezic, Tracy Wilson, Andrea Joyce, Ben Davies, John Roche just smiled at me as my voiced cracked. Through it all the smiling face of my dearest friend, Scott Hamilton, who has helped me through more crises than he will ever know.  Scott kept smiling, his eyes urging me on to be the best I can be.

We have always had traditions for these meetings. Some Directors hand out papers with detailed camera assignments and pictures of the principal coaches and skaters.

They drone on about storylines, almost trying to script a Live show. My philosophy has always been to provide a bit of direction, lay out a few possible "wobblies" . . . but let these men do what they do best. Capture the magic and tell the story.

I trust them to deliver at every turn. We can talk, plan and make a thousand formats but guess what ????. . . an actual competition is going to break out. Bringing the essence of the beauty, drama and telling the story of the event is what we do. . . . All of us together. We push each other to a higher plane.

Our mission is to capture the moments, take the viewers to places they can never imagine. My gang of assassins are the best in the business on every sport. In an age where the crew is treated like disposable pieces, I have tried to keep the core together against all odds. They have rewarded me with true fulfillment . We are specialists and this is the most powerful group I have ever known.

One of our Olympic traditions is to connect to the place we are working. I realized over these few weeks that the boys had been working far too many hours to explore the Russia that surrounded them.

In Vancouver Billy Rapaport and I brought in 3 native tribal leaders to bring their culture and to bless our compound and crew. We were energized.

In Beijing I ordered a 40 foot Chinese banner urging the Crew to adhere to the spirit of the Olympic movement. Those Meetings were called together by a giant symphonic Gong on loan from The Beijing Symphony, When the Gong rang it was time for Tai Chi to rid ourselves from evil.  Collective physical activity and touching is important.

In Torino we danced the Hora in the parking lot.

In London we formed the Knights of the Round Table and each day crowned a new King.

Last night we heard from the Head Man of the Sochi Circassian community.

Before we left I wanted the crew to get a taste of the real Caucasus . . . Not some crazed Chechen or other professor of violence. No it was time to meet a man of peace. The leader of the people who had been murdered and sent to exile by Tsar Alexander II. It was on top of the bones and heartache of his ancestors that we celebrated the Olympics. He was a man who understood that the Olympics promoted peace and goodwill. He believed in the New Russia.

After he talk we cranked up the volume on a Circassian song “Bital Ivanov.” We all danced together, shouting “hey” while our Circassian host clapped along. I looked into the eyes of these people . . . not a dry eye was visible.

Then we all laughed about the fact that in less than 6 days we would all be together at the American Cup Gymnastics meet in North Carolina.  A very different world . . . but the same TV Family.

So it’s time to close this blog. It has been great fun. It’s kept me sane over the past few weeks.

I want to take an opportunity to thank all my readers, especially those who offered kind comments and urged me to write every day. I started this as a little blog for Cathy, Megan, Andrew and Jake. Cathy, being the President of my Fan Club leaked word on Facebook. Megan and my cousin Debbie Hamburg followed suit. Good friends like the Binghams in Utah. John Roche, Kerry Burke, Wojo and John Gonzalez lent support which really kept me going. The first blog had 5 page views after the first day. This afternoon page views approached 19,000.

The Aeroflot Airship beckons . . . . .

Back In The USSR

In the waning days of the Soviet Union I arrived in what was then called Leningrad. I was haggard after a million hours in an airplane direct from Hawaii. My brain was as foggy as the noxious coal fumes which enveloped the city in those days.  It was the old Soviet Union I had come to love because it was, well, so foreign.

The airport stank of what I used to call the “Parfum de Russe” . . . . black tobacco smoke, human body odor and a faint trace of urine.

From my window in a mud-covered Lada, the city looked like it was literally falling apart. Once beautiful and inspiring it was a sad sight at every turn as we drove through swirling clouds of giant snowflakes. What we now know as St Petersburg was an aging dowager near death. On the sidewalks people lined up to buy bread from the backs of big, ugly gray-green trucks. At a stoplight I looked into a food store with mostly bare shelves - a few canned goods scattered about.

These were the people that would “bury us?” This was the country we lived in fear of? What the hell were we afraid of? It was a country in ruins.

The Berlin Wall had fallen a few months before but here, it seemed communism was not going away.

We passed a massive concrete building with a giant bronze hammer and cycle above Lenin’s sculpted head.

“Wow,” I said in my naïve American way, “that is amazing.”

“We don’t believe in that shit anymore,” my driver shot back. He reached under the seat and pulled out a homemade cassette tape with the label peeling off. He popped it into a machine he had jerry-rigged under the dash.

“Don’t you know, we’re talkin’ about a revolution . . . .”

Tracy Chapman’s voice was haunting that gray afternoon. The driver sang along with his Russian accent at the top of his lungs.

I’ve been back to Russia several times since that day . . . after the fall of the USSR, when the bread lines got even longer. Back again in the mid-nineties when it resembled Chicago under Al Capone.  Moscow was run by organized crime. There were gunfights in the street. People were shot eating dinner in restaurants. I remember changing money on the black market. I gave the guy 200 bucks from my hidden money belt and he handed me a large plastic garbage bag of Rubles.

But when I came back in 2005 after a 7 year absence, it was like a miracle occurred. The country had been turned upside down. A revolution like nothing I had ever seen.

So here we are, 9 years after that and I’m still dumbfounded. I’m tempted to say the change reminds of when the Wicked Witch of the West was doused with the bucket of water by Dorothy.

Twenty five years since that day in Leningrad. Who could have imagined?

These days, where Russian pride is soaring, the bad old days seem like a distant memory.

Elena, one of runners here at the venue tells me that when she was a small child the family breakfast might consist of a banana cut in 3 pieces. Food was a luxury item. These were tough times. She marvels at the change herself. But like many Russians in those days who were suddenly free to travel, her parents left for good . She now lives in Los Angeles.

Problems these days are much more pedestrian for much of Russia.

Yesterday was a sad day in the New Motherland. Russia’s pride was knocked for a loop.

The Russian hockey team was knocked out of the hockey tournament by Finland and Russia’s new sweetheart on the ice Yulia Lipnitskaya fell hard in the Ladies short.

But yesterday was also sad in a much different way. It was like a ghost reappeared. A reminder that 600 years of history cannot be erased in a quarter century.

Yesterday some pretty disturbing video surfaced which reminded me that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Pussy Riot, the punk activists, came to Sochi to protest Putin’s Olympics. They arrived early this week and were keeping a low profile while they shot their latest music video around town, 20 miles from the Olympic venues.

On Tuesday I met a friend for lunch in Adler, a Sochi suburb not far from Olympic Park. When I arrived the little town center was engulfed in a monumental traffic jam. The local Police had arrested some Pussy Riot members on trumped-up charges of purse snatching. Though they were quickly released, it was a message sent. The traffic in Adler was a mess because of the large scrum of journalists.

Their “songs” are crude. Their message is difficult to decipher. They do impromptu performances wearing colored balaclavas. I wrote about them a few days ago.

Pussy Riot attempted to sing their latest hit, ‘Putin will Teach You How to Love the Motherland’ in front of a Sochi 2014 banner near downtown Sochi.

This video speaks powerfully. The clip is from Russia Today, a de-facto government TV outlet.
Remember to come back after the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7u3isEgszV0

When the real Police arrived after the video stopped there were no arrests. The attackers were Cossack Militia using horse whips. Although they have fancy uniforms, they are more like Mall Cops in fierce looking costumes. They have been contracted to be unofficial security officers in Sochi proper. It reminds me of letting the Hells Angels handle security at Altamont. Something bad was bound to happen.

The Cossacks were after all the perpetrators of the pogroms and the murder of thousands of Jews over the past 350 years. In the bad old days the central government just put their palms in the air . . . . Cossacks will be Cossacks.

But today the Governor of this region said he would find and prosecute the attackers. Hmmmm. Now THAT would be a real revolution.

Later yesterday afternoon, in the best Russian tradition of ‘nothing is as it appears,’ Pussy Riot resurfaced to sing the song in front of Sochi City Hall. They were heckled by the few passersby. No one seemed to care about Pussy Riot. The Sochi Police just let the show go on.

Russian protest music has a deep heritage. Starting in the 1960s there were singer/songwriters called "Bards." They wrote anti-Soviet songs which they distributed underground under fear of arrest. These records and tapes were passed around in secret and were treated like gold. Sometimes the music was etched onto an old x-ray in someone's garage. People could play them on a phonograph. Young people whispered when they had them. Who could have conceived of Pussy Riot?

Now that the local authorities seem to be more tolerant, perhaps they can find a place for something like Pussy Riot. Only then can they truly be free.

Tonight the Russian Nation finally had a big victory. Just when it seemed like the air had gone out the Games, and the crowds seemed funereal, hope rose from the ashes of defeat. A spunky, shy relatively unknown Russian girl beat the best in the world  She became the unlikely Queen of the Ice.

Adelina Sotnikova became the first Russian women in history to win an individual Gold Medal. Four years ago in Vancouver the entire Russian team was shut out of the medals, a deep embarrassment for this sporting crazed nation. Adelina won the main event, The Marquee event and she acted like the sweet teenager she is.  

When the Russians left the Vancouver Olympics, they were devastated. They made a plan for Sochi. Russian skating seemed dead. The world powerhouse had run its course, The best coaches and leaders had left for more lucrative jobs in the west.

In four short years, The Russian Skating Association needed to change everything. They aimed for the sky. They brought coaches back home from around the globe and rebuilt their program top to bottom. There is a steel rod of strength running though the Russian backbone. My Chechen friends from earlier in the week taught me well. Give Russians the tools to build and a magical Phoenix will rise.

"When we are united, no one can beat us" he wrote on his red, white and blue flag, Dreamers can win, Even here, They proved it tonight, You can argue the merits of the Korean or the Italian  but it was a Russian athlete who vanquished the field. And the Russian nation can rejoice for that cute little girl that every grandmother would love to pinch. Adelina is a child of the new system, A prototype for the future.

She brought new glory to the Motherland. After she won she hugged at least 2 dozen people who helped her achieve this goal. This was not just a victory by an individual, this was victory by a team of patriots upset at the direction life was taking.

Hey, wait a minute you might think it looked like The Fix was in. . . . Yu-Na Kim should have won! The judges, some say, were drunk with crowd noise and the panel was corrupt. All the media noise aside, women's figure skating has become an athletic event. It's not about who's the prettiest, it's about who is the better athlete. Yu-na was wooden and had fewer jumps. Adelina won.

Just four years after a complete shutout . . . .  no skating medals in Vancouver . . . they made a revolution. In 2014 they became the first Olympic skating team in history where every team member went home with a Gold Medal. The government didn't do this, a group of committed individuals followed a dream, giveng of themselves and built a program from scratch.

That is the new Russia. If Sochi taught us anything, it taught us that this is a powerful nation of individuals. Putin is a transitional figure. Russia is on the rise.

Cue the DJ sound of a record needle skidding across some vinyl.

Well, maybe it is . . . . 

Fields of Gold

As we steam toward the Closing Ceremony the Russians are not letting their guard down. In fact, yesterday security was stepped up. To drive a car into Olympic Park everyone must go through what looks like an International Border crossing. While the driver remains with the vehicle, passengers must walk into a building for processing. This requires scanning your credential, baggage x-ray and personal search. Yesterday we went through the metal detector then we were wanded head to toe. That was followed by a full pat-down including, what I term, a groin graze. Then it took 15 minutes to get the vehicle across.

They are taking no chances. All is well.

The western press lemmings are having a hard time of late finding stories to feed their cynicism. The yellow water, double toilets and unfinished hotel rooms have proven to be aberrations. Who can they rag on now?

Us!

On Valentine’s Day a Wall Street Journal reporter saw an NBC staffer with a Starbucks cup. The reporter “discovered” that we have our own Starbucks in the International Broadcast Center commissary and packets of Starbucks “Via” at the venues. Consumed with envy, the reporter “broke” the story. It has now been repeated by dozens of news outlets around the world. One report actually said NBC was “taunting” the other journalists with the Green Mermaid cups. I suggest they try the nearest Starbucks. It’s only 250 miles away in the city of Rostov-on-Don.

We like to sip coffee when we attend skate practices. It’s our tradition. But now it’s not as simple as just pouring a cup of Joe. To leave our compound you must cover the Starbucks logo with duct tape. The only coffee allowed are sugar bomb McCafes from McDonalds (The official sponsor). Our own Tracy Wilson always follows the rules. She's Canadian.

There is nothing quite like an Olympic figure skating practice. After 30+ years in sports television I can tell you that I’ve seen a lot of practices. Football, basketball, hockey, cycling, gymnastics, horse racing . . . if there’s practice or training before the Big Event, I’ve been there.

At the Olympics, each practice is like a mini-competition. It's a pressure cooker.

Every move is scrutinized by the horde of press, TV, judges and coaches. Comparatively speaking an NFL practice is almost like a meet and greet cocktail party. We stand on the sidelines chatting. Maybe we’ll get lucky and see a new formation by the Special Teams coach. If a player is injured we might get an early look at whether they are ready to play on Sunday.

 

Here the pressure here is palpable. When Yuna Kim, the defending Olympic Champion practices, it's a frenzy at rinkside.

The ladies skate in special custom“practice” outfits. Each practice group consists of 5 skaters on the ice at the same time. The contenders can size up each other at these sessions. In the middle of the practice session their program music is played and they must perform.

Sometimes it's like Boxing heavyweights sparring against each other right before the Title Fight.

Up in the Peanut Gallery the journalists speak in hushed tones, scribbling furiously in their notebooks about every move. Photogs with gigantic lenses are clicking away. The drama has begun. At the Olympic Games the Ladies Competition is the centerpiece for our viewers, 60 per cent of whom are women.

People often look at me like I have 3 heads when I say that the Olympic Figure Skating free program is the toughest pressure situation in all of sports. 

It is four minutes of sheer terror where an entire lifetime of training is on the line. By and large you get one shot at a Gold Medal in your career. You must sustain perfection in mind and body for every single second.

There are nine mean looking judges ready to pounce on their keypads over every subtle movement or facial expression. When you might have slightly two-footed a jump you better smile like you made it.

In most sports the “moment” is fast and fleeting. In most sports you have teammates. In skating you stand naked in front of the world. Literally. No hats, pads, masks or goggles. Naked.

We always remember the great moments . . . . The batter at the plate in the world series with the game on the line, the QB at the Super Bowl with two minutes to score, the three pointer to win the NBA Finals in the final seconds. Most of the plays are over in a matter of seconds. They are setting up for a single explosive moment.

Long distance runners question whether they have enough in the tank for the final sprint but there’s lots of time to think. There's a metronomic rhythm. Downhill skiers and cyclists wonder whether they can survive the burning in their legs and lungs. Gymnastic routines come close, but they last for just over a minute.

I’m not trying denegrate these sports. Skating is just different. The perception that skating is more show than athletic prowess couldn't be farther from reality.

In most sports there are moments to collect yourself before the next play. And if you lose the big game, there’s always next year . . . or the year after.

Skaters spend every day for at least ten years preparing for that single free skate routine. Four minutes. An eternity.

Tara Lipinski, the 1998 Olympic Gold medalist, told me the other day that nothing prepared her for the moment when her name was announced and she skated to center ice at the Olympic Games with a Gold Medal on the line.

"My legs were shaking uncontrollably," she recalled. "Even though I was so well trained, I was really scared. 

She was just 15. She skated one of the great programs in history. Her dream came true.

About 20 years after Sarajevo I sat with Rosalynn Sumners, the 1984 Olympic Silver Medalist. Roz has a special place in my heart because she was the first skater I ever filmed for a profile. She went to Sarajevo in 1984 as the reigning Queen of the Ice. She was the chosen one. The kid from East Germany, Katarina Witt, was touted as a future star . . . . 

In her short program, Roz made a minor mistake on a double axel and the judges hammered her. She was fifth after the short, hardly the spot the reigning World Champion wanted to be in. You can’t win the competition in the Short but you can slip deeply.

As the Long program began she looked like she would win. But things would soon unravel. She didn't fall. She didn't stumble. She began to tire and doubled a planned Triple toe loop. Then she did a single Axel instead of a double. That first jump would change the course of her life. Katarina Witt won the Gold.

As we watched the 2002 US Nationals in LA, she told me that hardly a day goes by when that jump doesn’t pop into her head. One jump changed her destiny. That Silver Medal will forever be a reminder of her failure, not achievement. There was deep sadness in her eyes.

Over the course of my career in the TV Truck I have cheered and shouted for my favorite teams, horses (especially with a big bet on the line) and athletes. Deep down I'm still a fan. I'll let out a cheer and get right back into the production.

When it comes to figure skating I'm a crybaby. At least . . . I was. No one has truly stirred my soul since the new scoring system poisoned the sport. I'm still hopeful. I have a reservoir of tears waiting to be released.

The last time I sobbed uncontrollably watching figure skating was 2002 in Salt Lake. I was directing the live Exhibition show. Michelle Kwan had missed Olympic Gold by a single jump, a Triple Flip. When the scores were tallied she had missed the Gold by one mark  . . . by one judge. Unheralded Sarah Hughes had skated a dream program completely out of her head. For Sarah it was a fairy tale come true.

For Michelle it was a nightmare. Denied by Tara at the 1998 Nagano Olympics, Salt Lake was supposed to be a coronation for the greatest skater of her generation. Michelle was beautiful, talented, athletic and above all, genuine. Not since Scott Hamilton in 1984 had I rooted so hard for a skater. I loved her. 

The medalists were invited to skate in what they call a "Gala" to celebrate their achievement.

Michelle's exhibition program was skated to Eva Cassidy's "Fields of Gold." Having taken the Bronze, the musical choice was the ultimate irony. When the song began my voice cracked. I whispered "Take Camera 2." Then I started crying in earnest. I had to use hand signals to Beth Tuura my TD for the camera cuts.

At the end Michelle faced Nick Utley on Camera 2 and I completely lost it. His shot was pure magic. Her face filled every inch of the giant monitor in front of me. She was sobbing with tears rolling down that beautiful face. Through it all, that smile, that amazing smile, broke out. The performance was incredible. The crowd was going insane. Beth cut the next minute by herself. I buried my face in my hands. I had lost complete control of my emotions.

A freaky thing about Michelle is that she has always reminded me of my daughter Megan. They are the same age. They talk the same, laugh the same, share many quirky mannerisms. They also share the same steel will of determination and positive energy. "Woe is me" is not in their lexicon.

It's always comfortable hanging with Michelle.

Yesterday we watched practice together. We gossiped about all the skaters. She analyzed the action on the ice. Everything was going along fine . . . . until . . .

My brain flashed back to Salt Lake City. I started tearing up. She whacked me in the chest with the back of her hand (Just like Megan) and her face begged the question . . . "What is up with you?"

"I can't listen to "Fields of Gold" was all I could muster. 

In a stunning contrast to my conversation with Rosalynn Sumners, Michelle smiled.

"I played the song at my wedding. For the longest time I couldn't listen to it either. I've embraced it now. I'm at peace. I love my life."

A Gray Day

Svetlana hasn't had a day off since I arrived. That's 20 days in a row. She's been making omelets and flipping blinis every morning... basically alone. She speaks no English but manages to keep it all straight while our hungry NBC crew, Russian TV and corporate VIPs jockeys for position at her station. Sometimes she has three omelets and four blinis going at once.

I think she likes me. I stumble through my college Russian with her every day. Day 1 she watched anxiously as I dumped a giant spoonful of hot chillis in the omelet pan. She now knows me for the maniac I am. This morning I showed her this picture and she blushed like a little girl. The blinis are excellent . . not cakey like our American pancakes. I'll get her recipe before  I leave.

I think Svetlana scares Uncle Big Al because she has bowls brimming with forbidden vegetal ingredients in front of her. Even though she could cook up his favorite "bullseye" eggs to order, he won't go near her station. She has real attitude and she may simply forget UBA's order.

Anyone who knows UBA understands his food fears. His genome is hunter . . . not gatherer, Anything green on his plate (even a garnish will send him into a frenzy. He does get a bit scary.

He goes for the pre-cooked scrambled eggs of questionable origin. His breakfast is compartmentalized. It looks like Mondrian painting. Perfect scoop of eggs, two pieces of herring, two pieces of salmon, one slice cheese, two sausage links and a dollop of ketchup. All laid out in perfect symmetry. Everything is precisely cut into small pieces before it is consumed. He has a rule for every morsel. It's laid out squares and line

We always laugh when we eat together.

Did we really grow up in the same house????

After breakfast I had my favorite quadrennial meeting with the International Skating Union. Every Olympics I look forward to this day. They outline their production plan for the Skating Exhibition which follows the Ladies Final. When I take that meeting I know the end is near.

I headed over to the Russian Olympic Superstore to see if the 45 minute line to get in the place had dissipated. It hadn't. But all of a sudden there was a new odor in the air as the breeze came in from the Black Sea

The sweet smell of fir and pine was a strange sensory experience amid the giant of mass of asphalt in Olympic Park. This morning I followed my nose to a remote corner near the Olympic Stadium where there is an oasis of greenery. The trees form an impermeable outer perimeter. My hopes to catch a glimpse inside were impossible as a high opaque glass fence blocked my view. Crowds of people are streaming in to watch the Olympics in the distance. Suddenly I’m alone . . . at least until I round a corner and find 2 soldiers standing guard.

It’s the entrance to a cemetery. And it’s also a staging area for the military. A large troop transport truck is just down the road. There is obviously no entry for me.

It's a cemetery for a Russian Orthodox sect known as Old Believers. It has been there for 100 years. Generations of villagers who once lived on the Olympic Park site are buried there. Three thousand of their ancestors were displaced and hundreds of acres of farmland was appropriated when the government selected this location for Olympic Park.

But no one, not even Putin and the Olympic organizers could move the cemetery. The CEO of the Olympics said it was impossible under Russian law.

Although the village which stood here was bulldozed to build Olympic Park, the cemetery remains. For the casual visitor it looks like a simple a row of trees. It took a little while but I made a map with a screenshot and photoshop.

The bright sunshine has disappeared. It's been gray and gloomy for the past two days with only occasional bursts of sun. A cold wind blows off the sea.

Experience tells me that in the rhythm of an Olympic Games, these first few days of the final week are the most difficult. Adrenalin production drops off. Fatigue sets in. The end is in sight but it's probably like mile 18 of a marathon. You just have to keep pushing. The most exciting event, the Ladies Free skate is on the horizon. I wish it was tonight.

After the beautiful weekend, the crowds in Olympic Park have thinned.

The boys in black kevlar with automatic rifles are more visible. There's a bit of a weird vibe. But I'm not sure if it's just in my head.

My love/hate relationship with this country continues. Just when I start to believe that it's not the old Russia, something comes up which perplexes me.

Readers of this blog may remember my post about the Circassian genocide last week. I visited the Circassian House museum here in Olympic Park and I became suspicious because it had been sanitized to make no mention of the genocide. The people at the museum talked about how Russia had changed and the Circassians were able to live in peace.

But on Friday night a prominent leader of the Circassian community was arrested not far from here after he tried to organize a protest against the Olympics. According to CNN, Asker Sokht is widely perceived as a moderate who often defended Russian government policy.

Yesterday I wrote about the Russian protest tradition and how it seems to be coming alive again. But if you don't watch out, you could be headed for Siberia. Swept up in the euphoria of the Olympics we must not forget that this is not a free country no matter what image they are trying to sell the world.

The vibe was definitely not right. It was time to leave the doom and gloom of the cemetery no matter how sweet the smell of this island in the asphalt. 

Around here it's easy to have a mood change. There's just too many happy smiling people around. Luckily, joy is contagious. Five minutes later I was back in HappyLand again.

Cathy Michaels, the President of my Fan Club, wants more pictures of people so I'm willing to oblige.

 

Oh . . . I need to correct a mistake in yesterday's post. I actually found a Hot Dog Stand in Olympic Park over by the Speed Skating venue.

Nearby was perhaps the only high-heeled female drum corps in the World.

I passed on the white Pork dogs.

In other news tonight was the best Ice Dance competition ever. The USA took the Gold but I fell in love with the Russians who skated to Romeo and Juliet.

I'm so schizophrenic about this place.