Blades in the Pink: A Fashion Statement

On my 178-pound frame of 20 or so years ago, I was told I looked pretty spiffy in my Ralph Lauren blush-pink Polo, leaving none of my masculinIty in question by anyone.


Johnny Weir represented the USA, my stars 'n stripes and his, last night in Men's Figure-Skating at the Olympics.


The black bustier cross-laced in pink and complementing arm-stripe...with the pink fru-fru on your shoulder did...well, exactly zip/zilch/nada...none of that worked for me, Johnny, except on the cheese grater of my irritability's last nerve.

One of my distinction-adorned diplomas is embossed with "San Francisco" on it, where I was schooled, previously lived and worked; the correct understanding from that should be that mine doesn't come from the hater place, isn't a gaydom or anti-gaydom statement about Poor Pink Johnny or male ice-skaters but of one's poor attire selection.

I wasn't happy your routine went poorly, Poor Johnny, nor did I wish you ill, but my snarling disdain for your choice of skate-suits caught me wondering if judges from less tolerant countries would raise eyebrows at the effeminate appearance of your outfit, regardless of your public or private gender preference.


Soul-searching revealed that the root of my irritability was that I didn't feel like you were representing all of us in our country, whose green combat uniform I donned in the '70s, one I'd gladly loan you for tonight so I can see your skating beyond the ear-splitting volume of what you just might wear.