By Spike Vrusho

ENOUGH WITH THE UNBLINKING BOB COSTAS Dozens more couch potatoes now know where MSNBC or Telemundo is on their television "dial." The Summer Olympics from Athens, which bled so nicely into the Republican National Convention, had the usual silly hats for the U.S. athletes who were forced to endure opening and closing ceremonies while wearing cowboy hats, berets or, in this case, "bucket" hats. A team of Gilligans turned out to be the U.S. basketball squad, which was a self-fulfilling dysfunctional prophecy beginning with the end of the last "Dream Team."

During the previous winter games, I enjoyed watching the German women's biathaloners on the big screen at Scruffy Duffy's in Hell's Kitchen. I thought I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, until I saw Ushi Disl's red hair and precision with the gun. This summer, it was synchronized swimming competition. The music wasn't coming out too well, but the U.S. team—who would take the bronze in this event—was doing a move called "The Eagle."

The Eagle is like an early hiphop dance move you might've seen on the C train back when the trains had double letters. The team made a wave-like ripple above the surface, with the middle betty as the body of the eagle and her teammates as the flapping wings. It was better than Challenger flying from the Yankee Stadium black bleachers to the pitcher's mound before a playoff game. But then, just like that, the Eagle was over, drowned in a pool in Athens. Just when I was starting to remember that the games were on those distant cable channels at odd hours, they were over.

Leaving NBC's coverage on after the synchronized swimmers was a mistake. The U.S. pole-vaulters were kind of embarrassing. Toby "Crash" Stevenson came off as completely fake—a created Ron Shelton character ("Crash" wears a helmet while he vaults—get it?). Stevenson and his teammate Tim Mack actually celebrated clearing the bar on their way down, during the fall to the mat. After the bouncy landing, horrifying XFL-style end-zone dances ensued. This, while several other track and field events were going on in the background. (Track and field can be so confusing, especially when the "field" part takes its course.) The vaulters, after each run, were shown lying around like slacker kids in sweat pants, waiting for tabulations or the cherry picker to reset the bar.

That's when I had my own closing ceremony, without wheat or a harvest theme or all that music you hear late at night coming out of Astoria nightclubs. There were no Chinese lanterns, or drooling NYC deputy mayors getting ideas about how Randall's Island will make a fine Olympic "village." o