Mark Steyn, loyal Great White Northian, lambasted the Olympics yesterday. Stick a fork in them--they're done.

This apparently is why pairs skating is big business: The audience projects its own romantic fancies on to the couples, no matter how fantastical it might be, especially in the case of some of those ice-dancing chaps. It's hard to imbue any other Olympic sport with affairs of the heart. Few of us watch the two-man luge and coo, "Oh, it's so romantic! Look at how the top guy arches his back to avoid crushing the bottom guy's nuts! It's obvious they're in love!"

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I thought in the men's competition Tim Goebel's "American In Paris" routine was tops, but the judges hammered him in the "presentation" marks. By "presentation," it seems they resented the way he didn't flounce around twirling his arms and waggling his hips. The experts argue that the public doesn't understand the "technical" considerations, but in this instance the technical considerations boil down to mandatory screaming campness: You don't stand a chance unless you queen about like some bitch waiter at Miami Beach enraged at being told to hold the curly endive.