The one on the right is pissed because:
a.) She forgot her flag
b.) Her shoes got muddy and there wasn't time to clean them off before the photo
c.) She's really Jack Lemmon in drag
Check out SI.com's gallery of Olympic Fashion Through The Years, including the fly ladies of 1920, above. They're not all medal-worthy looks [Aside to Hungary '80: Look in the mirror and remove one accessory, dear] but damn, those Lithuanians knew how to party back in the 9-2.
Updated:
You can also read this on NewsWorks (and see other pics), and listen to an audio portion from WHYY.
---
In my house, there isn’t a room that doesn’t bear at least some evidence of my relationship with Penn State. Since the child sex assault scandal began unfolding last year, only one piece of my Penn State collection went into the trash can.
It was a dark-blue T-shirt, with a sketch of Joe Paterno’s face and the words LET GO AND LET JOE in white, a play on the old saw about turning your troubles over to the Lord, trusting he’ll handle everything.
In hindsight, I see how deeply bizarre that sounds, and how perfectly it sums up how and why we got here. The shirt (bought at Cheesesteak Tees, I think) just seemed funny, so ironically over-the-top that only another Penn Stater would understand. It went into the garbage when the thought of wearing it left me feeling disgusted and ashamed, and afraid of what else we didn’t know.
With the Freeh Report released, we know more than ever and it’s nothing short of horrifying. The report isn’t just a retelling of how there were “more red flags than we could count,” as Freeh said, nor is it about pinning it all on the dead guy as others insist (they’re wrong).
It confirms things we didn't want to accept about all of the men running the university, including the one to whom they all deferred. It proves that “let go and let Joe” was the guiding principle at Penn State. It wasn't the law and it certainly was not compassion for those boys.
Those boys. Some the same age my son was when we took him to his first game, dressed him in PSU gear and waved to President Spanier as he passed by in a minibus on the way back from Beaver Stadium. Nobody cared enough to do anything for those boys.
Let go and let Joe.
Everyone knows Joe had an effect on people it is accurate to describe as religious. A few words from him could revive exhausted THON dancers and shake loose money from donors’ pockets. His words certainly could have stopped Jerry Sandusky from abusing kids.
Penn State's motto is "Success With Honor."
Imagine the honor that would have come with the success of Joe being the coach who took a public stand for protecting children, the one who refused to tolerate the mere idea of a child abuser in his midst? But even the janitors at the bottom of the blue-and-white food chain knew no good would come of blowing the whistle. Blowing the whistle is the coach’s job.
To the Paterno family, which released its own statement, no sane adult would knowingly cover for a child sex predator. They say if Joe had “understood what Sandusky was,” he would have done more. No one really expects the Paternos to reject their patriarch. But.
Realizing all this hurts. It makes me nauseated, it makes me ashamed I was part of that culture of unquestioning loyalty that let atrocities go on right under JoePa’s famous nose.
Does understanding all these things mean I don’t love Penn State, that I should take my diploma off the wall and send it back? No, it means I believe a better Penn State exists. That there is more good to be done. That I want to do better by its students than was done for those other boys, the ones Sandusky and his enablers destroyed.
A moment keeps coming back to me: Oct. 29, 2011, the weekend of that freaky Halloween snowstorm, when we joined a bunch of Penn State friends to watch the Illinois game. The group of us that had bonded over long nights in the Collegian newsroom gathered in a New Jersey living room to watch on TV, cheering and pointing out Joe to the kids.
Should we have known that would be the last time a big win would give us that kind of pride? That it would be the last time, probably for a long time, that Beaver Stadium would be that innocent universe of joy it became in the moments just after a win?
I’m involved in alumni groups, I mentor students, I give money and time back to my school. None of that changes for me. Some are calling for the football program to be shut down, if not the whole university. Penalties, charges, fines, yes, but dismantle Penn State? Of course not.
Letting the entire institution be defined by one person is our yesterday. I’d rather work to build Penn State’s future. Or maybe, just go back to the start. From the 1941 campus guide for freshmen, via Papergreat:
There is something in Penn State that goes on and on, unchanging even while buildings, faculties, and student bodies come and go. If you find out what that is, you will have found the source of the notable Penn State spirit and loyalty.
Rocket in his pocket: Robbie Knievel breaks his late father's record, jumping his motorcycle 200 feet, over 24 delivery trucks. (AP Photo by David Kohl)
* True story: Many years ago, I spent a crazy weekend in Ventor/Margate with a friend who was dating a 
minor-league wiseguy type. It was an interesting couple of days to say the least, the highlights of which were dancing at the Geator's place in a large group of women that included Rita Merlino, and a scene which unfolded inside and just outside the old South Beach club in Margate at about 4 a.m., involving me and a cluster of large dudes who were pissed off at something Kitty Caparella had written and several Sambucas later, expected me to answer for it. I told them va fa Napoli. You know how it is.
Aaaaanyway the other big stop on Goumad Tour '95 was Ventura's Greenhouse in Ventnor, which was lousy with overtanned Italian-American guys sporting what would now be called the Tony Soprano Look: hairy arms, thick gold bracelet, short-sleeved button-down silk shirt bearing an aesthetically questionable pattern.
Next month, James Gandolfini will sell the shirt off Tony's back to benefit wounded U.S. soldiers. Christies will auction several pieces of Gandolfini's TV wardrobe, including the tan bathrobe from the first episode and the "blood-soaked" shirt from the scene where Uncle Junior shoots Tony.
* Also going above and beyond the call of hooters, er, duty, the Eagles Cheerleaders going to visit the troops in Iraq! What, no beefcake for the female soldiers? One in 7, people!
* Too male, too white, and too old -- no, no, I'm not talking about Congress, but the Washington Post's Op-Ed page. But really, why look that far?
* One good thing (one of the few good things, from the reviews we're reading) about that "Sex and the City" movie: Chris Noth as Mr. Big = Lots of Det. Logan on cable. Rawwwrrr. (OMG he touched her ass, proving yet again that a story is sometimes all in the telling.) Also, the mayor's box at the Wachovia Center was empty through the Flyers playoffs, but Nutter was to attend a private "Sex" screening at the Ritz Five last night. Mayor Metrosexual?
Here at Citizen Mom, we like the ponies. And in Saturday's 134th Kentucky Derby, our money's on Eight Belles, who will start against a field of 19 boys. Don't get me started on how there are always too many horses in the Derby, it's an annual annoyance.
Early in the week Eight Belles was a real longshot, but with even Hillary Clinton betting on her (across the board), the morning line could go way down.
And if you have no idea what any of that means, just bet the 5 horse, with the red-and-white silks.
Winning Colors, the last filly to win the Derby, 1988:
Sean Avery, tough-yet-flamboyant Rangers left winger, was rushed to the hospital early this morning with what was first reported to be cardiac arrest but is now being called a lacerated spleen. Avery's Mom told ESPN that he suffered a hit during the first period of the Rangers' playoff loss Tuesday night.
Last week, Avery was the subject of a "Talk of the Town" piece in The New Yorker that painted dude as less the guy "known for getting under opponents' skin with a chippy style of play" than just a doofus who likes to wear scarves and nail polish to freak out his teammates and mess with Marty Brodeur:
Last week, Avery made agitator history, in the third game of the Rangers’ best-of-seven first-round playoff series against the New Jersey Devils, by inventing a new idiot technique. During a Rangers power play, he positioned himself in front of the Devils’ goalie, Martin Brodeur, to block his view of the puck—a standard tactic known as a screen. Avery, however, turned to face Brodeur and, ignoring the play, began waving his arms and his stick in Brodeur’s face. Brodeur attempted to peer past him, but Avery carried on, even after one of his own teammates skated up and told him to cut it out. The Devils, shorthanded and desperate for a win, couldn’t indulge the urge, acute as it must have been, to knock out Avery’s teeth, especially when, a moment later, Avery put the puck past a seething and distracted Brodeur. Goal.
Oh, before I forget: F THE RANGERS
