O.K., guys, I have something to get off of my chest.

I like--heck, I'll start at the beginning.

Over spring break last year, while at home, I ran into an elderly neighbor at the supermarket. He was a big, masculine-sort of guy, a throwback to the pre-Fabio days when bigness and masculinity necessarily went together, and he was exceptionally friendly: he had spent more time playing catch with me while I was growing up than he had watching the Royals on the boob tube.

As we stood there, talking in the red meat section of the store (yes, masculine) about recent sports events, his cheerful face suddenly turned grim.

He shook his head, shifted to regather command over the 15-pound bag of hamburger meet in his left hand and the 24-pack of Bud in his right, and shot one of those I'm-going-to-say-something-really-profound-looks straight at me.

"Sean," he said as I took a whiff and realized we were both wearing Brut. "You're getting older. You're growing up into a solid young man, and you'll probably be getting married soon (I cringed). I know the world is changing, but there is one piece of advice I want to give you. Whatever you do, wherever you go, whoever you marry, never, ever let anyone--no matter how pretty she is--make you into a figure skating fan."

It was a great moment--a gem of masculinity in a world where Meatloaf can make a comeback crooning "I would do anything for love" like Elena Bobbit was before him with a kitchen knife--and as I drove home that day, I promised myself that I would never gain an appreciation for Brian Boitano.

Less than a year later, I can shamefully say that I've broken that promise.

It all started the other day when I was avoiding writing a paper for my tutorial.

I flipped the TV on, and who did I find staring me in the face but double-B himself, dressed like a forth musketeer.

My interest piqued in a witty-guy sort of way, I decided to watch.

The man was incredible.

Arms flailing, body cavorting, he seemed to slice and move like a Shonen Knife song. He did twists, he did turns, he did a bunch of spinaround thingies, performing flawlessly--with the exception of one misstep (which was met with an obnoxious groan by the announcer)--for a five-minute period which seemed like an hour.

It was artistic, beautiful (if that word is allowed on this page) and...gulp...athletic.

Athletic in a black turtleneck-sort-of-way. But still, athletic.

O.K., it's out--I feel better now.

Maybe over intercession I'll go out in the woods and beat drums or something and everything will look clearer.

--Sean D. Wissman is a Crimson Staff Writer.