Frank Foer has a dynamite essay in the Wall Street Journal today on the Iranian olympian who refused to compete against an Israeli athlete in judo.

It turns out that this sort of anti-Semitism is common from many Islamic nations during international sporting events. How bad is it? Foer writes, “At last year’s Special Olympics in Ireland, both Saudi Arabia and Algeria refused to play Israel in soccer and table tennis.”

Does that seem a little bothersome? Don’t worry. As President Bush said on September 17, 2001, “Islam is peace.”

(On a side note, during that same speech, Bush said, “The English translation is not as eloquent as the original Arabic, but let me quote from the Koran, itself . . .” Who knew the president spoke Arabic!)

Over at CJR Liz Cox Barrett notes a Daily Times report saying that George W. Bush does not prefer his cheesesteak “Whiz with” (that’s a cheesesteak, with Cheez Whiz, and fried onions for you non-Philly people) as he recently claimed, but instead takes it with “cheese of the American variety.” It’s a fine little story.

Left out of all the coverage, however, is the real question the president should be asked next time he’s in Pennsylvania: Gino’s or Pat’s?

Charles Krauthammer defends Bush’s proposed troop withdrawal. Pretty convincingly.

Obsessing over Svetlana Khorkina tonight, I caught NBC’s Very Special Package on the Russian gymnast. “I know that people look at me,” she says to the camera. “They watch me.”

“I have been great for a long time,” she says.

Speaking of these Olympics, she tells the NBC crew: “I want to win as badly as I want to mother my own child. . . . I will go there and get what belongs to me.”

And no, I’m not going to find the Russian Playboy pictures for you. That’s why God invented Fleshbot.

Cubby Broccoli’s on line one–there’s a ’70s Bond movie missing its villain.

You’ve Been Pwn3d: Bobby Fischer is using a green-card bride and she’s okay with it and ewwwwww. His bride-to-be tells the New York Times: “”I could be a sacrifice pawn. But in chess there is such a thing as pawn promotion, where a pawn can become a queen. Bobby-san is my king, and I will become his queen. We want to win the game by joining hands.”

I’d been reading Noel Riley Fitch’s biography of Julia Child, Appetite for Life, this summer when the great lady died. Although Fitch overworks the little-girl-in-a-patriarchal-world angle and perhaps (though I’m not educated enough to know) the McCarthy angle (the Childs’ social circle in Europe was rather affected by the senator’s Commie-hunting), she eventually gets out of the way of her story. What emerges is a terrific biography of a woman who really did go about the business of living with singular gusto.

Growing up, I had only known the parody version of Julia Child, some lame-o TV cook with a bird stuck in her throat. Reading Fitch—usually on the Metro to and from work—I’ve fallen in love with the woman.

Perhaps what I admire most is that Child found a way to be a great and energetic spouse and a great professional at the same time. No little credit for her accomplishment was due to her wonderful husband, Paul Child, a very interesting guy in his own right. His love of fine food and intellectual things played an important role in spurring her to reach higher, to take an interest in politics and art, and, most importantly, to learn to cook.

Their households in Europe during the writing of Mastering the Art of French Cooking were visited by writers, foreign service types, artists, chefs. And theirs was a profoundly loving marriage in which both improved the other, proof that two can be so much more than one plus one. Oh, to have been a guest at their table.

The Food Network is, appropriately, doing a tribute to Julia Child Sunday night (8/22) from 7 to 10 EST.

What is the most repulsive commercial on television right now? It’s not Viagra, Levitra, Cialis, or any other drug that treats erectile dysfunction. It’s not those ads for feminine hygiene and bladder control. It’s not Gas-X or the attractive women who admit they too suffer from constipation. Without doubt, the most disturbing advertisement on air is Digger the Dermatophyte. Resembling a demon from Hell, Digger (a computer animation) explains that he lives “deep under your infected nails.” Don’t believe him? Standing next to a big toe, Digger explains how he causes the nail to look so jaundiced, its edges so jagged. And yes, you get a good look at this probably while you are settling down, about to eat. But it gets worse.

Digger actually lifts off the toe nail, exposing the dark red interior. And then he magically jumps in. Next thing you know, he and his cohorts are whirling around, creating that fungus infection–that is, until a giant tablet of Lamisil comes rolling in, knocking Digger silly, until, at long last, the nail is looking healthy once again. A step-by-step demonstration of this can be seen on Lamisil’s website if you dare.

Lifting off of toe nails or scenes from Girls Gone Wild? Which would you rather see at dinner?

Last go-around at the Olympics, the star was Svetlana Khorkina. In Salon, Gary Kamiya praised her “first-we-make-love, then-I-kill-you, then-I kill-myself” antics and Cintra Wilson got a column out of her that was, even on the Cintra Scale, particularly brilliant. By the end of the 2000 games, my friend Alex and I simply referred to her as The Khorkina.

She’s back! You may have missed it, with all the attention on the Americans. And you might not recognize her at first, now that she’s abandoned her pixie cut and has long hair. But you can’t mistake her glare. Neither man nor beast may resist The Khorkina. Bow down my friends, and submit.

Today NBC has a puff piece on her. If you hate the way the Olympics have been Couricized, then you’ll come to treasure The Khorkina, because even NBC can’t sand down her rough edges. She says of her rivals:

“These little girls don’t have my experience, my maturity and my pleasure to the public.”

To be honest, I’m not even sure what that means. But somewhere at Smith, a women’s studies major just found her thesis topic.