An Elegy for Lance

Written after Stage 8 of the 2010 Tour de France

http://www.versus.com/

Welcome back to earth, Pilgrim.

Hard truth in les Alpes. You're 38,
of sound mind, but broke bike,
supplanted, slashed up in torn Spandex.

And just the other day,
seven years' good luck
buckled on Belgian pavé.
Time to let the ribs stick to waffles?

Will the boss take the backseat?

Or maybe upholster a sidearm,

in a clumsy swat, like Jordan

with a bat. Time to rest.

For the French press of hot blood pursuit
 (pas cafe au lait)

They never get old, unlike Ullrich, the Badger, Pantani bought the farm.

Even the Man of the World took a shotgun to the face
He's still pissed off about it.

Recently a Mennonite has ruined
even a bowl of cold cereal in your hotel room.
And so welcome back. You are a water-bottle cage
for the other guy. Again.
You are more like us, now.

Graham Watson

I know my work is subpar, but at least I'm slow!

BlaiserBlog Ketchup 1 of 2...

This took too dam long to write, so I'm just postin' what I got, and I'll work on the rest latah!

It's mop-up week here at BlaiserBlog. Often, as I roll through life slightly out of control, tumbleweed-style, potential blog topics sprout from the earth at my feet, eke out a brilliant half-life in my half-brain, and wither from a cetain lack of aqueous thinking.

Some of these thoughtlets deserve to live on. And so, to cheer up yesterday's inner Wedensday's Child (and here would go a micro-treatise on the western archipilagos and the International Date Line, if I knew when the hell it means...) I offer a smorgasbord of intrigue, a pu-pu platter of platitudes, a Whitman's Sampler of witticism, and yesterday's trash.

Sublime, it should be noted, is the opposite of trash. If you've not heard of Midsummer Night Swing, consider the following: For three weeks of the high Manhattan summer, Lincoln Center becomes an essential destination. Most evenings, at 6:30 P.M., a mass hajj of dance lovers coalesces in Damrosch Park and collectively takes a lesson in tango, salsa, West Coast swing--the style changes daily.

Two sets of live music follow--with a DJ sewing the gaps. You want Chubby Checker? We got Chubby Checker. Ask Big Bad Voodoo Daddy for the car keys; drive to a world beat. Hang your head out the window like a hounddog in the breeze, and watch everyone put their schooling into practice, whilst shaking what their mommas gave them.

I've been fortunate to operate a lighting console there for two years running. Rain has only been a factor once or twice on the expanding MNS stage.

 This year, impresario Bill Bragin opted for a stage couched in the bandshell and an expanded moving-light package. The results were pretty cool.

Let's Play Two!

 In other norts spews, I finally made it to Fenway Park, thanks to a very generous welcome-to-your-40's gift. In fact, the 2009 has been my breakout season as a baseball fan. I wear jerseys; I visit parks.

Fenway is a national treasure, nestled, as it is, on the banks of the Charles River like a massive organic wild mushroom. But it's small, and intimate on the inside, almost Hobbit-like.

Jon Lester pitched a gem against the visiting Toronto Blue Jays. Beer was drunk, hot dogs eaten. Sox roll to a 3-2 victory. Even got to see Papelbon who, despite blowing the last game of the season on Sunday, was a marvel--a panther of a pitcher, languid and deadly.

  To Be Continued.....