Sometimes, life gives you days of sunshine and balmy weather. Other times, it spits you out--just so--like an annoying watermelon seed. And sometimes, it sends you skittering helplessly across the dirty, gravelly pavement.
It seems that the most notable the Tour de France competitors and the Dutch National 'Football' squad, have had such a weekend. First off, kudos to the Spanish National Team for withstanding a gruelling 90 minutes of scorelessness, and then a marathon of the numerically elusive, though grammatically accurate, Extra Time, before scoring a goal successfully. There was much elation across much of this city for the remainder of the afternoon. The Dutch team, on the other hand, made a good run during this year's World Cup, and made it to the final round, officially claiming second place. Now, they have all the pressure of expectation in having to make it to the final round another four years from now, and none of the joy of winning it to carry them through.
Dissimilarly, and taking place in the Land of the Disappointed, or as some call it, France, Lance Armstrong is notably attempting an eighth wearing of the Maillot Jaune while riding the world's most famous local, crit (that is to say, criterium--not to be confused with cliterium, which is a word I'm seeking to define in a popular, online definitional site.) Sadly, his time swelled impressively in ways that would likely keep him out of contention, if not many public beaches. The race around the Champs Elysees is one of my favorite of events of my most favorite event of the year. Though, around our local scene, crit is a euphemism for 'being pwned by hay bales'.
Luckily, the world seems to be very aware of Lance's abilities and controversies. The only thing he had to prove was that at his age, he could still get up on the bike. I've heard that forty is the new thirty, though, so I'm wondering if he'll make another run at it in another few years.
That said, the Tour celebrated a day of rest, and for that, I applaud them all, and their miles of hard-riding restfulness.
The epic sport of controversy, however, recently served up an exciting match of bitter hatred that only peace-loving hippies can engage. It seems that scores of Beattles fans got to invoke their hatred of Yoko Ono, and transfer it to the new generation of Onos, at long last, by abusing the cherubic Sean Lennon. For years, little Seany has been granted immunity from true analysis of his lack of actual talent because of his famous last name, and parentage. I wish him well, and I'm glad that he is no longer succumbing to the misplaced expectations that he can produce quality original music. Now, it seems the stark light of uber-celebrity has turned it's ugly shadow, on that dear son.
Sean Lennon earned a new respect from me with the way that he recently stood up to a cold legion of vampiric fans. It turns out, that he recently allowed controversial, marketing genius, Lady Gaga, tickle the keys of Yoko's famous white, upright piano. The fans are upset over the contrast of the perceived persona like Miss Gaga's, against the perception of that of John Lennon. I'm not trying to downplay the impact that he had on the world of popular music as we know it today, but it's about time for a little perspective. Thirty years after his passing, he is, yet another famous, dead guy, who happened to write some very listenable little songs, not unlike the enormous influence of Bach and Mozart. I'm willing to bet that had she been playing the 'Minuet in G' on a Keytar, she would've received a much warmer response.
If we break this situation down to it's most basic, some American guy got a half-naked woman to sit patiently and play with his stuff. In other situations, this most basic scenario would garner little Seany major kudos, demonstrative fist-pumping, emphatic high-fiving, and other physical expressions of low-testosterone joy. Add to that, the Future, Dame Gaga, knows how to operate such an instrument, and has a talent for Cabaret, if Cabaret can be considered a talent, and not just an entertainment-career failsafe.
I don't know what it is about pianos, but music majors are drawn to them like Tour de France riders to uncomfortable-looking recovery technologies. For that, I say, stand proud Sean Lennon for getting to do whatever you want with your Mom's stuff, and keep mooching ivory-time Lady Gaga!
By the way, if you're riding the tour, or riding a Posture Pedic,
Ride safe. I love you all.