Filling the Void … 7/21/04

Tour de Europe

OK, so I didn't write "Part 2 of the Beast" last Friday. Couldn't do it. I mean I could have, but I didn't want to. I didn't have the energy and I didn't have enough material. Sorry. In my attempt to accomplish the writing equivalent of the Tour de France, I failed miserably. Apparently I wasn't doped up nearly as much as I should have been. I'll make sure I am the next time I offer up a challenge as mighty as 5 columns in 5 days.

Up for a European Tour? Indeed, because after all, our friends across the pond have been in the sporting mix recently. (I think.)

The Tour de France. Brutal. I think if I had any interest in becoming a part of "French lore" I'd rather get the guillotine than have to ride a bike 2100 miles. Throw my head on a stake outside of some old-ass castle and call it a day. Climbing the Alps looks like excruciating slow torture. No thanks. I'll take the blade, the stake and the check please.

After Lance wins his 6th in a row, and after he takes the Nikki Sixx-sized needle out of his arm, will it be cool for him to spit in the faces of all of the French SOBs that spat on him while he was climbing to the lead? I think Lance should at least be able to publicly thank the United States for allowing this race to happen. Why pay the homage to the U.S., and not France? Because I don't think that the Tour de Nazi Europe would be a big draw among racing enthusiasts.

Did you know that the U.S. team is called the "Blue Train" by those involved with the race? So badass. You can spit on the Blue Train, but you can't stop it.

(Yes, I'm feeling a bit patriotic right now.)

A few glorious Tour de France quotes…

"Ullrich is a proud champion aiming to prove that he isn't lazy, and hasn't fallen out of love with his bicycle, as some have said." Comment: God help me if that man ever fell out of love with his bike. I don't know what I'd do I Jan Ullrich ever, I mean EVER, fell out of love with his bike.

"How do you spell Ullrich? U-L-L-R-I-C-K?" Comment: Yes, genius. All foreign names are spelled phonetically. I'm an idiot.

"Look how cracked out Lance looks." Comment: I'm not sure if it's Lance or Scott Weiland on that bike.

Apparently a Frenchman held the leading "yellow jersey" for 11 of the first 15 stages of the race. And according to the announcer on TV, the guy, Thomas Voeckler, is now a "French national superstar." Why? Because he led the race for a few stages? Jesus, the French must really be struggling for an athlete to get behind. Come to think of it, do any French athletes exist? Obviously there is the French national team that won the World Cup in 1998. And they are loaded with good players, including world-renowned Zinedine Zidane. But outside of soccer, or shall I say futbol, are there any superior French athletes? All I can think of is Tony Parker of the Spurs. He might be the most famous, right? There aren't any French hockey players worth a damn. They're all French-Canadian, right? Is that it? Zidane, Parker and now Voeckler as the three international superstars? Are they really French? Parker and Voeckler don't sound too French to me. This is a scam. No wonder the French smoke so damn much. What does a country full of non-athletes do best? Smoke. Obviously. Actually, if there were a "Smoking Olympics" the French would have a shot at having some strong "athletes." Although I'd have my money on Turkey. Or China. Now those cats can smoke. Especially when there is gambling involved. Oh dear. I don't know where this is going, but I like it. A Smoking Olympics? A brilliant idea. I'm going to do some research and see if I can make this happen.

Me: "What if I changed my name to Zinedine Zidane?"
The Colonel: "Nope. You're Levi Leipheimer to me."

Clearly.

Is it wrong if I want a "lead vehicle" to "stay ahead of the pack" in order to "kill any person who is standing on the road attempting to crowd the bikers as they go by"? Is it? I didn't think so either.

Seriously, is it a part of French culture for grown men to run along with the bikes yelling and waving like a child on a caffeine high? These people better be hammered. That's the only excuse for this type of behavior. It's completely bizarre. And it drives me f'ing nuts. Every time I see them skipping along, waving, grabbing for the bikes, and patting riders on the back, I want to scream "Get out of the way, you f'ing idiots!!" This is not a good thing.

What is the proper nomenclature: bikers, riders or racers?

That's enough on the Tour de France. I didn't know I had that much in me. Obviously, I'm more bored than I thought.

Speaking of random European sporting events, I was asked by a friend why I don't write about Wimbledon. Simple answer: I'd rather watch a small, Japanese man named Kobayashi devour 53 ½ hot dogs in his mouth in 12 minutes than watch a minute of Wimbledon. In fact, I did do that. Repulsing myself with a hot dog eating contest was more enjoyable than watching Wimbledon. And, yes, if you must know, I got a tattoo of the hot dog eating "Tsunami" on my back, minutes after his runaway victory. Secretariat? No sir. Tsunami.

Who follows tennis? I know that people watch this xrap, but do they follow it throughout the "season." Is there even a tennis season? I mean who really follows it. Does someone pick up the paper in the morning and get psyched that Jean Luc Baguette moved up 2 positions past Sven Svensson to 17th in the international rankings? No. No, they don't. And if they do, God have mercy on their souls.

Last but not least, how about that crazy British Open this past weekend? Quite exciting. I invented a new word for the British to say (if they don't already): "quitely." It's a synonym for "indeed." I like the sound of it. "Oh yes, quitely." In fact, even though I am not British I think I will begin to use "quitely" more frequently in my vocab. Back to the golf. I really don't have a lot to say. Todd Hamilton won. That was the surprise. Yep. The rest of the tournament went like clockwork: Big Ern came up short again, Phil was amazing for the 3rd consecutive major, and Tiger made little noise. I'm happy for Todd, and even happier for myself that his name is Todd.

Did you know that "Todd" backwards is "Ddot"? Think about that one. I don't know which one I like better. I mean worse.

I want to tie up some loose ends on a few topics that I said I'd discuss in "Part 2 of the Beast." I won't feel right if I don't…

When I was in Nashville a few weekends ago for my friend's bachelor party, my buddies and I went to dinner at this Japanese hibachi restaurant on Saturday night. The place is called Goten, and it is spectacular. Not because of the food necessarily, but because they basically let you do whatever the hell you want to as long as you pay the enormous check at the end of the madness. We obliged, but not after doing some serious damage to our livers, and in turn the mental well being of everyone else in the restaurant. For the record, at Goten, every "party" is a private party. Consequently, every party gets its own semi-circular table / stove with its own chef. You can only imagine the lunacy involved with 11 college friends drinking Goten Specials (the most delicious drink in the world that will kill you if you have two) and sake-bombs while having their chef spray fire all over the place. Amazing. It's like the 4th of July, except that the chicken, shrimp, rice and vegetables are the fireworks. And don't forget the fire. The common phrase of the night was, "OHHHHHHHHHHH!" A great time. Hard to beat. Why am I writing about all of this? Because you know how I say that there is a little bit of brilliance around every corner? Yea, well, our hibachi chef was new to the restaurant, was roughly 22-yrs old, spoke very little (I mean very little) English, and was the best Goten chef in history. We all agreed. We'd all been to Goten a bunch of times back in our "playing days" at Vanderbilt. Thus, the return trip on this particular weekend was more than necessary. Serious sentimental value, and quite possibly the greatest place ever for 11 jackasses to act like jackasses, eat a meal and have some serious laughs. Anyway, the kid was unstoppable. He was so good that this exchange occurred, "He's Hibachi Jordan! F that, dude, he's Hibachi Jesus!" So where's the brilliance? Right here…our chef's name was Gary. Gary the hibachi chef. It just doesn't get any better than that.

Greatest name on the planet? FSU wide receiver: Craphonso Thorpe. It needs no justification. My only problem is that it should be spelled "Xraphonso."

I'm saving "Chong Li" for my next column. He's an integral piece to my "Proposal to the Sports Guy." What? Yea, you'll see. CSG gets punked no más.

Also, on the way in the next few weeks…a "why Shaq is my boy" column, a "crappy songs that people love" column, an "it's official, I'm going to the OB to see the Noles vs Canes" column, and a "Smoking Olympics" column. Be afraid. Be very afraid.