July 12th, 2009
Mark Twain, early postmodernism of. Frogs. 19th century enmity towards the
French; The Quasi War. Sartre, existentialism, and the Tour de France. A
whiff of grape. Vive la France! Happy birthday to us!
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WRI SHIRTS
Happy 50th! Here’s to another 50 episodes of pirates and insulting other countries.
Thanks Vy. If you want to tell us your country, we’ll be happy to insult that one too.
Congrats on #50.
Some years ago I was in L.A. with a few days to kill, so I decided to drive out to Death Valley. It’s rather a long drive and after many hours in my crummy rental I finally arrived, only to find a chain across the road and a sign that said closed. Seems I’d arrived a day or two after a once a quarter century series of flash floods.
“The Ventoux is a god of Evil, to which sacrifices must be made. It never forgives weakness and extracts an unfair tribute of suffering.
“Physically, the Ventoux is dreadful. Bald, it’s the spirit of Dry: Its climate (it is much more an essence of climate than a geographic place) makes it a damned terrain, a testing place for heroes, something like a higher hell.”
-Roland Barthes, French philosopher, pioneer of semiotics, sometimes windbag and full-time bicycle racing fan, describes Mont Ventoux, a 13-mile clilmb above the treeline into a desolation of strewn rock, in the Tour de France.
I am imagining a small cafe in the 16th arrondissement. In it sit Sartre and Barthes. Simone de Beauvoir is there, ignoring Sartre, trying to flirt with Barthes. In another corner, alone, sits Orson Welles, ordering himself a steak au poivre. He is ignored by all three French-folk. They do not know who Welles is. The two men also ignore de Beauvoir. They have something far more important on hand. They await the arrival of Le Tour. Each year, the Tour de France cyclists make it a habit to stop in the middle of their race at this small cafe for a glass of wine and perhaps a bit of Croque Monsieur. Sartre and Barthe are ready with three packs of Gitanes, which they will share with the riders, Gitane being the brand of choice for the riders of the Tour de France Peleton.
Both men glance up from de Beauvoir’s poorly concealed breasts. They wonder: what is that noise? Is that the sound of the approaching cyclists, or approaching rain? Alas, it is only the rain. Everyone in the cafe resumes a posture of waiting.
Last year, Anquetil had a broken derailleur; Barthes helped him repair it with foil from a wine bottle and a bit of chewing gum. Sartre still secretly seethes with jealousy about this little contretemps. He hopes that this year, perhaps Coppi will need a brake cable. Perhaps the Englishman, Saunders, will ask for a second cigarette. Or at least, if nothing else, one of the Belgians will ask for a push.
Sartre knows none of this will happen. He knows that these things will only ever happen to Barthes, because Barthes is an optomist, the fool.
The rain was just a shower, and it has ceased. Welles is now tucking in; de Beauvoir lights another cigarette; the two Frenchmen follow suit. And they wait…