Goodbye, Proud World!

Dear Everyone,

Over the past however-many-years-it’s-been, the Silent Pagoda has stood magnificently as a shining beacon of … something. But alas, it will stand no more. This is the final post.

No journey lasts forever, of course, and certainly not the weird ones. What began as IndyCar.com’s questionable & ill-conceived experiment quickly grew into a cherished national treasure, I think, probably on par with like Charles Grodin and Arby’s and things of that nature. (You know, not crazy super-cherished. Only moderately so.) Then it became a poorly managed hedge fund for some reason. And then a “Widespread Panic” cover band. Then it was terminated for a bit. And then it wasn’t! And then it was an offshore gambling site/denim wholesaler, but that too was short-lived and maybe illegal as well, although it’s a moot point now. Because eventually, the Pagoda returned to its natural state: making obnoxious and disjointed and vaguely coherent observations about a sport it knew nothing about. And that is how it stayed, more or less, until today — when it mounts its trusty steed and rides west, golden spatula held high, its work here mostly completed.

Or if you wanted to get all serious about it and put it another way, in less dramatic and maybe more realistic terms: It was an IndyCar blog — kind of — and now it’s not, the end. (But whatever. Tomato-tomahto, really.)

Regardless of how you put it, I can’t thank IndyCar enough for the opportunity. That may sound whorish and contrived, but it’s very much the truth. Likewise, I’m exceedingly grateful to the readers & the commenters who ultimately gave this site its identity, which is best described as … something. And to the Pagoda’s cadre of confidants, cabinet members, spiritual advisers, technical consultants, sommeliers, “friends of the program,” contributors, drug-mules and everyone else who so richly deserves an acknowledgment … well there’s just too many of you to list here. I apologize, and promise to repay you later — probably with wonderful Persian silks and other valuable commodities, or maybe horribly awkward phone calls of gratitude. I’m guessing the latter.

For now, though, it is time to shut it down and go about our business. It would be foolish to get all melodramatic about this, for that is not the Pagodian way. No, our way is paved with quiet dignity and grace and snorting lines of silver polish off a Cocker Spaniel; we have no taste for needless theatrics. And besides, in three years or two or even one, nobody will even remember the Pagoda at all, and that is probably for the best. But I will. I’ll remember it as … well, something. Something I was immensely proud to be a part of, and if that’s too mawkish for your liking, well then SO’S YOUR STUPID FACE!

Godspeed, everyone. See you on the backstretch.

Love,
Roy

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The 2010 Paggies®

The 2010 IndyCar season has passed, but it left this world doing what it loved: handing Chip Ganassi his winnings. It was a season well-lived for the most part — a spirited, plucky season full of changes & holograms & crazy IZOD beach parties only accessible by wakeboards or helicopters. There seemed to be lots of announcements of various kinds, for good or ill, but none of them were streamed to the masses particularly well. Some races shined, others did not, and in the end we were left wanting more — which is all any season can hope to be.

Let’s get to the awards.

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Willy T. Ribbs Report: Miami

If you have kids — and perhaps even if you don’t — you KNOW that the “dual synchronized phone greeting” is forever doomed to fail. It just is. Too many moving parts — all of which requiring the precision timing of a Swiss-made atomic mega-clock. But we as humans are fascinated with its grand potential for some reason, and so we defiantly march right into its inevitable & awkward PIT OF FAILURE time and time again.

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Home Repairs & Refound Perspective: A Lunchtime Ramble

There were many plausible explanations for why water was seeping through my basement ceiling … none of them good. It was if my beloved can lights were crying — and so was I for that matter. Because the cruel defect causing this shitstorm would certainly not be an easy fix. Nor a cheap one. It never is. Nor was it in this instance, when it was determined that our master shower was improperly installed and blah blah blah it’s been slowly & quietly flooding the innards of our house for quite some time. (HOORAY for hidden toxic mold!!! Take THAT, my family’s respiratory systems!!!)

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And Now A Few Words From IndyCar’s New Championship Trophy

indycar_trophy_small

RROWWRRR!!!! Behold, my children!!!! It is I, Hálfdan the Conqueror, the immortal DEMON OVERLORD OF THE LOST TRIBE OF GERMANIA, reborn through the FIRES OF HELL!!!! AARRRGGGGHHH!!!!!! BOW DOWN, HUMANS, for I have come to FEAST UPON THE SOUL OF THE INDYCAR VICTOR & RAPE HIS HEART VALVES & RIDE AROUND ON MY WHEEL, just as the elders foretold many moons ago.

COME TO ME, MY DEAR!! Look into my eyes. Do it now!!! I BECKON YOU!!! I WELCOME YOUR DEMISE VICTORY WITH OPEN ARMS!!!!

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Lindypendent Thoughts: Week 4 NFL Picks

It’s Friday and there’s no IndyCar this weekend. So here are my NFL picks for Week 4. I’m taking all bets in the comments section. But bet against me at your own risk.

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IndyCar Community College Releases Fall Schedule

Below is a preliminary list of the classes being offered, the professor’s name, and a brief description of the class in the professor’s own words.

Remember: Fall Classes begin this fall! Don’t be late! Sign up NOW!!!

_________________

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Willy T. Ribbs Report: Motegi

Sometimes I’ll catch myself slouched over at my desk with spectacularly awful posture. I’m talking about that special breed of bad posture — the kind that makes me instantly feel guilty for how I’m treating my body. It’s like I’m raping my lower back. With extreme sluggardness.

But I don’t notice the problem right away. Not at all. Not until I happen to sit up straight and marvel at the SHEER ANGULAR DISTANCE my spinal column just unspooled in order to get vertical. Because the difference between how I WAS sitting and how I’m sitting NOW is all kinds of shocking. And rather disheartening. (THIS is what good posture feels like???  GAH!! IT BURNS THE SPINE!!!) Plus, this new upright position will inevitably make me feel like that asshole from The New Yorker, all stiff & uppity and mocking poor people for sport. But I certainly don’t appear like that to others, of course. It just feels that way.  It feels that way because for the last six hours I’ve been slumped over my keyboard like a fat bag of soup. That is not a pleasant realization.

Fascinating, right? Not at all?? Good. Then the time is right for us to adjourn to the mountaintops of Motegi. You are now ready. Five Pagodas for that which was decidedly awesome … one Pagoda for that which was uncomfortably pathetic and/or Marty-Reid-ish. My call.

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May the Pagoda – and Scott Dixon – Be Your Emotional Guide

Print it off … cut it out … hang it on the fridge. And every morning, take a brief moment to figure out which Scott Dixon best captures how you’re feeling. You’re welcome.

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Willy T. Ribbs Report: Kentucky

En route from Indianapolis to the Kentucky Speedway on Saturday afternoon, a navigational discrepancy occurred. The car’s lovely GPS Lady advised me to take a certain exit off of I-74 — my wife quickly & vehemently advised against it. Right or wrong, I chose to go with the one who had every single back road in America manually downloaded into her brain. It seemed like the smart play at the time. It was not.

Because for the next 100 or so miles, we crawled up & down winding dirt roads and one-lane blacktops at LITERALLY 12 mph. That’s not a joke. Nor hyperbole. GPS Lady apparently wanted to give us the scenic route — and if it took three weeks & a divorce to get there, so be it. Have you ever been in a terrible rush & slowly inched along behind a tractor tiller deep in Southern Indiana hill country as your scorned wife silently fumes next to you? Holy Jesus. Misery. Total misery. If I could’ve crawled into the glovebox right then, I would have. The resentment in the air was so thick, you could cut it with a court summons.

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