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.