Fight of the Century, Flavor of the Day

It was a beautiful 80 degree day in Wisconsin. The kind of day with a horizontal proclivity, with a sunshine-hot breeze-coolness, where the birds can’t spare a breath but for the idiot song of their tiny tongues. In short, God bless. Which may all strike as unrelated, but I feel it gives a Big Mac Index for my portion of the 100-dollar pay-per-view.

For the first undercard the surprise wasn’t the mass of empty seats but the sparse attendees. Were these the newly rich, anxious for this first appearance, sweating torrents down Chanel, and tapping Choos, to put their practiced smile into the pot? Or, more likely, they were seat holders for paranoid fame: Clint Eastwood with senile egoism demanding to have his seat warmed by the female measurements 36-24-32, brunettes only. Forgive me for not believing in fiscally endowed fans of Ukrainian fighter Vasyl Lomachenko, though you shouldn’t, he put on the best show of the night.

During and after the second noncompetitive fight we were finally graced with some fans. Tom Brady smiled into our cupped ears, his voice raw from an appearance at the Kentucky Derby, recalibrating our social GPS which lost him briefly after a 7 pm tweet on the saltiness of a Sal Vanitos h’ordeuvre and the timely utility of a mimosa. Denzel stood cryptic in a horse shoe of facial hair, refusing to say anything but make bassy moans into the interview mic: meant to assure us of the energy surrounding the event, of the “juice in the building.” DeNiro and the aforementioned Eastwood came in wispy and death-to-all-combs windblown, ready to sag before the violence. Paris Hilton spun in circles. Michael Jordan and Miss Wink-Wink Nudge-Nudge, a silent hubba-hubba attached to his elbow, put bookies hearts to flutter. Bradley Cooper, began this sentence. And many cried bingo after Jay-Z and Beyonce filled out the obligatory power couple at seat O 47, leaving Agassie and Graf to play a second fiddle a-piece on all things not irony as announcers used their image to unconscionably utter the word charity. In short, the stars were arranged ringside as in the night, and we with the announcers concocted shapes of them – a bull, the taut bow slings the arrow – with meanings and signs to match: the whom is cheering for what whom. All far removed, needle eyes, and heaven. Only five hundred tickets were available to the general public.


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