On Friday, greasy pilings flame bright at the side of the bridge . . .On Saturday, an exquisite giantess with a face two stories high peers out sadly from behind the thread-like bars of her newly unveiled prison of beauty . . .
And on Sunday, sweating, straining bodies, in an unending rainbow stream of day-glo color ritual run past the dead red fish, concrete cobs, and sacrifice house of the succulent flesh . . .
. . . while off to the side, on IBM Plaza, the youngest runner paces the race he creates out of his own imagination . . .