Monday, July 28, 2003

RACE RELATIONS

Having been up in NEPA (that’s what the locals call North-east Pennsylvania, which now that I type it out is a region that crys out for an acronym) one short week before the Pennsylvania 500 roared into Pocono Downs gave me ample opportunity to consider the real value and meaning of NASCAR.  It’s America’s most popular spectator event, apart from the WWE and foxy boxing, and it generates an obscene amount of money.  I’ve heard its drivers referred to as both national heroes and as sponsor monkeys.  I know and respect people who love NASCAR.  I’m not one of them.  Here are several reasons why:

* When we’re, theoretically, trying to reduce our dependence on petroleum products, it’s an utter waste of gas.

* It pumps tons of pollutants into the air.  (And we’re not just talking about race day.  It’s also tryouts, practice, and the boneheads in the parking lot with the huge winnebagos who travel the tour annually.)

* Sitting in a car, regardless how fast it’s going, is not a sport.  I readily admit that these guys are gutsy, courageous, have excellent grip strength and iron bladders, but the car is doing all the real work.

* It’s not even a reasonably fair competition, because everybody drives different cars.  You want to find out who’s the best driver?  They should all drive identical rides. 

* It’s damn loud and nothing happens.  People just go around in circles for hours while others watch them and drink cheap beer.

I understand that NASCAR is bigger than I am.  It’s even bigger than the Chucklehut.  No, no, don’t try to assuage me.  The only way to ameliorate the situation - which is untenable as it currently stands - is to finagle it.  Fiddle with it.  Work a little Chuckle on it.  Here’s my plan:

* A representative of each sponsor rides with each car, preferably on the outside where their logo appears.

* Before each race, hold a random lottery to see who drives whose vehicle.

* Yellow flag means everybody does a whippet.  And I’m not talking about dogs.

* Blindfolds.

* Make everybody get out of their damn car and run around the track.  I’m not kidding.

so what you’re telling me is that I should take down the #3 sticker off of the rear window? gotcha.

aint it boring to watch ppl drive racing cars like a millions of laps....have alwzy wondered what was excitin bout all that .

car racing is to sports as brittney (is that spelled right—who cares?) is to musician.

You ever hear that George Carlin bit about modifying sports?  Bury mines in the outfield in baseball.  Leave injured players on the field in football.  Maybe these modifications would work in NASCAR.  Mine the track and leave the wrecks out there.

i read this about 2 hrs ago, and am only able to comment on it now, due to the convulsions of laughter i suffered after reading. 

damn you, chuckles!!

I am fairly certain that there are people in my state that would kill you for your suggestions.

There are even people here who consider NASCAR negativism an apostasy.  Luckily, they’re the ones who don’t understand what I just said so I can usually befuddle them before they get too riled up.  The local speedway, Sears Point, has just changed its name to Infineon.  “Sears Point” has a certain classic americana quality.  “Infineon” sounds completely bogus.  They have a huge sign that features a three-D plastic cow with racing stripes, goggles, and huge exhaust ports.  At least they have each other.

I agree wholeheartedly.  I periodically find myself watching baseball and golf, but not NASCAR.  Never NASCAR. 

My local paper devotes an entire page to NASCAR, every day for the duration of the Winston Cup season.

Just don’t ever say these things about NASCAR in the south and you’ll be just fine.

Whoa!  Wait a gull-dern cotton-pickin’ minute, thar, pahdner!  NASCAR ain’t jest dat der Winston Cup.  Sho’ nuff, thet’s the cig-ee-ret pahtuvvit, but thars the Boooooosch Series—thet’s the beer pahtuvvit and they’s jest had the TrimSpa Dream Body two-fiddy race.  And don’t yuh fergit bout duh Craftsman Truck Series fer dem dad-blasted good buddy truckers.  Woooooooo-doggy!

As you may recall from an earlier comment I posted, my beloved husband hid his love of NASCAR from me until I was so enamored with him that I could accept even that flaw.

What scares me is that:
1. I know the names (and numbers) of many of the racers
2. I have actually watched part of some races with him
3. I know which weekends they race in Martinsville, the Poconos, Richmond and Daytona (but don’t ask me when Talladega is, I’m not that bad)
4. Our new Lowes credit card is a 3D image of Jeff Gordon’s (# 24!) car racing across the card.

I’m sorry. After four years, there is no escape. I hang my head in shame.

Anyone can learn from pain.