The Case for Michael Jordan

I mentioned Michael Jordan in a post the other day and it got me thinking about all he's done for the sport of basketball and the world in general, so I wanted to take a moment to reflect on the man, the athlete, and the movement that was and is #23.

Growing up I didn't like Michael Jordan as a player or a person. Lacking a true basketball identity as a child I went through phases where I rooted for the Cavs, the Pistons and the Celtics. Michael beat all of them. Even when I got older and rooted fanatically for Shawn Kemp and the Seattle Supersonics, MJ beat them too. Add that to the fact that his face was everywhere from cereal boxes to magazine covers to bibles, my counter-culture tendencies rebelled against his ever pervasive persona. As a result, I never liked Jordan and never paid him any attention.

Consequently, I also never took the time to appreciate the greatest basketball player to ever live, and that I will always regret.

I bring this up for only one reason: Sadly, thousands of Americans feel the same way about Jordan now as I did as a child, though rather than ignore his 6 championships, 5 MVPs, 6 Finals MVPs, 10 scoring championships, 14 All-Star games, two gold medals, and unfathomable influence on basketball players, young and old alike, these otherwise decent people are ignoring his greatest contribution to all of mankind: underwear.

Now, I'm not suggesting he invented underwear, I mean he could have, I don't know. What I'm saying is, as a spokesman for Hanes, he's done more to promote underwear and specifically undershirts than any other human on the planet. Unfortunately, not everyone is listening.

And unfortunately, it seems that I work with a large percentage of those people. Everyday I see untamed chest hair sprouting out from open collars; ring after ring of pit stains under arms; unholy glimpses of pasty flesh through the little peep hole openings between two buttons; and worst of all, like two beady eyes trying to stare into my very soul, the shadowy outlines of dude nipples. Seriously, just think of two hairy, purple, dude nipples trying to reach through a thin layer of cotton, or perhaps rayon, to grab you by the eyelids and smack you in the face. It’s disgusting.

It’s all much more than I can handle, especially because a simple undershirt could contain every one of the grievances listed above, and especially the nipples. I for one can’t wear enough undershirts, primarily because my office is roughly the same temperature as the polar ice caps, circa 1905, you know, before we started to systematically destroy and heat up the planet. Thermal comfort aside, I learned long ago the virtues of modesty and decency in the office.

That is why Michael Jordan should be remembered as the greatest; not the 63 points in a single playoff game. No, it’s the title he never earned as the Defensive Player of the Universe for shielding people from that which god never intended to be shown in the workplace.

The Last King of Scotland

We received a company-wide e-mail detailing the rules for those wishing to dress up for Halloween at work this Friday:

-Consider costumes that are office appropriate (no French maids please). Revealing, offensive, off-color, or racist costumes are not allowed;

-Put safety first and foremost; no tricks or pranks that could scare others or pose a safety hazard.

These are pretty funny. Even funnier is one of the ladies I work with, who is legitimately one of the nicest people you’d ever hope to meet, has indicated she will be dressing up as Sarah Palin. When she said that, all I could think was, “Holy crap, I think that violates every single one of the rules,” with the exception of the French maid perhaps¹.

If she’s going to dress up as Palin, I might as well dress up as Idi Amin.

 

1. I don’t think Palin can see France from her house, so I doubt this applies.

Xabi '08!

While you all were likely watching Ohio State, Vanderbilt, and Tennessee all lose this weekend in American football, across the pond my lads from Liverpool walked into Chelsea’s Stamford Bridge Stadium and whipped their ass right there on their home turf, ending an 86-game home unbeaten streak for Chelsea’s boys in blue. You read that correctly – 86 games. That’s like walking up to Michael Jordan in Chicago and giving him a swift kick to the nuts.

I was so happy after the game I went around and collected a bunch of dog shit in a paper bag, took it to my English neighbors doorstep, rang the doorbell, and when he answered I punch him in the throat then smashed the bag of poo over his head and yelled, “Take that you English Commie!”

I don’t think he’s actually communist and I know he doesn’t support Chelsea, but any Englishman that doesn’t watch soccer is pretty much a Chelsea-loving commie in my book.

The final score line was 1-0, with the only goal coming from the always calm, always cool, and always smoking hot, Xabi Alonso. 

No, he’s not a terrorist, nor is he Muslim; he’s Spanish. Xabi is actually a very common name in Spain and kicking ass is a very common aspect of his game. 

Zero; Yes

Some friends of ours from Columbus visited this weekend and we had the most amazing time. We took them on a very local tour of Nashville, hitting up all of our favorite spots. It couldn’t have been better.

We took a quick walking tour of downtown along Broadway and Second to see all the honky tonks, boot shops and tourist traps. At one point we were walking behind some white dude with cornrows. No, it wasn't my neighbor, but I imagine they're boys. This guy was about my size, but if a normal person walks with their feet 6 to 8" apart, this guy was walking with his feet 16 to 18" apart, simply to keep his pants from falling down. It was so ridiculously far beyond urban fashion that you had to wonder how exactly he settled on those particular pants. Like, did he go to the Gap and try on a pair of 44" waist relaxed fit jeans and think to himself, "Man, I just don't like how restrictive these are. Uh, excuse me. Do you happen to have this style of pants in a 48”? Oh, and can I see the same in the boot-cut as well? Thanks."

Oddly, we passed a bar blasting some hip-hop and dude started dancing right there on the sidewalk, except it wasn't really a dance but more of just a shimmy with some seriously elaborate gang signs. Didn't gangs go out of vogue in like '98? And if they are still around, don't gang signs seem a little outdated? Can't they just text message instead? They could accomplish a lot more gang banging if they weren't so limited in their communication. "Drvby @ 6. Don't 4get yur gun. ttyl ;)"

My buddy put it perfectly when he asked, "What do you think that guy has on his agenda today? Maybe pay some bills, pick up the dry cleaning, head to the grocery..." One thing was for sure: however his day ended, it wasn't for the betterment of society

The wife and I capped off the weekend last night with a quick shopping trip about town. I was wearing my “Obama 08” shirt and had two people stop me to ask where I got it. The second occurred at Target and as the nice woman and I were parting company, some whore walked by, looked at my shirt, and called me a cocksucker. I can't be 100% certain she said cocksucker because she muttered it underneath her breath but I'm 90% sure, which is sure enough. I wanted to be like, "Yeah, well sticks and stones may break my bones but ho-ho's and twinkies make you fat! Slutty McWhore-Face!" Instead I took the high road and said nothing because that's what Obama would do.

So I want to thank John McCain for inspiring so much hatred and intolerance in America. He's the real cocksucker in all of his. Yeah, I said it. And he’s old as shit. Oh, I see the hypocrisy of calling McOld-Fart a cocksucker for inciting fear and racism in America two paragraphs after I made fun of some white dude with cornrows and one paragraph after calling some whore a whore. The difference is called irony and the only irony with Johnny Fly-Boy is when he keels over and dies in the next 6 months and we suddenly have a real turd-mobile for President. Now that’s scary. You betcha.

Jacked Up

Four hours ago I was going to start this post out by simply declaring, “I’m badass.”

But that was while I was on my way to change Sara’s flat tire. An hour later I was quite a bit less boisterous.

So now I’ll start the blog like this:

Have you ever gotten to work and thought to yourself, “Man, these pants really suck ass”?

That’s how my day started. The pants were tan but not khaki. I’ve worn them for years and love them, but they’re just way too casual for work attire. So when I got to work I realized I just looked like a real American instead of the left-wing elitist I really am, and suddenly felt underdressed, ashamed, and embarrassed.

So I spent the whole day feeling unbelievably self-conscious. That was until about 6:30 when the wife called me to say she had a flat tire.

“A flat tire?” I asked.

“A flat tire,” she said.

“Like flat, flat?”

“Flat, flat.”

Fuck.

So I drove over to the Vanderbilt Medical Center parking garage to survey the situation. What I found was a flat tire. Suddenly I was really happy that I’d worn my less than business casual, comfortable pants, because I knew I was going to be crawling around the ground of the garage.

 I quickly jacked up the car, loosened the lug nuts, and pulled the old tire off. Just as I was feeling really good about myself, and just as I was about to stick the flat tire under the frame of the car to keep it supported, the car jack collapsed and the car went crashing to the pavement. I shit my pants. When it comes to the world of changing tires, having the jack collapse thereby allowing the car to crash to the pavement is pretty close to worst-case scenario.  

Ultimately I ended up using the jack from my car to replace the collapsed jack from Sara’s car to get the spare on. I don’t think there was any real damage to the car, but I can’t be sure.

The real point is, this is the second time I’ve had a jack collapse on me. The first, I was lucky enough to have the flat tire under the car frame. This time, obviously, not so lucky. So the real question is, why do these car jacks blow? I don’t know. I can only assume they’re made in like New York City, or Massachusetts, or Seattle, or worse yet, Mexico, Asia or like Spain. You know, not by real, honest, hard working Americans. That’s why they suck so bad.

At any rate, I think everything will be all right. I just need to take the car to the dealership to have them give it a once-over. Then I need to go to Saks to get some new pants. 

To Be Young and In Love

The best man called me a few weeks ago with the idea to get a couple guys to go in on a gift for the groom. I agreed immediately, primarily because I hadn't gotten them anything yet and was probably going to end up getting them a crappy gift card¹. I also agreed because it would continue a long tradition of the guys getting the groom a badass gift that he will love and cherish for all of time. That tradition includes the nail gun I received when I got married², and the table and miter saws the best man received when he was married.

I need to digress to tell the story of the table saw though. The wife and I were living in Columbus at the time. The best man of the wedding I just went to was getting married up in Sandusky, where he lived. He's an avid wood worker/home renovator just like me so the saws were the logical gift. I purchased them in Columbus then hauled them up to Sandusky the day before the wedding.

The plan was to stash them in his house while he and the other groomsmen were out picking up the tuxes, then reveal the gifts to him later that night. The only problem with the plan was, with all the groomsmen picking up tuxes, there was no one to help me get the saws into his house other than the wife. Furthermore, his workshop was in his basement, and not conveniently located in the garage. Add that to the fact that we had about 10 minutes to make it all happen and you can imagine the hilarity that ensued.

The table saw was contained in a large rectangular box and weighed about 100 pounds. Not an unreasonable weight for two people to carry provided one of them doesn't have the muscle mass of a 6 year-old boy.

You see, the wife has this cute yet debilitating penchant for succumbing to hysterical laughter anytime she tries to carry something heavy, and by "cute" I mean "deadly" when you're the other one carrying the load.

So picture this: with the clock ticking viciously against us, I was bearing 90% of the weight of the massive table saw whilst Sara was laughing her ass off, barely able to even support her meager share of the weight. Veins bulging and muscles straining, it was all I could do to wrestle the saw into the house. With each step more difficult than the last I grew increasingly agitated until I was yelling at the top of my lungs while Sara continued to laugh, “COME ON! JUST GIVE ME SOMETHING! ANYTHING! LET’S GO! LET’S! GO!” I've never been so furious at the wife. I can only imagine if any of his neighbors happened to be watching the scene.

With all my effort I was able to get the saw into his shop. Just as we set it down and I collapsed to the ground to catch my breath and let my muscles start the long, arduous process of rebuilding themselves, there emerged from the darkness the figure of my good friend, Buff, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Confused, he said, "What are you guys doing? I was just trying to take a nap on the couch."

I'm not a violent man but I felt the sudden urge to kick him in the balls I was so angry.

Anyways, all of that is why I thought it was brilliant when the best man suggested we get the groom a Playstation 3 with all the trimmings. We're talking Blu-ray DVD player, wireless controllers, Madden '09, and NBA Live '09. What more could he possible want?

We couldn't wait to give it to him primarily because we wanted to be there when he opened it and also because we didn't want him to be by himself if he opened it in front of his wife. So we delivered it to his hotel room an hour or so before the wedding and we certainly weren't disappointed. With each portion of the gift he opened he danced a little jig and had the sort of smile on his face normally associated with a child swimming in a pool of Cocoa Puffs, if such a thing existed, or a lonely man in a strip club, which certainly does exist.

While it worked out great, in retrospect perhaps the timing of the gift could have been thought through a little more thoroughly. I have no doubt in the brief moments after opening the Playstation the groom's mind went to a happy place where he forgot he would be walking down the aisle in a few minutes. The problem with that was, after his mind returned to the reality of the situation that he would be getting married very, very shortly, he would still have to walk down the aisle but now he would have to do so with the knowledge that he had an unopened Playstation in his hotel room. Imagine that internal battle.

Now I know what a lot of you are thinking, and by "a lot of you" I mean "a lot of you females." You're thinking, "That's bullshit that you assholes would get a bunch of guys to buy a gift only the groom would appreciate or use. What about the bride???"

To that I can only respond, quit being so selfish.

Yeah, my wife resented the nail gun. But do you think she resents the coffee table she eats her dinner off of every night that I put together with that nail gun? Yeah, I'm sure the best man's wife resented the table and miter saws and is secretly or perhaps outwardly pissed off that she's still sleeping on the same sheets she had in college because no one bought the nice, new, 400 thread count linens off their registry. But do you think she resents the cabinet that holds the TV that she watches every night before she goes to bed that was made with those two saws?

Yeah, I know every time the bride looks at that Playstation she'll be reminded that she only has 3 of her 8 pieces of matching china. But do you think she'll resent the… Actually I just realized she won't possibly ever get any benefit out of the Playstation and we pretty much just screwed her out of shit-ton of registry gifts, but whatever. The groom was so happy he danced a jig, so you go ahead and look me in the face and say I'm a bad person for wanting my friend to be happy.

1. Sorry to every married couple out there who has received or will receive a crappy gift card from me. I'd love to say that my intent is to allow you to buy whatever you want with the gift card but the reality is you already told me what you wanted when you registered for a bunch of gifts, I just didn't take the time to get anything off that registry. I'm an ass.

2. For those that have been keeping up on the blog, you are well aware of what the nail gun means to me. Every time I use it I'm reminded of the unending love and companionship of my dearest friends.

The Trifecta

I didn’t have a chance to finish the follow up on the wedding weekend so I’ll leave you with this instead:

I woke up to the Great Kitty Trifecta this morning: The unrelenting scent of a massive, unapologetic deuce, and the sound of the cat hacking up an Alien-esque hairball… twice.

It was like taking a cold shower while drinking a grande mocha coffee with a shot of Red Bull.

If anything makes the case for those Clapper light switches, it’s walking into a dark hallway knowing there’s a huge pile of vomit somewhere on the floor. 

To Be Young and In Love

Like I said, the wedding this past weekend was a blast. The weather was great, if a bit chilly (I stepped off the plane and was instantly hit with that familiar sting of Lake Erie air and I thought, “Oh, wow. Despite the racial intolerance and conservative political views, I could really stick around the south for a long time. In fact, I wonder what Alabama is like this time of year”). Everything was meticulously planned thereby avoiding the dreaded last minute wedding day disasters. Even the inevitable mistakes were minor and actually just provided some comic relief.

The best man picked me up at the airport and we arrived at the hotel shortly after the groom and his family. After some drinks at the hotel bar we headed to the church in downtown Youngstown in a 4-car caravan of groomsmen, ushers, aunts, uncles, parents, and significant others. Unfortunately the groom was driving the lead car, in which I was riding, and despite the fact that he'd been to the church like 12 times, and despite the fact that we had a Garmin, two blackberries an iPhone and Mapquest directions, we still got lost. The typical expectation heading into a wedding is the groom will somehow be late, forget something, screw something up, or ruin the entire occasion all with the help and influence of the irresponsible and often drunk groomsmen. On this account we were succeeding marvelously.

Luckily, as we were navigating the streets, and just as we were supposed to be there, the groom spotted the church from a block away. Unluckily, a one-way street going the wrong way stood between us and the church, so we just abandoned the cars in the nearest parking lot and made up the difference on foot. Unluckily once again, the groom was retarded and it was the wrong church. So we had to double-time it to make up the difference between wrong church and wrong parking lot again, piled into the caravan, and set out on our aimless tour of downtown Youngstown.

We eventually did find the correct church where we were met with disappointed glares from all those associated with the bride's side of the event, who were all on time, suggesting an unstated verdict of, "We knew this was going to happen." Actually, I think several of them stated that quite clearly.

The rehearsal was remarkable only in it's brevity. We were briefed on several horror stories about the priest, which suggested he was quite the strict pious Catholic hardass. That was very evident from the outset and things were made more difficult when 1). We could barely hear him and 2). He ran through everything so fast we all had no idea what exactly we were to do. Add to that the fact that we were generally behaving like irresponsible and drunk groomsmen, and you can imagine the potential for disaster. I gathered only that I was first to walk down the aisle with my bridesmaid and our signal to proceed was the priest emerging from the room at the front of the church with the groom and best man, bowing, and kissing the alter. Easy enough.

The rehearsal dinner was fantastic, that was, once we finally arrived after getting lost leaving the church. The unrealistic concern that the groom would get cold feet and not show up for the wedding the next day was replaced with the very real concern that the groom would not be able to find the wedding the next day.

Prior to dinner the aunt of the bride was introduced to offer the prayer. There's nothing funny about the prayer other than Bob Seger's Night Moves was playing on the speakers while she was trying to speak.

"Dear Heavenly Father..."

"Working on our night moves!"

"We ask you to bless this food..."

"Working on our night moves!"

Thankfully they quickly cut the music because laughing through the prayer was not the best way for me to endear myself to the bride's family.

The fathers of the groom and bride gave two great toasts after the prayer, followed by a heartfelt toast by the mother of the bride who very sincerely expressed her happiness for the new addition to their family. So much so that I wasn’t really sure she was talking about the same groom I went to Vegas with a few weeks earlier.

After that I got the itch to jump up and give a toast of my own, or perhaps a roast rather, but thankfully the father of the groom saved me the effort by giving one of his own. In front of everyone in attendance he recounted a story of the time the groom was home from college, went out drinking with his high school buddies, somehow made it home only to pass out in front of the computer and get his foot stuck in the printer where his parents later found him. A rather tame story, especially when I could have told a story about the time the groom passed out in Vegas/Windsor/Panama City/Mexico/close-your-eyes-and-pick-a-place-on-the-map, except when your grandparents and future in-laws are present, hearing your father tell a story about your drunken exploits is not ideal. I believe the groom summed it up when he said something to the effect of, “Two minutes ago I was the world’s best fiancé and now I’m a drunken derelict. [Thanks Dad!]”  

The look says it all.

We then had a great dinner, some more drinks, and received the best groomsman presents ever. While the girls were unwrapping their stupid purses, all the guys received their favorite sports team jersey. Badass.  

This is one for the wedding album.

After that, the guys went bowling, which was simultaneously the best and worst idea. Best because bowling is awesome; worst because I bowl like an amputee. Still, it was great fun.  

Born In the USA

We just returned from Youngstown, Ohio where we attended one of the best weddings I've had the pleasure of participating in. If you recall, this wedding was the culmination of the now infamous bachelor party trip to Vegas back in August.

Before I get to the wedding though, there's one other story I need to bring up. Last Thursday I was at work, just as busy as a beaver, when I was interrupted by one of my coworkers asking if I had time to sit in on a quick presentation by a sales rep pushing cast iron pipe and fittings. Truthfully I had all the time in the world, I just didn't have time to think of an excuse to get out of it, so I had to go listen to some dude bullshit me about why I should use his pipe to carry poop to the sewer.

We have sales reps stop by all the time, but they typically call ahead and make an appointment. This turd wagon just stopped in unannounced; consequently it was just me and one other guy available at the time. The rep's whole shtick was to convince us of two things: 1. Cast iron is better than plastic pipe, which is a fact; it just lasts longer. 2. Domestic cast iron, such as the manufacturers he represents, is better than anything from overseas, and specifically from China. This is also a fact simply because the manufacturing standards in the US are just so much higher than anywhere else. Granted, it's more expensive as you'd expect, but when you're interested in making sure a bunch of shit gets from one place to another, you really don't want to take any chances.

So this dude had a pretty unremarkable sell, but the thing was, the manner in which he made the sell was positively un-fucking-believable.

He had this three-ring binder full of photographs. He’d show us one of from a cast iron manufacturing facility in the US, then a corresponding photo from a facility in China, though it was evident those photos were taken in some sort of covert hidden-camera scenario like they sent fucking Geraldo Rivera into China for a behind-the-scenes investigative report into the Chinese cast iron industry.

The thing was, with each photo he’d have some sort of inflammatory, bigoted, and downright embarrassing anecdote to add about why China sucked and America was the best. He would constantly refer to anyone in the pictures as a “Chinamen,” would berate them for what they were wearing, especially their footwear, and make insulting remarks about the workers as if they were the ones to blame for the horrible working conditions. In one photo, he showed an American facility where the pipe was extracted from the kiln by a large mechanical crane. In China, the pipe was remarkably extracted by hand. Literally. So the guy ripped one of the workers in the photo for not having safety glasses and wearing a straw hat next to an open flame in the kiln, suggesting the guy was stupid for what he was doing.

I was absolutely beside myself.

Then the best of all was a picture of a group of Chinese women painting a bunch of the pipe. In the American foundries the pipe is hot dipped into vats, coating the pipe inside and out. So he was like, “The crazy thing about this picture is, how do they paint the inside of the pipe? A little Chinamen gets in there with a paintbrush? I mean, I know they’re small and all, but not that small…”

Me and the other guy just looked at each other like, you have got to be shitting us. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

This guy was going through all this shit like he took one look at us and just assumed we were part of the WAD clan, just like him – White American Dudes – and we had similar egocentric nationalistic views with a common distrust of anything non-American, especially Chinese.

It was disgusting and enraging and all I wanted to do was kick the guy in the nuts for being such an ass and misrepresenting actual good, patriotic Americans. My only regret is that I didn’t say something to him even though it would have been unacceptable to chastise someone like him in a work setting.

The whole time he was talking I was just thinking to myself, man this dude is so fucking lucky my wife isn’t Chinese or something.

Then I got to thinking, man, what if my wife was Chinese? That would be sweet! We’d eat rice for every meal, we’d have the in-laws send us cheap knock-offs of American products from the homeland, and she’d teach me karate. That would rock.

Anyway, the only reason I even bring this up is when I got dropped off at the airport Friday morning to fly out to Youngstown, I saw that sawed-off sonofabitch sales rep standing out front. Fortunately I saw him before he saw me, so I was able to change direction and avoid getting detected by him, a practice I often employee when I see people I know in public but have no desire to speak to.

It would have been great if that was it but then the bastard was on my same goddamn flight to Charlotte for my layover, and worse yet, the douchebag sat one row in front of me on the plane. When he saw me sit down I could feel him staring at me and I knew at that point he recognized me. I’m just so glad he didn’t have the balls to be like, “What up, my American Brother!”

I spent the whole flight thinking that I should just approach the guy and tell him he was way off base in the presentation, then kick him in the nuts. But in the end, I just didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

When we landed in Charlotte I practically crawled off the plane so he would be long gone by the time I got into the concourse. But when I stepped off the jet bridge I saw him standing there pretending to check his phone like he was waiting for me, so I did the only thing I could think – I walked behind the counter at the gate to hide. I can only imagine he looked up from his phone and was like, “What? Where did he go? He just disappeared. Who is this guy - David Blaine?”

After that the rest of my weekend was thankfully racism-free. 

The Elevator Attendant

The other day at work as I was walking down the hall to the printer I noticed something on the ground. Just as I was upon it, it moved and I got that familiar jolt of adrenaline like a Labrador Retriever gets at the sight of a duck when he knows the hunt and kill is on. I however, did not see an aquatic fowl; I saw a cockroach. I kept my composure and didn't scream like a little schoolgirl like I wanted to, but I knew what I had to do - I slammed my foot to the floor right on top of the sonofabitch.

Unexpectedly, or perhaps disappointingly, I didn't get the satisfying *CRUNCH* I was hoping for. Instead the little bastard scurried out from beneath my shoe and down the hallway to the elevator lobby. I was inclined to chase after him but didn't want to cause a scene in the office place.

Like I said before, the only thing worse than seeing a cockroach is having a cockroach disappear after you've seen it. I spent the rest of the day all paranoid that it was crawling on me somewhere.

Later in the day I was on a different floor and thought I saw another one. It wasn't, but it still freaked me out and I had to debate whether it was worse if the building had a cockroach infestation or just one cockroach that figured out how to use the fucking elevator. I think the latter, without question.

Talladega Nights - Part VI

So we took the golf carts out for "one last time." We were disappointed to see the Coliseum was already closing shop so we decided to hightail it over to Talladega Blvd to see what kind of atrocities were going on there. Much to our good fortune, we never made it that far.

We were initially attracted by the sounds of country music getting blared at 200 decibels across the infield, but ultimately it was the crowd forming that took us to the #3 Dale Earnhardt Sr bus.

I don’t want to describe too much about the whole scene partly because I can’t do it justice and partly because… well, you’ll see why in a second. What I can say is this: Your eyes are not deceiving you; that is a school bus painted blue and yellow and dedicated to the very soul of Dale Earnhardt Sr. You can also barely see the massive plywood deck constructed on top of the bus. While the deck could have fit 20-30 people comfortably, it didn't look safe for even 1. The inside of the school bus was stripped of its original amenities. The back third was converted to some sort of convoluted living quarters while the front 2/3’s was nothing short of a full-on homage to the late DE Sr. and his namesake, Jr.

You can also see one half of the Blues Brothers duo seated there in front of the bus. Why? I have no fucking idea. 

As entertaining as the bus was, it was the owners of the bus that created and subsequently stole the show. Again, words can’t describe them:

The girl on the left was the ring-leader. You can't see exactly, but that's a confederate flag bikini. The guy on the right was one of several that didn't seem to own a shirt. 

This picture doesn't need a caption.

Outside the bus the owners set up a computer, an amplifier, and the type of speakers you'd expect to find in the possession of a redneck wedding dj, from which they were blasting the aforementioned country hits like “I Love NASCAR,” by Toby Keith.

I can assure you the crowd wasn’t there for the music nor the bus. No. The crowd was there for the dancing. Of everything I found to be true at Talladega, this is one of the biggest truths: NASCAR folk like to dance. The only thing they like to do more is drink, and while it impairs their ability to dance, it can’t possibly stop them. As a result, I can tell you this is also true: there is nothing funnier than a drunk Earnhardt fan cutting up a rug.

The only thought running through my head during the entire ordeal was: these people should not be allowed to vote.

I've recently been accused of being a left-wing elitist, a charge which I whole heartedly endorse, but in this case I don't want it to seem as though I thought nor think these people should not be allowed to vote because they will inevitably vote for the right, though the will. I simply mean to suggest that these people clearly should not be making any decisions for anyone else, let alone themselves. My only hope is, admittedly with a great deal of futility, they don't have any children and their bloodline, however obviously narrow it is, will end with them.

Talladega Nights - Part V

With everything that was going on around the infield, the race was actually the most boring part of the whole event. It’s kind of hard to do, but I actually fell asleep during the race for a short nap. I’m probably the only one there that can say that. Outside of a few crashes, the biggest of which occurred in Turn 4, right in front of us, the race was just kind of annoying. Every two minutes or so the cars would fly on by like a bunch of jet planes interrupting conversations and bursting eardrums.

So it was much more fun to take the golf carts out through the infield to interact with the locals.

Oddly, Crown Royal had a big presence in the infield. They sponsor one of the cars, though I’m not sure that car was even in the race, but they also have a contest every year to see who has the best Crown Royal display at their RV in the infield. The winner gets two free spaces for the next year to presumably have a bigger Crown Royal display. There’s some irony in that NASCAR is like “America’s Sport” and Crown Royal is Canadian Whiskey, but I can say for certain that recognizing irony is not the strong suit of the average Talladega attendee.

We saw several impressive displays with entire buses painted purple and lights and signs everywhere. But the clear winner was last year’s winner. The dude and his wife drive down ever year from Wisconsin to Talladega for their vacation (In fact, we met a large number of people who go to Talladega every year as their vacation. My family went to the beach every year, but to each his own). They had an entire collapsible bar and the overall theme was “The Crown Royal Coliseum.” You can’t imagine the number of props these people brought with them… from Wisconsin:

The gates of The Coliseum

The bar at The Coliseum

The Coliseum Commode

I still don’t understand how The Coliseum fit in with Canadian Whiskey fit in with NASCAR but again, you have to suspend your sense of irony at Talladega.

Unfortunately while we were there we found out The Coliseum was not going to win again this year, apparently due to “an incident” that occurred after they won last year. I can’t imagine within the context of Talladega what the hell kind of “incident” would preclude them from winning again this year. I can only think that a death was not out of the question. Or 14.

After the race ended we had to stick around for a while to let the traffic clear out. We also stuck around long enough for the sun to set, which brought with it a whole other atmosphere. While we were waiting we decided to take the golf carts out for one last tour of the infield. As we all know, anytime you do something “one last” time, you’re guaranteed a great time… and a litany of regrets.

This is just a preview…

Talladega Nights - Part IV

Like I said, we had Hot Passes, which gave us unprecedented access to the garages and pits in the infield. Unfortunately only my uncle and three of his associates actually had the passes in their names, so Sara and I had to borrow theirs in order to get in. My uncle instructed us just to walk in there like we owned the place and no one would question anything. That's easier said than done when you don't know what the hell you're doing or where the hell you're going.

We made it through the first three security checkpoints but as we neared the final one we flashed the passes on the lanyards around our necks and tried to role right by but the security guard wasn't having it. He stopped us and asked for ID.

"Oh man, I left it at the RV…" I said, like I owned the place.

"No you didn't, it's right there," the guard said pointing to my pass. 


I looked down to see the dude's driver's license tucked into the back of the plastic cover of the Hot Pass hanging around my neck. Shit!

The guard grabbed the pass, looked at the ID, looked at me, and said, "Okay. 

Okay??? To be clear, the dude whose pass I had is not 30, does not have brown hair, and in general doesn't look a thing like me nor I like him. But whatever.

Then he turned to Sara and said, "Do you have your ID?"

"I left it at the RV," she said, like she owned the place.

He checked and in fact the ID was back at the RV, in my uncle, Hobie's, pocket. He turned to me and said, "She's with you?" 

No, shithead, I just picked her up at the stripper pole on Talladega Boulevard. "Yeah," I said, like I owned the place.

"What's her name?"

What's her name??? "Uhh… Hobie," but I said it more like a question than a statement, like, "Uhh… Hobie?"

He looked at me, looked at Sara, then said, "Okay, have fun." So we were in.

Now when I say we had access to the garages, I mean we could do anything short of picking up a monkey wrench and tuning up the engine of a car, and when I say we had pit access, I mean we could do everything but climb behind the goddamn wheel. There was practically no restriction on where we could go or what we could do and it was at that point that I wish I knew something about racing. I tried to take a picture of the first three people I passed wearing the driving suits thinking they were drivers. Turns out, they were just in the pit crew. I only recognized one driver, but I had no idea what his name was. I could have damn near farted in the face of any one of the drivers other than Dale Jr., Jeff Gordon, Tony Stewart, or Jimmy Johnson and I wouldn't have known who they were.

We couldn't get near any of the above-mentioned driver's cars because of the crowds, but most of the other cars were readily accessible. At one point there was no one standing around the #17 Dewalt car, and while I don't really care for Dewalt tools I at least felt more of a connection to that than the fucking Cheerios car, so we asked someone to take our picture in front of it.

After the photo one of the crew came over and started chatting us up, asking where we were from, what we do, blah, blah, blah. Then he was like, "So are you guys big Matt Kenseth fans?"

Honestly he could have inserted any name in there like, "Mobuto Sese Seko" because I didn't know who the hell Matt Kenseth was. I could only assume he drove the #17 Dewalt car.

So I stammered through some bullshit response like, "Uhh, yeah, you know, we're new to NASCAR, but we're fans. Yeah. Uhh… we're just looking forward to seeing some good racing…" What a douchebag.

I felt like Sarah Palin again:

"So what do you like to read?"

"Anything they put in front of me…"

"Like what?"

"All of them…"

After that you better believe we rooted for that #17 Dewalt car though. That was right up until he was in the big 11-car crash towards the end of the race on the turn in front of our RV.

I came to find out later that he's actually a real dick because he often wrecks people out of races. Oh well, his crew was nice.

The driver's trailers. Part of the reason so many tires were exploding during the race was because I slashed like eight of them while I was there. 

I have no real reason to dislike Jeff Gordon but seeing him in person made me realize that I think I should think he's an ass. 

Kyle Busch. I knew it was him because it said so on the side of the truck.

The pole car. Who drove it? I don't know. 

I luv you Jr! Actually, I luv yur daddy, but since he's dead, I guess I'll luv you instead. Don't die out there!

The two biggest Matt Kenseth fans at Talladega! Let's face it, the only two Matt Kenseth fans at Talladega.