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27 Jan 2012
2 Comments

A Bowl of Indy Stew – Day 1, 1986

You know the trouble with diets?  Temptation.  It lurks around every corner: breaded tenderloins, White Castles, sundry cured meats.  How can I get down to my “race weight” when temptation is whispering sweet nothings in my ear.  Right now, for instance, I can smell a bowl of Indy stew simmering on the stove.  Can you smell it?  It’s the essence of suntan lotion, beer, and ethanol.  Delicious.  I can’t resist.  I’ll start my diet tomorrow.  Today I’m going to ladle up a heaping helping of Indy stew, circa 1986.  Grab a spoon and dig in.

In the last installment of “A Bowl of Indy Stew,” our intrepid race-goers survived sneaking in the track the night before the 1986 race, setting up a canopy, and hosting  a horde of yellow shirts who sheltered from the rain with us.  But the day had not even started.

Race morning in 1986 dawned hot, humid, and rainy.  Things did not look promising, but the crowd poured in anyway.  The rest of our crew arrived and pulled the van in next to our canopy.  Perfect.  We had two spots next to the fence in Turn 2.  We lived for this moment.  When you went to the race with a general admission ticket, you couldn’t exhale until you got your vehicle in the gate and parked.

Surprisingly, some of our crew had been drinking the night before.  I know, who would have thought that?  Just after we got our van parked, someone walked behind the canopy and had a liquid laugh.  You know, called the elephants, chundered, yacked, had a technicolor yawn, played the whale.  Got the picture?  Highly entertaining.  As the vehicles pulled in behind us, they veered away from the guy with his hands on his knees.  Being Good Samaritans, we waved people away.  Moments later, all the spots behind us were filled except that one.  Who would want to park there?

A short time later, two girls with a tent hiked up and started to set up camp directly over the spot.  We told them not to set up there, but before we could tell them why they informed us they could take care of themselves, thank you.  Well, live and let live.  Exchanging knowing glances, we left them to their sullied campsite.  They crawled in the tent and went to sleep.  The heat and humidity that day were stifling.  We glanced back at the tent and wondered what it smelled like inside that nylon oven as the day heated up.  The girls slept on.  When they woke up, we heard one of them loudly complain in what can only be described as an entitled whine, “Ew, what’s that smell?”  A lone voice responded, “That’s puke, sweetheart!”  They hopped out of their tent, accused us of complicity in their degradation, broke camp, and flounced away in a huff to a round of laughter and applause.  Apparently, they were not amused.  Obviously, we were.

It was a good start to an interesting day.

Want more?  Just give me time to add a few more ingredients to the pot and let it simmer.  Another bowl of Indy stew from 1986 will be coming up soon.

Posted in A Bowl of Indy Stew, Humor and tagged , ,
20 Jan 2012
5 Comments

What does NASCAR have that IndyCar doesn’t?

I don’t hate NASCAR.  I just hate some things about it.  Allow me to make a list:

  • Digger
  • DW
  • “Boogity, boogity, boogity”
  • That NASCAR claims it invented safety (SAFER Barriers, safety teams, Band-Aids)
  • Its owners heavy-handed attempt to control all tracks in America
  • Its owners more subtle attempts to marginalize IndyCar racing
  • That NASCAR is broadcast on multiple networks
  • That ESPN owns broadcast rights and acts like it’s reporting on an event when in reality it’s promoting its product
  • That hillbilly jackanapes now look down their noses at IndyCar because of the popularity of their series (my apologies to hillbilly jackanapes everywhere)
  • THAT NASCAR IS MORE POPULAR THAN INDYCAR, AND YES, I KNOW THAT SOUNDS LIKE SOUR GRAPES AND JEALOUSY BECAUSE IT IS!

Whew.  I’m glad I got that out of my system.  My jealousy overflowed this past weekend as I watched NASCAR testing broadcast on Speed.  And it was fully sponsored.  TESTING!  *Excuse me a moment while I take my medicine… Back now…Blood pressure under control.*  TESTING!  ON TV!  WITH SPONSORSHIP!  How did this happen?  When did America jump the shark?  Is the current administration in DC responsible?  Is it the economy?  Does it have something to do with the residual effect of concussions from football?  I NEED ANSWERS!

Now, I do understand a few things.  I know the networks heavily promote NASCAR.  IndyCar is lucky to be mentioned unless there’s tragedy or comedy.  Purported news organizations like ESPN are just shills for their own products, and I hate the inherent dishonesty of that.  There should be a disclaimer.  I understand that IndyCar is locked into the Versus/NBC Sports contract, but what’s the future of that?  Will NBC cross-promote the series?  Will IndyCar become a network star or a cast-off?

What does NASCAR have that IndyCar doesn’t?  We have strong teams, drivers who can run multiple circuits, a new car, compelling story lines, and momentum.  What do THEY have?  They have fans who provide ratings.  And ratings that attract sponsors.  And sponsors who provide money.  And money that supports the teams.  And teams that go racing.  And racing that attracts fans.  And we start the circle again.

We all know what NASCAR really has.  They have the eyeballs that watch TV.  That’s it.  The racing is no better than IndyCar.  NASCAR was just another racing series until ESPN decided to make them a big deal.  And they did.  IndyCar’s best hope is to get what NASCAR has: a network sugar daddy.  Our long-term survival as a series is uncertain, and NBC Sports/Versus is our hope and our future.  We only hope that they need us as much as we need them.

If all else fails, we can go the NASCAR route and tell lies and half-truths about our competition with a snide superiority.  Audacter calumniare; semper aliquid haeret.  Slander boldly; something always sticks.  Oh, did you hear that the France family is going to sell NASCAR after the Daytona 500 because of financial issues?

Posted in Humor, Opinions and tagged , , , ,
09 Dec 2011
1 Comment

I’ve got your next Race Director right here, IndyCar

In an effort to expedite the search for a new IndyCar Race Director, I’ve been out headhunting and have compiled a list of possible candidates for the position.  The prospects I’ve put together include some of the guiding lights in their fields.  And yes, some of them come with a little baggage, but who doesn’t?  I’ve tried to find experienced leaders with broad appeal throughout the racing community.  I am sure the next Race Director is listed below.

Bob Knight (former Indiana University basketball coach):  You want authority?  You got authority.  No mincing around here.  This Race Director will not take lip from anyone.  OK, he’s got this little “authority” thing going on; he has been known to assault people both verbally and physically.  That’s OK.  This series needs an enforcer.  And at 6’ 5” and 250, he towers over the racers and the owners.  Immediate respect!  The buck stops here, baby!  The only person who is a possible threat to him would be his security chief Charles Burns.  Now THIS would be a dynamic duo.  Click here to check out Mr. Knight’s leadership style: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yw7KijRfU-c.  Classy, huh?  Yes, Mr. Knight may create some extra work for the PR department, but he’s worth it.
Resume:

  • Won Three NCAA Championships
  • Coached Olympic gold medal team
  • Coached Pan Am Games gold medal team
  • Convicted in absentia for assaulting a Puerto Rican policeman
  • Stuffed an LSU fan in a trashcan

Tony Dungy (former Colts head coach):  Is low key more your style?  Then this is your man.  How about a little Quiet Strength in Race Control?  I am SURE that all the owners will bow to Mr. Dungy’s force of will; the power of prayer and positive thinking will win the day.  IndyCar is like a football team: the players just need to be “coached up.”  He will clean up the paddock and take the high moral ground.  This man can bring it all together: the drivers, the owners, the promoters, the sponsors.  And he can use a telestrator!  That’s invaluable for this high profile position when explaining “lines” and “passing zones.” The PR value of a former Super Bowl champion is priceless, and good PR is just what IndyCar needs right now.  Mr. Dungy brings a level head to Race Control.  Though some might consider him boring, his decisions will be thoughtful and deliberate.  The show is about the drivers and the cars, not the “man upstairs.”
Resume:

  • Super Bowl champion coach
  • Best selling author
  • TV analyst
  • Zealot

Jesus H. Christ (Savior of Mankind): Who better to have in Race Control than God’s Son (I realize that Brian Barnhart’s relationship with Tony George was similar; something had to give Mr. Barnhart that messiah complex).  IndyCar wants to rewrite the sporting regulations, and Mr. Christ brings His own rule book which He often shortens to ten easily remembered behavioral tenets.  This should satisfy the assorted auto racing writers, bloggers, and critics who found fault with every decision of the previous Race Director.  Really, who is going to question His decisions?  His relationship with Dallara should be strong since He’s also known to have a very good relationship with another powerful Italian brand.  Nom sum dignus.
Resume:

  • Son of God
  • Messiah
  • Religious Icon
  • Infallible Arbiter

What, none of these applicants fit the bill?  Maybe IndyCar needs a Race Director who is a combination of all these candidates.  He needs the unquestioned authority of Bob Knight, the quiet strength of Tony Dungy, and the infallibility of Jesus Christ.  Maybe that would please everyone.  But we all know the truth: whomever IndyCar hires as Race Director will be seen as a bad choice by some segment of the racing world.  His qualifications will be found lacking.  EVERY decision will be questioned.  EVERY rule will be parsed and examined.  The small but vocal legion of old and new media will both attack him and accept him with its regular hysteria.  It’s a thankless job.  I don’t have a candidate or an answer.  Someone will get hired, and the rules will be written.  Mistakes will be made.  Some people will benefit by race control’s decisions while others will suffer.  His life will be lived under a microscope that truly is life or death.  Drivers want someone who understands them.  Owners want someone who owes them.  And the fans want someone who is consistent and fair.

Who should be hired?  Henry Ford said it best: “The question, ‘Who ought to be boss?’ is like asking ‘Who ought to be tenor in the quartet?’  Obviously, the man who can sing tenor.”  Good luck finding Pavarotti, IndyCar.

Posted in Humor, Opinions
01 Dec 2011
5 Comments

An IndyCar/Christmas Vacation Holiday Extravaganza

Well, it’s Christmas for IndyCar.  And since IndyCar sometimes seems as dysfunctional as the Griswold household, this holiday season I’ll be tossing out some quotes from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. To add to the festivities, I’ll connect the names of the characters from the movie with someone in IndyCar.  So put some “non-caloric silicon-based kitchen lubricant” on your saucer and head on down the hill.

_____
Clark: Where do you think you’re going? Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny f—ing Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

This can only be poor Randy Bernard as he’s channeling Clark Griswold’s existential moment.  Bernard faces the hardest winter ever in IndyCar.  Sponsors are running for the hills, a new car shows no speed on ovals, the press continues to hammer him about Las Vegas, Newman/Haas shuts its doors, and he has to hire a new Race Director to replace Brian Barnhart.  Here’s hoping for a happy ending to this Christmas Story.

_____
Ellen: What are you looking at?
Clark: Oh, the silent majesty of a winter’s morn… the clean, cool chill of the holiday air… and an asshole in his bathrobe, emptying a chemical toilet into my sewer…
Eddie: Shitter was full!

Why do we love Eddie?  We love him because we all know him.  Or in my case, I may be him.  But who in the IndyCar world would empty a chemical toilet into the sewer?  Robin Miller!  Robin is cousin Eddie!  It fits.  He says all the things that no one else can say and gets away with it.  He’s that semi-lovable relative that never goes away.  And he not only empties the toilet, he fills it up with hate.  And really, wouldn’t you like to see him do the grid run in a bathrobe?

_____
Clark: Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I’d like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here…with a big ribbon on his head! And I want to look him straight in the eye, and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol?

And who hasn’t thought this about his/her boss?  Could it be Vitor Meira talking about A.J. Foyt?  How about Randy Bernard talking about Tony George (and we all know this time-bomb is going to explode sometime)?  Nope, this is Will Power talking about Brian Barnhart.  These had to be Will’s thoughts as he walked along the pits in New Hampshire.  I mean, it was great to watch, but didn’t you really want to know what Will was thinking?  Here it is.  I bet it’s almost word-for-word.  Go ahead, read it out loud.  Feels good, huh?

_____
Mr. Frank Shirley: [picks up the phone receiver] Get me somebody. Anybody. And get me somebody while I’m waiting.

Apparently, Race Control has been bad this year.  Brian Barnhart seemed to want somebody – anybody – to talk to him during the race at New Hampshire.  If only someone told him it was raining at Loudon, he would have done something other than blame the REST OF THE WORLD.  Mr. Shirley, Clark’s boss, was out of touch with the needs of his employees.  Can you say communication issues, Race Control?  But in lieu of a kidnapping, IndyCar chose to “reassign” Barnhart.  Do you think they signed him up for the jelly-of-the-month-club, too?  “It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” you know.

_____
Art: The little lights aren’t twinkling.
Clark: I know, Art. And thanks for noticing.

And a tip of the antlers to Zach at IndyCar Advocate for this idea.  Art, Clark’s father-in-law, is never satisfied with Clark’s choices; he’s always finding fault.  Art is the media, constantly telling IndyCar Clark that he is doing NOTHING right.  Art is snarky, just like some I know in the social media (I’m looking at you, Twitter).  Clark just wants to put together his complex lighting and make everyone happy.  IndyCar just wants to get its schedule straightened out and a new car on the road without every blogger, website, and media churl noting EVERY LITTLE THING that’s wrong.

_____
Clark: Can I refill your eggnog for you? Get you something to eat? Drive you out to the middle of nowhere and leave you for dead?
Eddie: Naw, I’m doing just fine, Clark.

In this case, Clark is IndyCar and Eddie represents the world of blog.  In your heart, you know IndyCar sees the bloggers as freeloading relatives they can’t get rid of.  In fact, this quote sounds like what someone really means in the media center when they ask if you have everything you need.  Just like Clark with Eddie, they really can’t do much about us.  They just hope nobody notices as we drain our chemical toilets into the sewer.  They just pray that we never do anything really embarrassing.  And while I’m on the subject, does it bother anyone else that the IndyCar employed bloggers are used as corporate shills only?  Free the bloggers!  Bring back the Silent Pagoda!

_____
Eddie: Every time Catherine revved up the microwave, I’d piss my pants and forget who I was for about half an hour or so.

Cousin Eddie once again, this time commenting on the effects of the plate in his head combined with microwave technology.  For Christmas this year, I wish this moment for every Indy fan around the world.  Here’s hoping the green flag at Indy causes you to piss your pants and forget who you are for just a little bit.  After all that has happened, we need that moment, don’t we?  What could be a better present under the tree this year than 33 DW12’s lined up and racing into Turn One on race day?  Merry Christmas, everyone.*

* Do you have another connection I missed?  Add it to the comment section below.  I triple-dog dare you (the triple-dog dare is for Tony at Pop Off Valve, who likes to mix his movies references every now and then).

Posted in Humor
25 Nov 2011
3 Comments

Let’s all go to the Snake Pit

I remember the Snake Pit at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and the race, the way they used to be – unsanitized.  The race was a little disreputable, and the Snake Pit was the center of the cesspool.

It was a formative experience when I initially meandered through the First Turn[1] at Indy.  We were walking from our vehicle in the Second Turn to our seats in the bleachers in the First Turn.  The tickets were a concession to both myself and a younger friend.  The determination had been made that we were too young to hang around the power drinkers and hell-raisers with whom we rode to the race, so we should have seats to protect our gentle souls.  Obviously, this theory was not well thought out since the route to our seats took us through the Snake Pit.

As we hiked to our seats, we saw bikers and their women, the effects of hours of heavy drinking, and a hint of the ugliness of the human soul.  We saw a fight (my first).  We saw people covered in mud. We heard people laughing, but it was a different kind of laughter.  It was the laughter of humanity unchained, the laughter of people released from the confines of expectation and society.  And like a magnet to another magnet, I was both attracted and repelled.  I still am.

Years later, while in college, my friends I attended qualifications and, for the first time, ventured into the Snake Pit without back-up.  I was watching the cars while standing on the rim of a 55 gallon drum being used as a trash can.  This was an active trash can; it was not turned over.  I balanced above a trashy abyss.  My friends kicked the trash can all afternoon, trying to make me tumble off.  And then, without any assistance (except for Little Kings[2]), I lost my balance and fell.  Behind us, in the trees that used to be in Turn One, a cheer erupted from a number of bikers who had been watching me balance on the can all day.  They motioned me over, poured me a beer from their keg, and explained they had been rooting for me to fall from my perch all afternoon.  Schadenfreude indeed.  These boys were happy as hell to see me bust my ass.  As I stood and talked to them, I was again attracted and repelled.  These were not nice guys; the patches on the backs of their vests told me all I needed to know.  But at that moment, I was okay by them.  I drank the beer and walked back to my friends, realizing that we were in over our heads in Turn One.  We could not hang with the hard-core.

But I am not just telling a story, I am illustrating a point.  The Snake Pit doesn’t exist anymore.  The construction of the museum and the new entrance off 16th Street was the death knell.  More bleachers were added.  The Snake Pit shrunk and then moved to Turn 4.  IMS didn’t move it; the organic nature of humanity did.  And the change began.  Turn 4 disappeared with the construction of the road course.  In recent years, IMS has tried to capitalize on the essence of bad.  The Miller Lite Party Deck came into existence in the North Chute.  I do not blame IMS.  Somebody saw a chance to make money on a concept.  That’s just good business.  And now they have stolen the Snake Pit.  The party has an agenda.  It’s choreographed.  The corporate Snake Pit[3] even has a VIP area in case you need to feel “special.”  The real Snake Pit has passed into history.  I miss it.

IndyCar needs the vitality of the Snake Pit in the crowd.  IndyCar needs the essence of the Snake Pit in its racing.  It needs its drivers to be colorful, mean, aggressive, and hungry, just like the old Snake Pit in Turn 1.  We need to be both repelled and attracted.  What we have is corporate.  Why is Tony Stewart such a popular champion in NASCAR?  The answer is simple.  He’s real.  He’s earthy.  He has some Snake Pit in him.  A.J. Foyt was popular with the crowd in Turn 1 for the same reason.  They loved him.  His humanity resonated with people.  It still does.  Our current drivers eat well, exercise, and mostly toe the company line.  And when Helio Castroneves goes off after a penalty, and Will Power exercises his fingers, we wonder if they will be fined, suspended, or fired.  All this for being real.  All this for just having some Snake Pit in them.  We should celebrate this humanity, not punish it.

As long as IndyCar goes begging for sponsors, the teams will still want sanitized drivers.  I want some delinquents.  IndyCar has always been edgy.  Those are its roots.  IndyCar is fun, fast, and dangerous, just like it has always been.  Just like the Snake Pit of my youth.  We need to tap into that violent, raucous, raw humanity and reconnect to the past of Indy.  As Robert Earl Keen sang, “The road goes on forever, and the party never ends.”[4]

_____________

1.  As a general rule, I choose to capitalize the turns at Indy, as well as the names of other physical features.  My blog, my grammar.

2.  Little Kings Cream Ale was a Midwestern beer of my youth.  Here’s a link to their website.  Be sure to click on “Proclamations.”  http://www.littlekingsbeer.com/main.html

3.  This is the “corporate” Snake Pit with adult supervision.  *weeping*   http://www.indianapolismotorspeedway.com/indy500/eventinfo/35202-Party-Scene/

4.  Here’s a YouTube link to Robert Earl Keen’s song.  Enjoy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tMDXgf2cH4&feature=related

Posted in Humor, Opinions
10 Nov 2011
5 Comments

My First Time

No, I don’t kiss and tell.  I do, however, race and tell.  I was introduced to my first love by my brother.  It’s like a romance novel.  He was in love with her first, but after introducing the two of us, he left Indiana to travel the world.  I was young.  She was older and much more experienced.  She was patient and knew I had a lot to learn.  Her name was Indy.  For this and many other things, I am forever in my brother’s debt.[1].

We flirted one year at qualifications.  I listened to her throaty Novi and was smitten.  But the first time I went all the way was two years later.  In 1966 my brother was compelled to take me to the race to accompany his good friend’s son.  We rode to the race in a 1953 GMC panel truck that had been customized by a tavern owner in my hometown of Shirley, Indiana.  The outside was hand-painted a robin’s egg blue with scores of automotive decals: STP, Bardahl, Champion, Moon Eyes, and Hurst were just a few.  A wooden platform was attached to the top and extended over the hood with supports welded to the front bumper.  A tent with a sign that read “Ben’s 500 Lounge” was erected on top.  The panels were cut out on each side with roll up canvas window covers.  On the inside, bus seats were added along one side with an aisle down the other.  The seats had built-in coolers under them; you just had to lift the seat pad up. The truck had the latest in sound systems: an eight-track tape player.[2]  It also came with a collection of hell-raisers.

We left Shirley the afternoon before the race and parked along 16th St. in Speedway.  We waited in a liquor store parking lot until traffic began to line up some time after 3:00 AM and then raced to get in line.  The party continued.  At ten years old, there are some things you have not yet experienced, such as staying up all night, watching power drinkers practice their craft, listening to loud and creative swearing, watching adults fight, and sipping the foam off beer cans after being named the official opener.

When the bomb went off at 5:00 AM, we were in the truck and ready to go. The hoi polloi of Shirley, Indiana, riding their blue race chariot, entered the old main gate outside of Turn 2 and parked up against the fence on the inside of Turn 2.  Getting a spot next to the fence required a vanguard of runners entering the pedestrian gate and staking out a spot.  You had to be tough to stake out and hold a spot.  I graduated to this position by the time I was fifteen and continued doing it on and off until I was thirty.[3]

Nothing prepares you for your first time.  You think you know what it’s going to be like but there is just no way to be prepared.  The entourage was parked and breakfast was cooking by 6:00 AM.  The crowd was a marvel.  The truck was a wonder.  People stopped by to take pictures and chat.  And once you saw it, you never forgot it.  And my callow self was allowed total access.  I continued to act as official opener and was told many times to drink the foam off the beers.  After all, I was Gary’s little brother and was expected to act like it.  No whining, crying, or bellyaching was allowed.  Your first time makes you think you are a man.

We made our way to the first turn bleachers, at the time a small set at the beginning of Turn 1.  To get there we had to pass through the Snake Pit.  It was not the sanitized and corporate Snake Pit of today down by Turn 3, but the real deal.  It was filled with bikes, booze, mud, drunks, noise, and from my youthful perspective, all the fun in the universe.  But even at a young age I could sense the danger.  It was a place to pass through.

After watching the beginning of the race from the bleachers, we made our way back to Turn 2 and the GMC.  I sat in the truck and continued to open beers for the boys.  I might possibly have taken a nap.  It’s hard to say.  The race ended and Graham Hill, some foreigner, won the race.  A foreigner winning Indy was not well received by the boys in the GMC.  I remember throwing bottles over the fence during the post race activities.  It was the only time, then or since, that someone corrected my behavior at the track.  We eventually packed up and entered the traffic to head back to Shirley.  I was content.  And I might have been a little drunk and delirious from sipping the foam off the beers and lack of sleep.  The ride home was great.  Johnny Cash was singing about Folsom Prison and a burning ring of fire on the eight-track.  We were exhausted and happy.

The last thing I remember after getting home was crawling under the coffee table to take a nap.  The next thing I remember was waking up in my bed.  The stories indicate that I was quite entertaining in the time between.  According to my angry mother, I was told to wake up and take a shower.  I exited the bathroom, still unwashed and filthy, and loudly told the assembled family, “Don’t ask me anything.  I’m not saying a word.  Don’t ask me a question.  I’m not going to answer.”  I still wonder what that was all about.  I guess even then I knew you don’t kiss and tell.

You never forget the first time.  And some people say you never get over your first love.  All I know is that I get to hook up with my first love once a year.  We have our little tryst, share a drink, have a few laughs, and then it’s a bittersweet parting until next year.  Indy, I can’t wait to see you again.  Save me a seat, lover.

[1] My brother also allowed me to read “Little Annie Fanny” in his Playboy, as well as buying me a chemistry set and a BB gun.  I made the house smell like rotten eggs and shot out a screen door.  You can assume the result of the Playboy,

[2] As far as I remember, we had one tape: Johnny Cash’s Greatest Hits, which was played on a continuous loop.  The tape lasted until we were on the way home the next day, when it caught on fire in the tape deck.  My brother, inebriated, pulled it out and burned his fingers.  The passengers had him hold his hand out the window and pour Calvert’s whiskey on it for the medicinal benefits.  We cheered the entire episode.

[3] At various times I was threatened with fists, ball bats, future harm when their friends arrived, and a golf club.  The golf club guy actually waggled the club in my direction until my buddy Marv, a former D1 defensive lineman, rolled his 6’4” 300 pound self out of the back seat of my VW Rabbit.  Golf club guy then told us we could keep our spot.  He also had the chutzpah to ask us to help him hold the other spots.  Some guys.

Posted in A Bowl of Indy Stew, Humor

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