I am drinking Mountain Dew and eating suflower seeds in a minivan driving through the great state of Virginia. My immediate family began the day at Cracker Barrel in Staunton where I purchased two pot-holder kits and consumed several eggs, several biscuits, and several grits. We are recovering from Nascar.
The race took place two days ago, an was everything I expected and more. First, Nascar races are all BYOB events. When my mom and I stepped from our car into the mile-long Loew's Motor Speedway parking lot just outside of Charlotte, we were greeted by already drunk men, women, and children strapped with dripping ice chests, bags, and bakcpacks full of Miller, Budweiser, and Bud. The sun was inescapable, and soon my Yankee family and I were sporting burned red necks as we blended with our fellow fans.
I bought a youth size small Carl Edwards shirt as soon as we walked into the stadium. My brother donned an Earhardt Sr. cap, Laura and my mom wore Jeff Gordon hats, our friend Russ wore a Juan Pablo Montoya hat, and his wife Marisa was decked out in "Jr. Nation" gear. We ate hot dogs while beefcakes accused Russ of sympathizing with immigrants and asked if he needed to go for a "Number Juan" or a longer "Juan Pablo." A girl sitting in front of us in the stands spent about two hours ignoring her screaming younger siblings and drawing very excellent cartoon foxes on wide-ruled paper. Each fox was tricked out with a different set of accessories, and she made a little catalog record for every fox she drew and its corresponding halos, ribbons, and wings.
To our dismay, there were no crashes during the race.
Night fell.
When the race was over, everyone filed out of the bleachers avoiding bickering couples and shouting shirtless dudes. Sweaty meatheads were hanging all over each other, and I couldn't help but think how just one night in the West Village might show them that miracles happen every day, and can keep happening over and over if you let them. Outside of the racetrack, kids handed out free rolled up posters and we all started beating the crap out of each other. Cops in black lawn chairs surveyed the scene. Energy drinks were distributed from truck trailers by girls with highlights wishing everyone a blessed evening. A tall skinny bald man whacked me in the hind quarter with a poster causing me to yell "Good aim, asshole!" A weaving man was ushered away from the street by a heafty police officer. Cars were stuck at a standstill for miles in every direction and fans pulled down their tailgates, lit fires, cursed, and hit on my mom. Mom held her own, quietly out-drinking every annoyed wife and out-charming every randy husband. My brother and I hopped high weeds and peed in a field. I curled up in a blanket in the back seat of the minivan and fell asleep while my family and friends tailgated, drank beer and cracked jokes.
Love,
nambot