Holy Hell --------------The Brickyard 400

As much as I've written about the antics of travelling on the Interstate Highway System, and often compared it to Nascar, the fact remained that I had never been to a Nascar race. That all changed on August the 6th when Brother-in-law Tim, Politician Dave, Little Darlin'( Dave's son Todd) , and I went to Indianapolis for the Brickyard 400. This was the first venture to this realm for any of us except for Todd, who being in his mid thirties is much younger and more worldly than the rest of us. Todd is a regular ticket holder to both Talledega and his favorite, Bristol. We all quizzed Little Darlin' all the way up 65 from Louisville on Sunday morning of the race and he grudgingly gave us tips on how to enjoy the race and not make fools of our middle-aged selves. First tip to Daddy Dave was he needed to take the sorry-assed pink hatband off his sorry-assed panama straw hat. Todd didn't seem to think there would be many Panama hats in the crowd. He was right and his father sat through the whole 160 laps with that sorry-assed ,ugly hat on. Even I felt it was an affront to Dave's manhood and dignity. Tim wore nondescript clothes, as well as Todd and myself. Todd sat next to a young couple who like all the other fans were Junior Earnhardt followers. Todd also paid $5 for a sheet of paper with radio frequencies that allowed him to tune his scanner to team conversations. He looked with lust at some new contraption that was an official Nascar radio in bright yellow colors with yellow headphones. My money is on Little Darlin' having one of those this coming weekend for Bristol. Dave immediately picked up a middle-aged Carl Edwards groupie that told him all the secrets of Nascar and her life. Tim and I went to pick up our prepurchased box lunches compliments of Sandy Kay, which possibly was the best money spent on the whole trip. A sandwich, chicken ,baked beans , and cookies for less that $15 a head. It was a deal, plus you got 2 drinks of your choice. The beers were selling for $4 a can , and man were those Hoosiers putting them away! We had great lower level seats directly across from the entrance to pit row, and directly down from Junior's pit. Man there were some tight, tight ,curvaceous asses climbing up on top of those crew chief thrones, but that's another story. The race started and all living hell broke loose!! I have watched Nascar for years ,yet nothing in all my years could prepare me for the noise level of 43 cars as they came around the track at speed at the end of lap 1. Jeff Burton was an orange blurr as he broke the sound barrier in front of our seats, followed by 42 other screaming minions of hell in vivid colors not seen on the best tv. They were all cruising at nearly 200 mph, and it was truly just a Sunday afternoon drive for the boys.Dave kept going down the bleachers to smoke, and we wondered why, after all ,everyone else in the stands were lighting up or were already lit ,whichever the case might have been. I think he was trying to get away from his amorous little friend. I had given her the parts of my lunch that I didn't want, after all she was Dave's friend. Tim as usual ate all of his lunch and I believe Little Darlin had eaten all of his as well. We were in the shade but it was a hot day and the rednecks below us were under the influence and had a spray bottle of water that they constantly sprayed on their friends to cool down ;
I hope it was water. Their aim was erratic and we all got sprayed. The more they drank the more they sprayed. I didn't protest because a couple were big old redneck sons of bitches that reminded me of Larry the Cable Guy. Besides it felt good . I think they got some on Dave's panama hat but he took it pretty well. He has been known to jump up and tackle people at social gatherings , but he is running for office and is on best behavior , even at Indy. I was counting the seconds it took for the lead cars to travel the 2 and one half mile track and they did it in 43 seconds. Talk about rock and roll!! Half way through I put in ear plugs and Tim didn't . Dave didn't either, but I think it was because he had to converse with his groupie as she ate my chicken.It was not a pretty picture. Well Jimmy Johnson won and everyone booed. As we were leaving the race vendors were selling the discarded racing tires for $15 apiece. We weren't interested, but they sold plenty. We sat motionless for 2 hours waiting to leave our close ,reserved parking space. The parking lot was a mixture of drinking, but mellow,red neck drunks in a variety of diversions. The most interesting was a group who had purchased one of the big old tires. I have never seen such a good time being had as they each nearly had orgasmic experiences with the tire. One little chubby vixen seemed to think this smelly rubber tire was the crown jewels. Lord if I had thought Sandy would have been so pleased I would have brought her a whole set! All in all the race was loud , rambunctious, and entertaining. I'm nearly deaf and I'm in a weakened mental condition from Dave's antics, but I'll survive. We're already planning for next year. We'll be Junior fans, cause that's cool, but Dave has to let the stupid hat and his groupie go.

Calling on Elvis

Not long ago on a lovely Friday night Sandy Kay and I were on on way down to the quaint little ville of Mckinney , just ten miles down Hwy. 78. We eat at the Depot there so much that the waiters and waitresses seem like family, which I guess they are in some way. Anyway, as we were cruising down through the pretty farm land I was playing Dire Straits on the Silverado's cd player, much to the aggravation of Sandy Kay, who is a "Rod Stewart Plays the Classics" kind of girl . I hit track 13 and cranked up the volumn to near max just about the time we passed the straight stretch and field of quadrazillions of goats. The field is literally awash with hundreds of brown and white milk goats and their pair of monster white guard dogs, always patiently ,but vigilantly watching over their herd of schizophrenic and hyperactive creatures. The surreal pastoral scene was broken as Mark Knopfler wailed out"Calling on Elvis... Is anybody home... Calling Elvis.." Well you get the picture,but the goats didn't have time to become alarmed as the Silverado was whirling along at over 70 mph down hwy 78, only a momentary distraction as the udder dragging creatures resumed their quest for grass. Dinner was as uneventful as a chicken sandwich and salad can be. Then comes the adventure. We had just turned back onto 78 toward Stanford when we happened upon a fresh single car wreck, so fresh in fact that the wheels were still spinning and the wipers were swishing back and forth on a dry windshield. We stopped and started to render aid as best as two non-medical people can give. The three occupants, 24 year old mother, young daughter and young son(maybe 9 and 7 years old) were not injured badly but shaken up and slightly bleeding ,nevertheless resisted in staying in one spot while awaiting the ambulance . I had determined they were well enough to get up out of the right of way grass and over on the highway in the shelter and protection of my truck. Wrong!! Every time I looked up one or two of the victims would be wandering over ,trying to get something out of the car which was somewhat a part of the otherwise bucolic fence row. The car was totalled, but easily could have been totalled before the accident. I just didn't know.I just knew that keeping those victims away from that car was like keeping a writhing mass of garter snakes in a shallow bucket. I finally asked the mother what she was looking for. Her reply? "My Cellphone. I need to call my husband." Simple enough. I asked for her number and told her I would use Sandy's cell to call him. I then realized I didn't know her or her husband so I asked the logical question,"What's your husband's name?" Shakily she said,"Elvis." My world stopped. I grew clammy and nearly had a genuine out-of- body experience. I heard myself asking her again for his name thinking I was having a severe reaction to my chicken sandwich. Again she said , "His name is Elvis."Holy hell!!Talk about karma. I shakily called his number, hoping he might not answer. I heard a young man's voice answer,"Hello". In a disembodied voice I heard myself ask," Is this.....uh... Elvis?" He answered yes and the rest is history. I watched the red lights of the square rescue vehicle as it sped away, carrying the three little victims to Fort Logan and its alcohol smelling corridors, and haggard looking medical people who would pronounce them alright, and turn them over to the anxious and waiting Elvis. I couldn't help but feel that something was amiss. Calling on Elvis . Is Anybody home ?? You can bet anybody's sweet ass that I drove slowly the few remaining miles home. What mother names their son in this age Elvis?She probably had tickets to the Lexington show that had to be cancelled because of his death. Too many deep-fried bananas and peanut butter sandwiches. I think he died in 1977. That would make this Elvis what age?29 years old. That would be about right. Calling on Elvis is anybody home? As I slowly made my way to Helm Street I hit number 9 and cranked the thing up .Money for Nothing and your chicks for free. I want my MTV. What a life!!