Ohio Girl

What is that saying? Like a bull in a china shop? On my recent trip to Disney I felt like a big, cynical Rhino stomping about at a children’s birthday party; a child with rich parents that spring for a petting zoo and pony rides rather than the Bozo from the yellow pages. I wore a hat that said ‘Grumpy’ (like the Dwarf) and was both relieved and irritated that Disney had thought to market to someone exactly like me. I also carried children on my shoulders until my muscles went numb, nearly lost my lunch on the Tea Cups, longed for a bong hit during It’s a Small World, and laughed my head off during the Kali River Rapids.

I was caught off guard by how much I liked the parades–day and night–the kind of flourish that it makes it more than an a amusement park. I ooohed and aaahed with gusto at the fireworks display. I dragged my oldest niece to the Hall of Presidents where she was not amused by my excitement for Chester Arthur. And where a vacant-eyed, talking, wax figure of George W. Bush turned out to be just like real life.

I thought of starving children, because that is just the sort of a-hole that I am, and about how much could be done in the way of relief for the price tag of all the magic. But I also liked the place. I liked being packed in with families from all over the world–eavesdropping on snippets of Spanish and the wry observations of the Brits. I liked watching the faces of my nieces and nephew light up each in their own turn as they found something just for them. I liked Animal Kingdom and Disney’s hit-you-over-the-head message about conservation. And I liked this Rhino who grazed unfazed as our clunky safari bus passed by. “At least you ain’t being chased by poachers,” he seemed to say.

“Count your blessings,” he added.

I have been a NASCAR fan for a while (thanks again, Chandra) and excepting races that I have seen live and in-person (including that 25 car pile up at
Talladega!), the last two weeks have been some of the most rewarding of my fan career. It wasn’t just the 18 cautions at Bristol. Or even Junior riding around at Martinsville missing three of four corners on his car. It was the whole package. Everything this race fan hopes for:

Action: Crash. Bang. Boom. Fast racing in a comically, compact space. Bump and run for the win. It was quintessential Bristol with slightly less vitriol. Kurt Busch took the win after scooting Kenseth out of the way, clinching a Brothers Busch sweep of the weekend. And I liked that snow angel performance on the start-finish line.

Talented Driving: Seriously. Over the last few weeks Junior and company have redeemed–through hard work and humor–their folly of the season past. At Martinsville the Bud car was reduced to a heap thanks to an early accident and a late, a-hole move by Newman. But what a glorious heap it was! Junior kept it on track, worked his way through traffic, and beat Kyle Busch across the start-finish line by a bumper (well, if he had a bumper) for fourth.

A Delightful Level of Surrealism: There was the Busch Race at Bristol on Saturday with brief white outs and snow delays. During one of the breaks fans and drivers exchanged snow balls while pit crews built snow men. It was a Marxist sort of leveling based not on class, but on the snow-day-loving-child in all of us. And then the snow was gone—like a crazy dream.  OR.  There was Jeff Gordon pushing Matt Kenseth—who approached him to apologize—in retaliation for an on track spin at the end of the Cup race at Bristol. A push that Gordon, with puffed out chest and shit-eating grin, was still defending at Martinsville.

Anyone but Gordon or Johnson Winning: Right back at ya’ Wonderboy! With my apologies to Chandra, I have ended up on the red side of the vast Gordon-Earnhardt divide. I did not choose it. I ended up there quite unconsciously; instinctively. And although it is often mean and irrational, there is no turning back. I’d rather Busch than Gordon (Bristol). And I would most certainly rather Stewart than Johnson (Martinsville), the latter of whom has already won twice this season.