Stewart redeems like
the rise of a bright, new sun
that sets with engine.
Are you an Aries?
Pillar of fire, Biffle,
but not a Dodge ram.
Stream of the top ten
rushes with tadpole rookies,
ready to be frogs.
Kenseth, no cheese head,
follows the yellow brick road
laid by his teammate.
Oh, Tony. It seems you are off your medication again. You were so calm and almost reasonable last season. As charming as that was, there is a part of me that is glad to have you back. Being your fan feels rather like being a battered woman who is desperately in love with her a-hole husband. If loving you is wrong, I just don’t want to be right.
Champion Stewart finished the Bud Shoot Out with dire predictions of death and destruction. Using the specter of the fifth anniversary of Dale Earnhardt’s death as his backdrop, he declared bump-drafting out of control and said he was increasing his life insurance policy. Feel free to put me down as a beneficiary.
In all seriousness, he has a point. Or at least SOME point. Many have remarked on the dangerous new habit of bump drafting in the corners. Even Moms in minivans would recognize that’s not so cool. But bump drafting, otherwise, is a necessary part of restrictor plate racing. And racing, after all, most certainly IS a contact sport.
NASCAR nevertheless responded by saying they would monitor aggressive driving and level penalties at those behind the wheel. True to their word, they did just that. And who do you suppose was the first offender in the Daytona 500 on Sunday? Say it with me now…Oh Tony.
For a man worried about crashing and dying he seemed remarkably willing to smash into anyone who looked at him cross-eyed. In a dramatic lane change he booted Kenseth into the grass. Kenseth, in turn, became the second driver to be penalized after attempting payback coming off pit row.
While Tony’s Bi-Polar meltdown sure made things fun, there was plenty of good, old-fashioned racing to enjoy as well. My brother showed up in his number 45 cap. He was giddy to see that both Petty teams had qualified well. “This is gonna be their year,” he said, “I can feel it.”
While both Petty and Labonte suffered setbacks, Petty managed to get interviewed ON-AIR prior to the race, as well as plenty exposure riding through the infield with Carl Edwards’ tire in his window. It was a pretty sight to behold.
I was rooting for Junior as well as Stewart. He looked good in the Shoot Out and held his own at the 500--despite a baffling mistake--finishing in the top ten. That’s a breath of fresh air for the fans that watched his performance go all to hell last season. Stewart, for his part, pulled off a top ten as well, despite being sent to the back of the field twice for violations.
It was my sister-in-law with her Gordon cap that went away smiling. In the family betting pool she chose most of the Hendricks guys. My brother muttered “cheater” under his breath over and over as Johnson headed towards the finish line.
Johnson’s crew chief was ejected for the whole week after a post-inspection violation was discovered. It is not the first such incident for that team. As Ryan Newman said, something like 3 of his last 4 wins have come after rules violations. And word came today that Knaus will be suspended until Bristol .
No matter. Johnson won the race. My sister-in-law won 25 bucks.
I had a friend tape the race on Saturday night because I had a loud, long date planned with a brown, syrupy man called Jack. He was still hanging around like cotton in my brain cells when I realized—30 laps left to go—that the race had been rained out and was happening NOW. They were racing live on TNT.
I had just walked to the corner for fatty, fried food in green long johns and baggy sweatshirt—no bra—with day-after sunglasses. I laughed at myself for being equal parts foolish and brave, leaving the house like that. And I said a little prayer of thanks for noticing a white, plastic bag caught high in a tree. It waved against a sky full of snow not ready to fall and was beautiful, really beautiful, I thought.
I turned on the TV to distract myself from considering too much what I was about to eat, and there it was—racing. I had to adjust my eyes to the clear skies of Daytona--woozy headed and so many months without this spectacle.
A rookie won, inspiring commentators to declare him “the real deal.” Dale, Jr. was looking good. And Tony Stewart was complaining about something as soon as he hit the finish line.
Ahhhhh, we’re back. And it feels so right. Now I’ll have better things to do with my Saturday nights...
My dog is a freaking mess. She is at home right now with her paw in an Ace bandage, doped up on Valium, with Animal Planet droning away to distract her from herself. (She loves it when pigs are the featured animal.) She has morphed from an intensely, muscular beauty—the kind of dog that felt like a trophy wife—into a big-bellied beast with loud, smelly gas.
The weight came from the anti-depressants. The anti-depressants came from her nervous habit of chewing on her right, front paw until bloody, raw, and infected. And of course that is where the bandage comes from, as well as my new credit card balance devoted to her months of care.
I don’t question any of this. I get tired after being up all night rubbing her tummy when the antibiotics make her nauseous. I get irritated when running late for work I have to bribe her with Milkbones to get her to stand still so I can clean and dress her wound. But I would do it for my kid, or my spouse, or an aging parent, wouldn’t I?
And that is when it hits me. I have become one of those people.
I would like to think I am at least a shade saner than those crazy, cat ladies that collect felines like Elvis plates. And I would never liken my dog to human offspring—at least not in public. But she IS more than a dog to me.
I try to think of how I would justify this to hungry people in other countries who would have every right to eat my coddled creature. Yeah, I give her food from my plate, but she’s a great listener. She follows me around while I complain and moan. She even cocks her head to the side feigning concern. Or is it amusement?
Yes, she gets more medical care than many human folks do in this country, but she also improves my physical well-being. I doubt I would get my big butt off the couch for weekend hikes without her prodding.
The dog undoubtedly gets better mental health care than that homeless guy who dances by the market, but she spoons with me on lonely nights and cuts my heating bill with her furry warmth.
And best of all, she shares her Valium.
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