shellgeo

            "Pervert's Corner" is quiet this morning.

 

            Our 36-foot long motorhome is parked in a mass of slab-sided motorhomes, and it's by no means the biggest or most elaborate.  On many, boxy extensions protrude from the sides, and canvas awnings flap in the strong, dusty wind.  Satellite dishes, multiple ones on the larger RVs, dot most roofs. Grills, lawn chairs, plastic palm trees and woven grass mats lie outside, left as they were as the occupants finally staggered inside to sleep.  Crushed beer cans--Bud Light, Miller and, of course, Lone Star--litter the ground.

 

            On the dirt access road before us, a Ford F-250 tows a mobile plastic tank, selling water to those awake and depleted.  Few respond, but the smell of bacon and ham drifts through the campground, so some people clearly are up and active.

 

            We're at Texas Motor Speedway, outside of Fort Worth, the Sunday before the Presidential Election, waiting for the NASCAR Dickie's 500 race.  It's a sunny November Sunday morning in a land of nomad tribes.  Snapping sharply, flags on two-story flexible poles fly above the tribes:  no names, just car numbers--48 (Jimmie Johnson), 24 (Jeff Gordon), 20 (Tony Stewart), 88 (Dale Earnhardt, Jr.), 8 (Dale Earnhardt, Jr., too, before he left his evil stepmother's team).  And everywhere, on decals in truck's back windows, on car bumpers, on black jackets, on caps, the slanted, sainted "3".  Dale Earnhardt, Sr., the patron hero of stock car racing, dead eight  years but still the Intimidator.  They take these allegiances seriously; you don't, for instance, want to fly your Kyle Busch banner next to a Carl Edwards neighbor--it would be as likely to provoke retribution as an Obama 08 bumper sticker.

 

There are other flags and banners, too:  sponsors like Pennzoil or Jack Daniels or Home Depot, gigantic  American flags, a disturbing number of Confederate flags (disturbing, that is, to those who view them as symbols of oppression rather than reminders of rebellion), and above all else, the Lone Star of Texas.  But there's one that's even higher in the affections of this community--the Lone Star flag with the Dale Earnhardt "3" in place of the star..

 

Over a mile away looms the speedway itself, enough stories high to qualify as a skyscraper.  It would be trite to compare it to the Roman Coliseum, but that's the model, all right--except this version holds over 220,000 people; it's, like everything else here, the Coliseum gone colossal.  There's actually a luxury hotel glued to the exterior--two of them, in fact.  And these are in addition to the private viewing suites available only to those who control the Texas oil trade and their friends.  The sea of motorhomes laps up to the edges of the complex; within it are islands of permanent showers and restrooms and even a full-service grocery store.

 

Shortly after nine, the snarl of practice starts, a deep, throaty sound of pure power unlike anything produced by any automobile you've ever encountered on any street.  Even this far away, the sound swells and dips from the Doppler effect as the cars circle the 1 1/2- mile tri-oval.  In the seats, the sound is too intense for mortal ears; experienced fans rent or bring plastic ear-protectors, many containing scanners so that we can hear the track announcer.

 

I've watched lots of NASCAR races on television, but nothing prepares even the most seasoned telefan for the "Holy Shit!" moment of seeing one in the sheet metal on a tri-oval like this.  The sound assaults; the cars slide and drift, rim-riding high against the Turn 4 wall and diving down to the inside of the track to make the dogleg.  They flash by the stands so fast that the eye can't focus; only as they approach or recede can you identify the driver.  If he loses it and spins, thick, choking tire smoke, a vicious, viscous compound of petro-compounds, fills the air like an evil fog.  One car on the track alone is a spectacle; forty on the track together defies comprehension.

 

The porn princess must be exhausted this morning.  .

 

She was plenty active during yesterday afternoon's practice, wearing a T-shirt that read "Stop Staring-) They Don't Talk" and sipping soda from a straw topped with a plastic penis.  It was hard to read the T-shirt because the message was obscured by strands and strands of plastic beads, the kind that are thrown in response to "Show your tits" chants.  She distracted her entourage of ten men (and one humiliated woman) by practicing sexual poses and dry-humping each of the men for a photo op.  Neither she, nor the men with her, appeared to be interested in the subtleties of the racing lines used by the drivers.

 

NASCAR is proud to proclaim itself a "family-friendly" sport.  Children are actively invited, and the souvenir stands are full of toys, inflatables, and team-colored clothing for them.  Four rows of semi-trailer concession stands extend a full mile in front of the complex's main entrance, selling any badge of loyalty one can imagine:  hats, coats posters, models, key chains, etc.   One particularly gets my attention:  Beretta, the "official firearm of NASCAR." 

 

We didn't visit Pervert's Corner, but it's legendary--a kind of "Girls Gone Wild", Spring Break orgy of beer- and whiskey-fueled sex, drugs, and country-western.  Anything goes here, and police and security stay away.  For those with morning-after regrets, the parking lot also hosts a chapel with full Sunday morning services.

 

A hundred or so yards away, though, police cars and ambulances cordon off one the motorhomes.  We ask what's happened as we walk by on our way to the speedway, and get only a dour "Too much fun" in response.  It turns out that a bullet has literally fallen from the sky, piercing the roof of the coach and wounding a woman inside.  The shooter may have been as far as five miles away, celebrating by firing a .50 caliber hunting rifle in the air.

 

They still call these vehicles "stock cars", but there's nothing stock about them, as a cutaway car rotating in one of the displays demonstrates.  NASCAR was built on automotive tribalism; an important part of a boy's identity when I was coming of age was whether he was devoted to Ford, Chevy, or Mopar (Plymouth and Dodge.) I was a Chevy guy myself; my automotive used-car collection included a '56, a '58 and even a Vega.  And NASCAR fans clung to the old loyalties, even as the marketplace turned Japanese.  It was only three years ago that Toyota was admitted to the club, and then only because they build their cars here.

 

And the drivers were identified with their brand:  The King, Richard Petty, drove a Dodge, and David Pearson a Ford.  Even as late as the Dale Earnhardt era, it would have been unthinkable to see him in anything other than a jet-black Chevrolet.

 

But now the cars are purpose-built, all on the same chassis derived, ultimately, from a 1950s pickup truck.  The engines still have carburetors, decades after road cars replaced them with fuel injection.  Cars navigate the American roads with front-wheel drive get the power to racetracks through the rear wheels.  And the bodies are all fitted to the same template; the elements that help identify them as a particular marque, the "headlights", "taillights", and "grille", are really decals affixed to virtually identical bodies.  Competition between carmakers is really, pretty much, an illusion.

 

Maybe no sport is as American, after all, as NASCAR, for no other sport so embraces and exploits the paradoxes of American life.  Fans based in six-figure motorhomes act out working-class stereotypes--binge drinking, unrestrained sex, gun-toting machismo.  Yet they bring their children with them and bow their heads reverently as the official NASCAR chaplain delivers a Southern Baptist invocation before each race.  They gather around campfires (or, often, gas grills) like Pleistocene nomads, but retire inside to watch the pre-race show and practice on satellite-delivered, flat-screen HDTVs.  They fly flags and proclaim tribal loyalties they're literally willing to fight for based upon the most illusory of differences. 

 

And when the race weekend ends, many of them will stow the lawn chairs and plastic palms, retract the extensions and satellite dishes, and hit the road for the next race at the next speedway.  With only two months between the end of one season and the beginning of another, there's always another race coming soon, another dusty parking lot for the tribes to gather.

 

I tried out blogging in 2006 by making this SPACE.  I haven't added anything else till now.  Now WindowsLive has added the ability to add photos easily so I decided to do a quick travel update to you all.

 

As many of you know, Roger and I have been married a REALLY long time.

Our 38th Wedding Anniversary is coming up in a few weeks on September 19th, 2008.

To celebrate before Roger starts back to work, we took a trip to New York City from August 25th thru August 30th, 2008.

 

Here's a short commentary of our trip to go along with the slide show on this page.

Our aim was to really feel the City and not to do what we've done on other visits.

We took the redeye to NYC in 2 hops.  When we transferred in the Washington DC Airport we were met by happy, flying birds.  We think they live inside the airport.  At least two of them zoomed through the concourse we were on.  It woke us up for a moment!

 

Then HELLO NYC!  Our hotel room wasn't ready yet (at 10am) so we went to Times Square.  You gotta visit Times Square again.  It was full day, the lights and signs were ablaz'n, and the streets were packed with humanity.  And the noise!  This city is ALWAYS tearing down and building and building some more.  Still quite amazing.  But we were tired so went back to our hotel to wait.  Luckily the subway stop was at the corner, steps away from our hotel door.

 

Our hotel was picked because it was still in the City, Upper West Side, but not in the posh (thus expensive) part of NYC and still near Central Park.  As it turns out the Marrakech Hotel, 2688 Broadway at 103rd and Broadway, is 30 blocks away from "good" NY and is well used by young, international travelers.  We followed Travel Guru Rick Steves advice and only packed one suitcase and one travel bag.  Good thing because this hotel has no elevator but it's lobby is one floor up AND THEN our room was two more floors up!  The staff was fabulous - attentive and helpful.  And the small lobby had a bar for happy hour every evening.  Good for dehydrated sightseerers.  Hmmm, beer.  The room was only 10 by 10 but had a small bath, a flat screen TV on the wall, an air conditioner, and a small window facing a brick wall which was good because we got no street noise.  Amazingly quiet for a very busy hotel.  They were always booked up.

 

Rogers' wish for this trip was to see South Pacific.  With trepidation we got tickets online from a vendor.  Our seats were terrific!  The Lincoln Center Vivian Beaumont Theater rises steeply from the stage back.  The stage juts way out into the theater and moves back and forth over the orchestra.  Our seats were on a far side but only up 10 rows or so.  This was GREAT!  The play was well done.  The acting and singing were way above good.  The set designs were simple but effective.  One of the actors in particular we recognized from bit parts in Law and Order and other TV shows.  Cool.  One thing we really noticed about the crowd was that there are a LOT of old people in NYC.

 

We walked 20 blocks from the play to a restaurant which was highly recommended by a pastry chef at our corner bakery - Calle Ocho, 81st and Columbus Ave.    Lovely Cuban Food and way too much so we over ate. 

 

But then we still had 20 more blocks to walk back to the hotel.  We got to see so many neighborhoods.  It was fascinating.  All kinds of people, tons of strollers, and dogs, dogs, dogs plus one cat.  Near our hotel within blocks were all kinds of restaurants which we availed ourselves of all the rest of the time - Japanese at Tokyo Pop, Italian at Regional, Turkish at Turkuaz.  Plus we had breakfast possibilities at Silvermoon Cafe, Broadway Diner and Broadway Bagel (fabulous bagels).  Of course Starbucks was on the corner for our wake up coffee that Roger would go down for as we woke up.

 

My NYC wish was to see a special exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art - Superheroes: Fashion and Fantasy.  It was only there until September 1st.  http://www.metmuseum.org/special/se_event.asp?OccurrenceId={5B98D8A0-AB67-4137-8F5E-873FDB82EE73}&HomePageLink=special_c3a  It was really well done.  Even Roger enjoyed it.   I bought the book if you want to see it.

 

Also at the Met was a favorite painter of ours - J. M. W. Turner 1775-1851.

http://www.metmuseum.org/special/se_event.asp?OccurrenceId={2BE69841-EA62-4A5C-B1E6-0AD0D8B7BE7D}

It was a huge exhibit showing a body of work we had never known about plus the ships and seascapes done in pre-impressionist style that we love.

 

Plus Jeff Koons wacky sculptures on the roof (balloon dog and the see thru thing).

 

We were museumed out after that but still saw a few more paintings, sculptures and Egyptian things as we were trying to find our way out.  It reminded us of trying to find the exit at the Louvre - very difficult.

 

We both remember the 60's and had read a book about the "folkies" era in Greenwich Village - Suze Rotolos' "A Freewheelin' Time" plus seen a movie and a documentary about Bob Dylan recently so we spent a day in that area.  Our NY friend Mike also gave us a list of cafes and bookstores in that area.  So we had lunch (my sandwich was Perugia: Fontina, Pears, Walnuts and Honey Mustard - mmm) and a Cappuccino in the oldest cappuccino Cafe in the area - Reggio's.  Great, though dark, atmosphere.  We found the Shakespeare and Co Bookstore for Roger.  Nice but not as cool as the one in Paris.  We also found Mike's favorite Comic Bookstore - St. Mark's Comics, a little, but deep, hole in the wall we almost walked by and missed.  WOW!  They have so many cool scifi action figures.  Doctor Who, the TARDIS, Dark Angel, Stargate, Star Trek, Wars, Anime, and on and on.  I didn't want to go into debt so I limited myself to some small things.  But the memory is forever!

 

Our last full day was dedicated to seeing what will likely be gone soon - Coney Island.  The subway trip was interesting in itself.  About a half hour out the train goes above ground at Brooklyn Bridge (we saw the waterfall) so you can see the neighborhoods in the "suburbs" of Brooklyn.  Much different than ours.   A little like England - very close together.

 

So we have now walked the Boardwalk, seen their Aquarium (ours is better), rode the Wonder Wheel in a swinging basket and had the famous Nathan Hotdogs.  Mine was with chili.  We also got into a conversation with Lillian, born and raised in Brooklyn and "Proud of it!".  She enthusiastically wore a t-shirt that said "Brooklyn: only the strong survive!"  Even other Brooklynites were jealous and wanted to know where to get one.  She talked and talked while we were in line waiting to buy our hotdogs.  Then she had us go over and sit with her and her husband Ken.  Lovely people!  It made our day.

 

But really, everywhere we went, New Yorkers were friendly, helpful and delightful.

 

Our only disappointment was that Chumley's was not open.  It's from the 1830's.  It has great food and has been frequented by artists and writers forever.  The walls have pictures and autographs from all the greats.  Mike told us about it when we visited NYC in 2004.  The door has no sign which would indicate that it is a restaurant.  It looks like a housing entrance.  It's well known by New Yorkers and they guard its' existence.  Roger and I wanted to eat lunch their on our Greenwich day.  We thought we found it but there was no door, just construction.  We looked up and down the adjoining streets.  I looked around and finally asked a woman getting into a car who looked like she lived on the street.  She was reticent to acknowledge that it existed until I explained that I knew it had no sign plus I had been to it in 2004.  Then she told me that its ceiling had fallen in and it was still being renovated.  Whew!  So Roger and I weren't nuts, Chumley's really wasn't there at the moment.  Darn.

 

And that was our New York!

 

 

Peeps!

It's almost Easter and the Peeps are back.

My kids love them more than the traditional chocolate bunnys I think.

This year I noticed in the Seattle Times that they have a Peeps contest.  i.e. You make sculptures using Peeps.

Check out 2006 winners!

It's priceless.

Thursday, March 15, 2007, 8pm.

A friend has long standing tickets to the UW Dance series.  Her seat is way near the front.  Very cool!

The costuming ...

 

The only music was a pianist.  But he was on a rolling platform so at times he was behind the piano and other times we saw his back; sometimes he was on the right of the stage, sometimes on the left.  Sometimes the dance happened while he was invisible and other times when he was part of the "props".

 

The pianist was not just background music.

He was part of the staging, part of the action, part of the artistry.  At one point an almost invisible netting was hung as a curtain in front of the whole stage.  On stage we could see a camera person filming the pianists playing hands. 

And on the big filmy netting we could see his enlarged finger movements.  Behind we saw the dancer dancing.

Amazing.  Technology added an enhanced connection to the music and how the intrepretation happened on stage.

 

And the dances and dancers themselves.

A very lovely time.  See their site!

Thanks Lolly Madonna!