In the interest of full disclosure, let me tell you that NASCAR does nothing for me.
I've never been to a live race, nor do I have the desire.
I've watched parts of races on TV enough times to know that the coverage seems quite good.
I don't understand the appeal of the sport, but I do understand the appeal of the brand-loyalty that comes with the sport.
I open with this so you recognize that, while I've been known to take shots at the NASCAR Nation with the intent of getting some laughs (which usually involves a Days of Thunder reference), I really don't care either way about the sport, and I wish its fans great joy in participating in whatever way they want to participate.
I am curious, though.
I ride the bus to work now; not in an effort to spare the environment my car's exhaust, but in an effort to spare my wallet further exhaustion. And as I rode the bus this morning, I wondered,
"What kind of MPG do the NASCAR cars get?"
The answer? According to a variety of internet sources, about five miles per gallon. You read that right. Five. As in half of ten.
At that rate, a 40-car, 400-mile race taking place in…oh, let's say Dover…will consume approximately 3,200 gallons of gas.
In one day.
I would never be so pretentious as to suggest that any one sport discontinue its activities simply because of the frivolity of the nature of that sport.
Nor would I be so misguided as to suggest that one sport's frivolity is…well, more frivolous…than any other sport's.
Sport, by its very nature, is frivolous; fun, but frivolous. However, sport is also, at most levels, a business, and who am I to tell an organization how to conduct their business? Particularly a business as well-run as NASCAR?
What I will say, though, is that the gas used in one 400-mile NASCAR race is enough gas to get me, in my modest 25 MPG car, to-and-from work (round trip about 60 miles), accounting for days-off taken for holidays, vacation, and sick time…for almost six full years.
I'm not sayin'.
I'm just sayin'.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Wake Me When It’s Over
I have this recurring nightmare.
I’m a contestant on Jeopardy!, the game show hosted by Alex Trebek, Canada’s answer to Chuck Woolery. The difference between Trebek and Woolery, of course, is that Trebek is really smart, and Woolery looks at you in such a way that when the show is over, you kind of feel like you want to take a shower.
Anyway, in my nightmare, the game is mine to win after I wow the crowd by running the “Cheese Doodle Makers” category in the Double Jeopardy! round; the streak leaves me a mere $1.00 short of completely locking out my opponents.
The Final Jeopardy! category is ANNOYANCES, and Alex glares at me when he announces it, because during the whole let’s-meet-the-contestants segment, I asked him how often his wife grabs his “signaling device.” The chat pretty much ended there.
The Final Jeopardy! answer is, “This white, flaky thing is measured in inches and causes car accidents.”
This is a no-brainer, I think. We should all get this, and since I bet $2.00, I’ll be the new Jeopardy! champion. It is good to be me.
But only for a moment.
Don, a mechanic from Tulsa, is the current champion who credits his intelligence to a lucky blow to the head. His response? “What is snow?” He bet it all, which will still leave him in third place, where he’ll take home Rice-A-Roni, “The San Francisco Treat.” This suits Don okay, because he’s afraid if he gets any closer to the real San Francisco, he’ll “catch cooties from one of them foo-foo boys.” Oh, Don. Good luck in the Republican primary.
Next is Sheila, a teacher from Omaha. She asks, “What is snow?” She, too, bet it all, which will leave her in second place by one dollar. This will entitle her to a copy of the Jeopardy! home game, which she will play incessantly, only so she can relive the humiliation of defeat…all from the comfort of the inside of a scotch bottle. Take consolation, Sheila, in the fact that you were second-smartest on a game show as opposed to second-prettiest in a beauty contest. It’s one thing to be “not as smart as”; it’s another to be “uglier than.”
Two contestants up and two contestants down with “What is snow?” Suckers.
Oh no. Enter nightmare.
Wait a minute, I think in a panic usually reserved for DUI checkpoints and home pregnancy tests. Did they say, “What is snow?”
Alex asks for my response. “Um,” I say like a wannabe champion. “Let’s just skip it and crown Sheila the champ.” My response is revealed for me. “Who is Rue McClanahan?”
Have you ever seen a Canadian guffaw? It isn’t pretty.
Before I can argue with the judges that…
…Rue McClanahan is white and…
…Rue McClanahan is flaky and…
…Rue McClanahan is measured in inches and…
… anyone who has ever been in a car accident with me knows what the very mention of Rue McClanahan’s name does to my hand-eye coordination…
…I wake in a clammy, naked, fetal heap.
Suddenly, being back in two-and-two doesn’t make me feel so dirty.
I’m a contestant on Jeopardy!, the game show hosted by Alex Trebek, Canada’s answer to Chuck Woolery. The difference between Trebek and Woolery, of course, is that Trebek is really smart, and Woolery looks at you in such a way that when the show is over, you kind of feel like you want to take a shower.
Anyway, in my nightmare, the game is mine to win after I wow the crowd by running the “Cheese Doodle Makers” category in the Double Jeopardy! round; the streak leaves me a mere $1.00 short of completely locking out my opponents.
The Final Jeopardy! category is ANNOYANCES, and Alex glares at me when he announces it, because during the whole let’s-meet-the-contestants segment, I asked him how often his wife grabs his “signaling device.” The chat pretty much ended there.
The Final Jeopardy! answer is, “This white, flaky thing is measured in inches and causes car accidents.”
This is a no-brainer, I think. We should all get this, and since I bet $2.00, I’ll be the new Jeopardy! champion. It is good to be me.
But only for a moment.
Don, a mechanic from Tulsa, is the current champion who credits his intelligence to a lucky blow to the head. His response? “What is snow?” He bet it all, which will still leave him in third place, where he’ll take home Rice-A-Roni, “The San Francisco Treat.” This suits Don okay, because he’s afraid if he gets any closer to the real San Francisco, he’ll “catch cooties from one of them foo-foo boys.” Oh, Don. Good luck in the Republican primary.
Next is Sheila, a teacher from Omaha. She asks, “What is snow?” She, too, bet it all, which will leave her in second place by one dollar. This will entitle her to a copy of the Jeopardy! home game, which she will play incessantly, only so she can relive the humiliation of defeat…all from the comfort of the inside of a scotch bottle. Take consolation, Sheila, in the fact that you were second-smartest on a game show as opposed to second-prettiest in a beauty contest. It’s one thing to be “not as smart as”; it’s another to be “uglier than.”
Two contestants up and two contestants down with “What is snow?” Suckers.
Oh no. Enter nightmare.
Wait a minute, I think in a panic usually reserved for DUI checkpoints and home pregnancy tests. Did they say, “What is snow?”
Alex asks for my response. “Um,” I say like a wannabe champion. “Let’s just skip it and crown Sheila the champ.” My response is revealed for me. “Who is Rue McClanahan?”
Have you ever seen a Canadian guffaw? It isn’t pretty.
Before I can argue with the judges that…
…Rue McClanahan is white and…
…Rue McClanahan is flaky and…
…Rue McClanahan is measured in inches and…
… anyone who has ever been in a car accident with me knows what the very mention of Rue McClanahan’s name does to my hand-eye coordination…
…I wake in a clammy, naked, fetal heap.
Suddenly, being back in two-and-two doesn’t make me feel so dirty.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Putting the MANSHIP back into SPORTS
My wife is a runner, and to paraphrase a great friend of mine, she does so without even being chased.
To be honest, I don’t understand this desire to repeatedly put one foot in front of the other, and at such a pace and for such a distance, that pain becomes not merely a possibility, but an expectation. And, not only do I not understand it, I don’t pretend to understand it. I know that when my wife comes home from a run, and she speaks of blisters on her feet or twinges in her hip, I don’t give her a look that says, “I feel your pain, Baby.” I give her a look that says, “If God had REALLY wanted us to put our bodies through such paces for the sole purpose of getting from one place to another, He wouldn’t have invented cars. Duh.”
However, while I might not understand it or even pretend to understand it, I accept it and respect it as a key part of my wife’s existence. There is something about running that gives her a glorious feeling that nothing else can replicate, regardless of how many speeds it has or how many batteries you put in it, and that’s a mystery that will forever go unsolved for me, along with things like the Kennedy assassination and yogurt in a tube.
Recently, my wife participated in the 10-mile portion of the Christiana Care Delaware Marathon / Relay / 10-Mile. The notion of a relay interested me, because it consisted of multiple runners on one team combining each individual leg for one marathon’s distance. I was almost inspired to take up running, but it turns out your team has only four runners somehow dividing the marathon’s distance. They don’t let you run a 26.2-mile relay race with a team of 262 people running .10 miles each.
So much for my running career.
When my wife has run races in the past, I have stayed home with the kiddies, but the kiddies are now of an age where one can baby-sit the other (as long as I hide the duct tape first). With that, and for the first time, I accompanied Baby to her race.
Like a good runner, she brought with her a sack of running-related stuff. I have no idea what most of that stuff was, just as I have no idea what most woodworking tools look like or what the inside of a human chest cavity contains (other than what I’ve seen on CSI: Woodshop). What I do know, though, is how to be a good supporter, and a good supporter brings four things of his own: sunscreen, an I-Pod, a chair, and the newspaper.
After Baby began her trek along what I can only describe as one humongous loop, I found a spot near the finish line, parked my chair, slathered enough lotion to form a thick SPF cocoon around my fair-skinned exoskeleton, cranked the tunes, and perused the news of the day. As time passed and more people gathered near the finish line, I took to my feet so I wouldn’t look like a complete lump, although the guy across the street jamming breakfast sandwiches down his throat pretty much guaranteed me no better than first runner-up in the Mr. You-Really-Don’t-Belong-Here-Do-You 2008 Pageant.
Then, an odd thing happened. A runner crossed the finish line, headed for the table of complimentary replenishment foodstuffs, and quickly found his way next to me so that he could cheer on the runners who would eventually follow him.
Huh?!?!?!
As runner after runner passed, this other competitor, not really sweating as much as gushing from his pores, rooted for complete strangers whom he had just beaten, as well as runners from the other two races! And then more runners followed suit, cheering on those who followed after them. And this was no feigned enthusiasm. This was no congratulation exhibited by forcedly polite golf-claps. This was palm-reddening, voice-hoarsening enthusiasm for runners of all stripes, from runners of all stripes.
I was so stunned I had to sit down. That and I was getting winded…you know, from standing there and stuff.
Where was the gloating? Where was the thrill of (your own) victory? Where was the agony of (the other guy’s) defeat? No jerseys were popped! No fingers were wagged! Who stole the egocentric humanity I knew and loved and what sort of alien symbiotic communal life form did they replace it with?
According to my wife, my X-Files-esque accusations were both cute and creepy at the same time. She went on to explain that this camaraderie is routine in the running community. It seems that runners have a much better sense of, and respect for, the effort it takes to finish a race.
Runners are bonded by the shared experience of not only the physical toll that repeated ground-pounding dishes out to the body, but also the mental toll of knowing, one stride after the starter’s pistol fires, you have 26.2 miles (minus three feet) to go, and there is no whistle to allow substitutions, no middle reliever to warm up in the pen, and no pit crew to change tires. Only YOU can finish YOUR race…alone. And when you finish that race, you take satisfaction in knowing, and your running brethren take satisfaction in knowing, that what you have done truly is an accomplishment worth cheering.
Eating breakfast sandwiches? Not so much.
So I applaud you, runners; not only for your physical and mental toughness, but for your deep understanding of sportsmanship; that while individual statistics are important, at the end of the day, it’s not about winning or losing, it’s about the achievement of the act.
Now, can someone please pass the aloe? I missed the back of my neck and the sunburn really hurts.
To be honest, I don’t understand this desire to repeatedly put one foot in front of the other, and at such a pace and for such a distance, that pain becomes not merely a possibility, but an expectation. And, not only do I not understand it, I don’t pretend to understand it. I know that when my wife comes home from a run, and she speaks of blisters on her feet or twinges in her hip, I don’t give her a look that says, “I feel your pain, Baby.” I give her a look that says, “If God had REALLY wanted us to put our bodies through such paces for the sole purpose of getting from one place to another, He wouldn’t have invented cars. Duh.”
However, while I might not understand it or even pretend to understand it, I accept it and respect it as a key part of my wife’s existence. There is something about running that gives her a glorious feeling that nothing else can replicate, regardless of how many speeds it has or how many batteries you put in it, and that’s a mystery that will forever go unsolved for me, along with things like the Kennedy assassination and yogurt in a tube.
Recently, my wife participated in the 10-mile portion of the Christiana Care Delaware Marathon / Relay / 10-Mile. The notion of a relay interested me, because it consisted of multiple runners on one team combining each individual leg for one marathon’s distance. I was almost inspired to take up running, but it turns out your team has only four runners somehow dividing the marathon’s distance. They don’t let you run a 26.2-mile relay race with a team of 262 people running .10 miles each.
So much for my running career.
When my wife has run races in the past, I have stayed home with the kiddies, but the kiddies are now of an age where one can baby-sit the other (as long as I hide the duct tape first). With that, and for the first time, I accompanied Baby to her race.
Like a good runner, she brought with her a sack of running-related stuff. I have no idea what most of that stuff was, just as I have no idea what most woodworking tools look like or what the inside of a human chest cavity contains (other than what I’ve seen on CSI: Woodshop). What I do know, though, is how to be a good supporter, and a good supporter brings four things of his own: sunscreen, an I-Pod, a chair, and the newspaper.
After Baby began her trek along what I can only describe as one humongous loop, I found a spot near the finish line, parked my chair, slathered enough lotion to form a thick SPF cocoon around my fair-skinned exoskeleton, cranked the tunes, and perused the news of the day. As time passed and more people gathered near the finish line, I took to my feet so I wouldn’t look like a complete lump, although the guy across the street jamming breakfast sandwiches down his throat pretty much guaranteed me no better than first runner-up in the Mr. You-Really-Don’t-Belong-Here-Do-You 2008 Pageant.
Then, an odd thing happened. A runner crossed the finish line, headed for the table of complimentary replenishment foodstuffs, and quickly found his way next to me so that he could cheer on the runners who would eventually follow him.
Huh?!?!?!
As runner after runner passed, this other competitor, not really sweating as much as gushing from his pores, rooted for complete strangers whom he had just beaten, as well as runners from the other two races! And then more runners followed suit, cheering on those who followed after them. And this was no feigned enthusiasm. This was no congratulation exhibited by forcedly polite golf-claps. This was palm-reddening, voice-hoarsening enthusiasm for runners of all stripes, from runners of all stripes.
I was so stunned I had to sit down. That and I was getting winded…you know, from standing there and stuff.
Where was the gloating? Where was the thrill of (your own) victory? Where was the agony of (the other guy’s) defeat? No jerseys were popped! No fingers were wagged! Who stole the egocentric humanity I knew and loved and what sort of alien symbiotic communal life form did they replace it with?
According to my wife, my X-Files-esque accusations were both cute and creepy at the same time. She went on to explain that this camaraderie is routine in the running community. It seems that runners have a much better sense of, and respect for, the effort it takes to finish a race.
Runners are bonded by the shared experience of not only the physical toll that repeated ground-pounding dishes out to the body, but also the mental toll of knowing, one stride after the starter’s pistol fires, you have 26.2 miles (minus three feet) to go, and there is no whistle to allow substitutions, no middle reliever to warm up in the pen, and no pit crew to change tires. Only YOU can finish YOUR race…alone. And when you finish that race, you take satisfaction in knowing, and your running brethren take satisfaction in knowing, that what you have done truly is an accomplishment worth cheering.
Eating breakfast sandwiches? Not so much.
So I applaud you, runners; not only for your physical and mental toughness, but for your deep understanding of sportsmanship; that while individual statistics are important, at the end of the day, it’s not about winning or losing, it’s about the achievement of the act.
Now, can someone please pass the aloe? I missed the back of my neck and the sunburn really hurts.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Beam Me Up, Jesus
It’s been a few weeks since Pope Benedict XVI celebrated mass at New York’s Yankee Stadium. Oh, for want of a local church with luxury boxes, a JumboTron, and a dude who brings hotdogs to your seat.
This pope’s inaugural stateside visit was an exciting time for devout Catholics in the United States, and it was just as exciting for a Lapsed Catholic like me, because it gave me a chance to again embrace my faith…and so soon after Easter! As a bonus, what with church carnival season just around the corner, Christmas seems so much closer now.
But ever since Shepherd One – a moniker for the pontiff’s plane (and perhaps the title of an upcoming Harrison Ford movie) – went wheels-up and headed home to Vatican City, I’ve been left wondering about what we Lapsed Catholics can do to maintain the high interest level that the pope’s visit inspired (or at least attempted to encourage). The answer finally came to me in the 21st century equivalent of the burning bush: the Associated Press.
In a story filed this week by the AP’s Ariel David, “Believing that the universe may contain alien life does not contradict a faith in God, the Vatican’s chief astronomer said in an interview published Tuesday.” The AP piece later states, “In the interview by the Vatican newspaper L'Osservatore Romano, [Jesuit director of the Vatican Observatory Rev. Jose Gabriel] Funes said that such a notion ‘doesn't contradict our faith’ because aliens would still be God’s creatures. Ruling out the existence of aliens would be like ‘putting limits’ on God’s creative freedom, he said.”
Don’t misunderstand me. It isn’t the notion that the Catholic Church has validated the possibility that life on other planets exists that has my interest piqued, nor is it the opportunity to sit in an otherwise brutally boring staff meeting, look my boss dead in the eye, and say, “Hey! The Catholic Church says that God might have created life on Uranus.”
I’m excited by the fact that there is such a place as the Vatican Observatory! And they have a chief astronomer! I thought the Chief Catholic Astronomer was God! Who knew? And before today, if someone had asked me about the church’s position on outer space, I would have said, “Catholic? Outer space? Yes, we call that Heaven.”
As of today, I have found my faith to be reinvigorated by the potential for unique employment opportunities. Not only is there a Vatican Observatory, there is someone out there who makes OFFICIAL papal merchandise (as opposed to that cheapy knock-off junk you might find at your local farmer’s market).
Head on over to www.popevisit2008.com and you, too, can purchase Vatican-licensed merchandise to help you keep the faith! My faves? I like the $4.50 dog tags, because there is something so very crusade-y about combining God and military-style IDs. I also like the $18.50 t-shirt emblazoned with “Property of Benedict XVI” which, with its blatantly athletic overtones, makes me wonder if they ever considered emblazoning merchandise with the slogan “Just Pew It.”
See! I’m a natural! Vatican Human Resources, here I come!
This pope’s inaugural stateside visit was an exciting time for devout Catholics in the United States, and it was just as exciting for a Lapsed Catholic like me, because it gave me a chance to again embrace my faith…and so soon after Easter! As a bonus, what with church carnival season just around the corner, Christmas seems so much closer now.
But ever since Shepherd One – a moniker for the pontiff’s plane (and perhaps the title of an upcoming Harrison Ford movie) – went wheels-up and headed home to Vatican City, I’ve been left wondering about what we Lapsed Catholics can do to maintain the high interest level that the pope’s visit inspired (or at least attempted to encourage). The answer finally came to me in the 21st century equivalent of the burning bush: the Associated Press.
In a story filed this week by the AP’s Ariel David, “Believing that the universe may contain alien life does not contradict a faith in God, the Vatican’s chief astronomer said in an interview published Tuesday.” The AP piece later states, “In the interview by the Vatican newspaper L'Osservatore Romano, [Jesuit director of the Vatican Observatory Rev. Jose Gabriel] Funes said that such a notion ‘doesn't contradict our faith’ because aliens would still be God’s creatures. Ruling out the existence of aliens would be like ‘putting limits’ on God’s creative freedom, he said.”
Don’t misunderstand me. It isn’t the notion that the Catholic Church has validated the possibility that life on other planets exists that has my interest piqued, nor is it the opportunity to sit in an otherwise brutally boring staff meeting, look my boss dead in the eye, and say, “Hey! The Catholic Church says that God might have created life on Uranus.”
I’m excited by the fact that there is such a place as the Vatican Observatory! And they have a chief astronomer! I thought the Chief Catholic Astronomer was God! Who knew? And before today, if someone had asked me about the church’s position on outer space, I would have said, “Catholic? Outer space? Yes, we call that Heaven.”
As of today, I have found my faith to be reinvigorated by the potential for unique employment opportunities. Not only is there a Vatican Observatory, there is someone out there who makes OFFICIAL papal merchandise (as opposed to that cheapy knock-off junk you might find at your local farmer’s market).
Head on over to www.popevisit2008.com and you, too, can purchase Vatican-licensed merchandise to help you keep the faith! My faves? I like the $4.50 dog tags, because there is something so very crusade-y about combining God and military-style IDs. I also like the $18.50 t-shirt emblazoned with “Property of Benedict XVI” which, with its blatantly athletic overtones, makes me wonder if they ever considered emblazoning merchandise with the slogan “Just Pew It.”
See! I’m a natural! Vatican Human Resources, here I come!
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