27 January 2001 ~ The NASCAR experience: lessons in urinating and cursing, loving Jesus Christ, and getting a good suntan...

I will never understand my father.

This is a man who used to turn off the radio when Lou Reed's "Take a Walk on the Wild Side" came on, because Lou happened to use the phrase "giving head." This is a man who wouldn't let me hang out with males -- even gay ones -- because he was sure they were going to take advantage of me sexually. This is a man who thought use of the word "fart" was "inappropriate." This is a man who felt he must protect his daughter at all costs.

This is also the man who thought it was okay to take a "family outing" to a NASCAR race. It goes against everything he seemed to stand for, but somehow, although going out to dinner with gay men was inappropriate, NASCAR races were fine.

My father loved NASCAR. My mom sort of did too, although I think she mostly liked it because it got her out of the house. My brothers liked it because our parents did. I, however, did not like it.

I've never been much of a sports fan, of any sort. My memory for sports statistics extends about as far back as the last time I used the toilet. I don't know who's "good," and I don't know who to root for, so I always just seem to pick the most pathetic team or player or whatever, feel desperately sorry for him, and root for him out of love and compassion.

At my first NASCAR race, the guy who drove the Quaker State car was in second-place for most of the race. Toward the end, his engine blew up. I felt bad for him, and so he was my chosen one. Also, his car was green, and I liked green. I decided the Quaker State guy was pretty cool. Unfortunately, he didn't win.

It wasn't so much the race that intrigued me. I couldn't have cared less about fast cars driving around, although the crashes were sort of cool. As a matter of fact, I don't think ANYBODY would give a shit about NASCAR racing unless they were drunk. Come to think of it, everybody but me WAS drunk.

Recipe for a NASCAR race:

Take seemingly zillions of rednecks from various states. Add three twelve-packs of Budweiser or Bud Light or Coors for each individual attending the NASCAR race. Mix well.

Now, we all know what a sloshed redneck male looks like. There are plenty of them on Lifetime television who beat their wives. Now imagine that they aren't beating their wives; imagine that they are watching fast cars smash into each other. Imagine that each one's very existence depends on seeing his particular car smash all the others into oblivion and kick the shit out of the rest of the competitors without so much as denting the hubcaps.

Your typical male NASCAR fan looks a helluva lot like Meat Loaf. He has long hair, which is stringy and gross, and a big gut. He looks like he could bathe seven times a day and still not come clean. He doesn't dress as well as Meat Loaf, either. He's wearing a neon t'shirt proclaiming "DALE EARNHARDT!" with a picture of a brilliant neon car zipping into infinity. Sometimes he's wearing one of those air-brush-photo t'shirts, usually of a car, or a motorcycle, or a Flaming Head of Death. Sometimes, but not often, he is wearing a Metallica t'shirt, or a Slayer t'shirt. He has several tattoos, and none of these tattoos are ever meant for a family audience. Never, at a NASCAR race, will you ever see a man wearing a "Chicks dig scrawny pale guys" t'shirt. Or a tuxedo.

Your typical NASCAR female looks like a reject from Baywatch. Her skin is so dark she could be Asian, although I have never seen a non-Caucasian person at a NASCAR race. You suspect she spends her days sun-bathing in her dusty backyard in Alabama, and -- you got it -- drinking Coors Light. And perhaps getting beaten by her husband. Her skin is very dark, but also sort of flaky and blistery, as though she recently survived a napalm attack. She still thinks her tan could be a little darker, though, and is wearing a neon bikini top and cut-off denim shorts. She thinks she's pretty hot stuff, and is wiggling convulsively all over her Meat Loaf-looking boyfriend. She has sunglasses on the top of her head, held in place by a neon glasses-cord with the inscription "DALE EARNHARDT!" on it. Her hair is blonde -- bleach blonde -- and sort of stringy. She matches Meat Loaf pretty well, only she weighs about 90 pounds and most of that is boobs. Saggy boobs in a bikini top.

NASCAR etiquette:

It is acceptable to urinate off the stands if the urge overtakes you, and no one will object. Besides, the lines at the porta-potties are always dreadfully long. It's just a helluva lot easier to piss off the stands. And to yell "I'm pissin'!" or something similar, so as to draw attention to your giant wanker, which is, of course, tattooed with "DALE EARNHARDT!" No one at a NASCAR race knows what the word "wanker" really means.

When your cooler is empty of beer, you dump out the ice and water from your seat in the stands, aiming specifically for kids below who are picking up cans and bottles. You throw the cans and bottles down there to make amends. But again, since you're likely from out-of-state, your state probably doesn't support bottle-redemption, and the kids aren't going to get a nickel for picking up your can anyway. Ha.

You demand that your girlfriend go get you more beer.

If you are a woman, you must complain numerous times that porta-potties are insufficient for grooming -- that is, putting on loads of make-up that is in no way a natural color. And you must never, NEVER apply sunscreen. Third-degree sunburns? So what?

If you smoke, it has to be something cheap and smelly. No one at a NASCAR race is actually allowed to smoke Camels or Marlboros, although you ARE permitted to wear a t'shirt with Camel or Marlboro insignia.

When your driver does something -- anything, including completing a lap -- you must scream at him. Nevermind that he can't hear you because he's inside his car. He CAN hear you if you shout hard enough. You must shout meaningless things like, "ATTA WAY DALE!" Or, "GET 'EM!" Or, "COME ON, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" And if he hears you, your lone drunken voice will be enough to carry him across the finish line, past the checkered flag, and into victory. Second-place is not an option.

Your hands must be filthy. You must use them sporadically to scratch your genitals. Nobody at a NASCAR race really knows quite what genitals are, but they do know many, many other synonyms. At a NASCAR race, you must use ALL of these synonyms to describe your friends, your brother-in-law, your girlfriend, and all the drivers except your own. You must have, of course, only one driver; to be loyal to more than one is to divide your loyalties between the driver representing your entire being and another driver, which is simply not acceptable.

Upon leaving the race, you must drive your own vehicle at ten thousand miles an hour. Since you have drunk three twelve-packs of Budweiser (and NO, Guiness is NOT an option...), you must also swerve all over the road. You must beep your horn at sexy sunburned bleach-blonde ladies with large saggy boobs.

If you wish, you may have "Jesus Loves You" bumperstickers, and wear numerous gold crosses around your neck. This should in no way deter you from screaming obscenities at other people or the driver you have not chosen as representative of your manhood. Jesus loves Dale Earnhardt too. But not Ricky Rudd.

My father loved NASCAR. Come to think of it, so did my Aunt Carol, although I do believe Aunt Carol's only flaw was her respective loves for NASCAR and George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers. But what do you want from somebody who's lived in rural North Carolina for years? And at least she didn't have bleach-blonde hair.

Once, my father got to meet Kenny Schrader, the driver of the Folgers car. Since he'd been selling Folgers for Proctor and Gamble for so many years, of course Kenny Schrader was representative of my dad's manhood. Meeting Mr. Schrader was akin to meeting the Lord Jesus Christ for my father, who brought half a dozen cans of Folgers coffee and asked Mr. Schrader to sign them. Other people in line to meet this blessed driver wanted him to sign their bumper stickers, their NASCAR programs (valued at eight thousand dollars apiece), or their girlfriend's tits. Mr. Schrader was very good-natured about all of this, especially touching everybody's girlfriend's napalmed tits.

I guess you could say that Helena Thomas derived much of her identity from NASCAR races. As a matter of fact, I know I am a better person for having repeatedly witnessed all of this throughout my childhood.

...But I still don't like Budweiser. And I still dig scrawny pale guys.

Honk if you like Dale Earnheardt.
~Helena*