LeMonade

I’m so anxious that I think I may have wet my pants.  Unfortunately, I can’t rotate my head downward enough to confirm this fear.  A quick pat-down of my Nomex race suit finds no wetness, so at very least I can feel confident in the liquid-retaining power of the fireproof material that’s bundled about me.  I’m snapped out of my reverie by the waving of my temporary teammate’s gloved hand.  The car is ready to get back on the track.

Three hours earlier, I arrived at Motorsport Ranch on a blustery February day to cover the 24 Hours of LeMons Gator-O-Rama for Houstonist.  The LeMons series is a circuit of car races around the country consisting of $500 cars.  Teams have a lot of character, and the similarities to the art car crowd are not unfounded, except that these maniacs drive these cars at unsafe speeds instead of cruising down Allen Parkway.  After watching the race from various vantage points in the early afternoon, the Evel Kweasel team was ready for me to take a turn in their prized 1982 Toyota Corolla.

Unlike any 80’s Japanese econobox I’d ever encountered, this one has a full roll cage, a fuel pump kill switch, and a steering wheel smaller than a pie plate.  Climbing into the cockpit was not a task for anyone with a huge amount of personal pride; being harnessed into the racing seat also brought me in very close physical contact with these guys who I’d only met hours before.  One of the race organizers provided me with a red, Nomex-lined race suit, matching shoes and gloves, and a white helmet with the LeMons logo wrapping around it, furthering the idea that this was a real, honest-to-God car race.

Of course, I already knew this by the time I got the wave to go: in fact, the wheel-to-wheel action I’d seen from my safe, journalistically detached perspectives was what was really causing my anxiety.  (Even writing this, two days later, my palms have begun to sweat and I can actually feel my heart rate climbing.)  Races have winners, and observers are the people in the grandstands surrounding the pit row where the Corolla now sits.  By crossing the concrete barrier between the pits and the spectators, I’ve ceased to be an observer: I’m a racer now.

Only the race car isn’t moving.  I’ve stalled it.  The combination of push button starter and my trembling left leg have caused me to stall the car.  And stall it again.  And again.  Finally, the guys give the car a rolling start, I find 1st gear and pop the clutch.  Success! I roll slowly toward the pit exit and find 2nd gear.  But a race track employee is flagging me down.  Is there a limit on the number of times you can stall the car before everyone realizes you’re a phony and they haul you away? No, she just needs to see my driver-only wristband.  But I’m trying to manage the wonky synchros of 2nd gear, steer toward the right hand turn that leads out of the pits, and control my metronome heartbeat.  I fumble my limbs around my shoulders like an epileptic making the Sign of the Cross before finally tugging my glove upward enough to display the yellow wristband.  She waves me through before I stall the car again.  I won’t stall it again all day.

I round the right hander onto the backside of the track.  The Corolla wails like a horrific chimera of a Harley-Davidson and an angry infant, shrill and blaring at the same time.  The car owes its voice to the loss of its exhaust system (everything back of the headers) about 10 laps into the race, before my wheel time began.  The blare becomes a drone as I shift into third and begin to learn the track.  Fortunately, a yellow caution flag waves on my second lap, allowing me to take a more leisurely pace without having to worry about other racers passing me or vice versa.  I settle in behind a red Ford Taurus and learn the turns. Soft right, chicane, right, hard left, hairpin, hard right, hard right, long soft left, right, straight, hairpin, repeat.  I’m close on the Taurus’ bumper, and I’m starting to look anxiously for the yellow to drop so I can pass him.  When the caution is finally lifted, I’m reminded of the difference between a regular Taurus and a Taurus SHO.  The Yamaha V6 lights up and he’s blasting down the straight, forever out of my reach.

Now the racing begins in earnest.  The faster cars are flying by me.  A gold MR2.  A blaring red Miata with a curly pig tail.  A huge Infiniti Q45.  I’m trying not to let the passing affect me, but it’s an ego blow after getting my hopes up under caution.  I focus on my lines.  I shift rarely, 3rd gear providing the torque to power out of the turns.  The brakes are mushy but adequate.  I make some tire-squealing approaches to the back turns, getting faster each time.  I navigate the traffic that occassionally builds near the chicane without tail-ending anyone.  My confidence is building.  Ahead, I see my quarry: a orange BMW 3-series.

The 3-series is loping along at an even slower rate than I am. I’m zeroing in on the Beemer, cutting tighter turns, waiting to brake and accelerating out of the turns with purpose.  I’m on his bumper as we enter the chicane, dodging right and juking left as we approach a right hand turn.  A sharp left looms ahead, after which the track narrows.  I want to avoid the claustrophobia of the narrow stretch leading to the horseshoe-shaped turn ahead, so the left is my chance.  I mash the gas and sneak inside my orange nemesis.  It’s a sharp turn to take such a narrow line on, but the Corolla’s forgiving chassis has given me reason to believe that this won’t be a huge mistake.  I hope. I squinch my eyes shut as I rocket through the turn.

No sound.  No crunching metal.  A vibrating orange shape in my rear-view mirror shows that I have successfully passed the BMW. Big exhale. But now I’ve waited too long to brake for the right-hand hairpin.  Slam on brakes, crank the wheel right.  Squeal squeal squeal. Lift gas. Correct. Mash gas.

After making the pass, I realized that my playtime probably needed to end soon.  I was getting passed a lot, and I didn’t want to hinder the Evel Kweasel team in the standings.  I signal out the window that I’ll make one more lap, and cruise into the pits soon thereafter.  I immediately regret turning the fuel pump switch off.  I want to go back.  I want to keep risking life and limb three weeks before my wedding, because this is a peak adrenaline experience unlike any I’ve had in years.  But the pit crew is coming to unbuckle me, and I have a story to write, not a race to win.  It’s time to get back on my side of the concrete barrier.

Racing is fun, but it’s not where I’m meant to be.  This is where I’m supposed to be: sitting in my office, writing about the experience.  And I’m supposed to be in one piece for my blushing bride’s sake, so I think I’d rather risk a keyboard injury than figure out just how well the roll cage in a $500 car holds up.  Race on, fellas, and I’ll see you again in October.

—

Once more for the record, a huge thanks to Nick Pon and the Team Evel Kweasel boys for making this all happen.  You ROCK!

How To Be A Jukebox Hero

Life is generally not a difficult thing.  Get up, do your thing for 12 hours or so, eat a few times, try not to get yourself killed, sleep.  But there are some things that even the most educated among us sometimes struggle to grasp.  Among these things is proper care and feeding of a jukebox.

I’m a jukebox addict.  I can’t go into a bar without imposing my musical will on the patrons.  Whether it’s one of those new-fangled internet-enabled monstrosities (which tease you with the promise of a bottomless selection of music, if only you’re willing to use double the money to buy a song) or an old-school “listen to it click and whirr” classic, I always mosey over, throw in a helping of cash proportional to my estimated internment at the establishment, and wait for the opening strains of my first selection.  I try to select songs that I enjoy, as well as songs that capture the feel and flow of the venue, songs that should be universally tolerated if not lauded.

But for some people, their apparent goal is to drive everyone else from spending their hard-earned ducats at the bar, all while indulging their own questionable whims of taste.  So if you think you may be one of these people, read on and be healed, as I present the rules for proper jukebox etiquette.

1.  Location, Location, Location.  Know where you are.  Never play Jimmy Buffett at a place that doesn’t also have a sand volleyball pit out back and one of those showers for washing off your feet.  Don’t play Ride The Lightening-era Metallica unless you’re at a biker bar.  Don’t play Dave Matthews Band at a frat bar (don’t feed the trolls).  Choose your songs appropriate to the venue.  For instance, Dropkick Murphys at an Irish pub is basically a requirement.  Use geographical common sense.
2. Slow, Sad Sack Songs Are For Slow, Sad Sack Bars.  Last night, I was at the Ginger Man at 9:30pm or so, and some clown picked Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley.  Such a beautifully sad song.  Such a wrong moment. Never, ever play a sad song before 1 am, and even then gauge the mood.  Do not bring your sadness down on everyone else.  People do not go out and socialize with the purpose of feeling like someone just ran over their dog.  This pretty much means no Coldplay, and calls into question the wisdom of any jukebox manager who includes them on the menu.
3. Variety Is The Spice Of Life.  Never pick more than 2 tracks off of a single cd (unless it’s a various artists thing, but even then, be careful), and for the love of all that’s good and true, don’t put the 2 back to back.  Also last night: someone picked almost half of the most recent Kings of Leon cd, played almost contiguously with the odd Thom Yorke song (see #2 above) thrown in for “balance”.  I love that cd, but the beauty of a jukebox is that you have  500+ songs to choose from.  Seven songs by the same band isn’t showing everyone how awesome they are, it’s showing the whole place that you’re too illiterate to read the titles of any of the other options.
4. Don’t Be Too Obvious Or Too Obscure.  This is particularly tempting when you’ve got the super deluxe interweb equipped jukebox at your disposal.  Want to play Wilco’s cover of Woodie Guthrie’s Airline To Heaven?  Live or studio?  Who cares; they’re both available!  If you think that a certain song is better than any of the singles by a popular artist, be careful.  Is it really a good song, or just one you like?  Does it sound enough like the artist’s other material that people will recognize it as theirs? Will it make them curious enough to look at the jukebox to get the title of the song?  If you can answer yes, then you’ve got a winner.  On the flip-side, don’t be too obvious, either.  If you’re picking James Brown, don’t pick “I Feel Good”, grab “The Payback” or something.  If you’re picking Green Day, skip anything from Dookie.  (Actually, if you’re picking Green Day, please tell us where you got your fake ID.)
5. Don’t Be A Smart-Aleck.  There’s a bar that I know that has the Pulp Fiction soundtrack (in its entirety) on the jukebox.  Good soundtrack.  But it also has some spoken-word tracks, dialogue from the movie.  Track 16 is the Ezekiel 25:17 scene, complete with gunfire at the end.  At the sleepy Scottish pub where this track is housed, it is not entirely cool to select this track, and may well earn you a beating with a shillelagh.   If one of the cds on your favorite jukebox has a spoken track like this, or a song that’s otherwise deliberately annoying, select it only if you’re ready to face the consequences.  Playing Semisonic’s “Closing Time” at 10pm is a crime of this variety.
6. Get Your Money’s Worth. Long tracks are good.  You don’t want to feel cheated out of 50 cents by selecting something by Me First And The Gimme Gimmes that’s 50 seconds long.  Grab a slow burner like one of Lyle Lovett’s ballads or (best long song easily found on a jukebox) Ball & Biscuit.
7. Jukeboxes Are Not For Karaoke.  Thus, karaoke staples need not apply.  You want people to nod along, not attempt to belt out “Don’t Stop Believing” like they’re Steve Perry’s long-lost son.   If you’ve ever seen a fat girl or an “ironic” frat boy belt it out after a few too many Red Stripes, then pass on over.
8. You Can Never Go Wrong With A Classic.  A real classic is an song or artist who has stood the test of time.  Not of a year or even a decade.  Real time.  Cash. Ella.  The King.  B.B.  Slow Hand. Janis.  If they can be described in one word or a nickname, you’re in pretty flawless territory.

Remember, you’re creating what is basically an improv mixtape. Throwing a handful or a dozen of songs together in a way that ebbs and flows naturally is a skill, not a gift.  You get better with practice, so get out there and give it a shot.  Stick to the rules, and as always with music, innovation is only your friend when it works.  So strike with confidence and make sure it works.

Yoooooooooooou should really stop doing that.

After a soldier has served his country, he is welcomed back into society with appreciation and pride, with thanks for the work he has done protecting our freedom with his service. After a Soulja has served his country by making hundreds if not thousands of dorky white girls think they can dance, and forced college coaches to humiliate themselves to appeal to a younger demo, what next? As the Soulja Boy dance craze thing has gone to absurd heights that the Macarena could only hope to reach, the question looms: what will kill this phenomenon?

As a service to everyone, I’ve come up with a list of people who, if they post videos on Youtube of themselves doing the Soulja Boy, would finally kill the dance once and for all.

- Kansas University Mark Mangino. This one is pretty self-explanatory. We’ll know if/when it happens when Kansas experiences its first earthquake this century.

- Condi Rice. Wait, scratch that. That’d be hot.

- (tie) Casey Kasem or Dick Clark. Because it would signal that pop music is dead, too.

- GWAR. Arguably the worst band of all time, whose fans are a leading argument for a reasoned and thoughful reconsideration of eugenics. Plus, the likelihood that someone would lose their balance an impale themselves on something sharp are pretty strong; Youtube frowns on snuff films.

- JI

- JIM THOME. He’s an all-American lug, and doesn’t seem to understand complex things. So if he understands how to “Superman a ho” then America is truly over.

- Osama. Sorry, too easy.

- Christopher Walken. The greatest dancer/actor of our generation should not stoop so low.

I’m sure that there are some glaring omissions here, but that’s all I can come up with on a single cup of coffee. If anyone would like to fill in the blanks, please do so. Do it for the children.

And Now A Word From My Grandmother

This is my 86 year old grandmother, Elyse Hays. She’s shown here with my cousin Dave, who is a scoundrel in the best way possible. However, if you were using the word “scoundrel” to describe anyone in this photo, it would necessarily be Dave, even if he were a humanitarian on the scale of Mother Teresa, because look at her.

I took my grandma out to lunch on Friday, and the conversation turned to Idaho, where my father was born, and where she and my late grandfather lived for close to a decade. I was talking about a friend who is considering attending Idaho State for Physical Therapy school, and this triggered a memory for my grandmother. She’s sharp as a tack and rarely misses details when old stories like this come up, so I will relate it here in as close an approximation of her verbal style as I can manage:

“Well, I was in the hospital in Pocotella after Bill was born, and they had me on a wing with all the other officer’s wives. Because Al was still in the service back then. And one day this nurse came rushing in all out of breath, and I thought “oh jeepers what now”. There was a young man, I don’t know if he was enlisted or an officer, but he had gone out on the town Friday night with one of the girls from the town. All the women in Pocotella just loved the Army guys, you know.

The nurse started to tell the story: Their date didn’t go so well, and the girl told him to go take a walk. And so he went and he drank a lot and then he cut off a certain part of his anatomy. And the nurse held up this jar, and there it was. They passed it all around that wing, and everyone saw it, and it was just the oddest thing you’d ever seen.

Now the Army doesn’t allow for self-injury, so he was dishonorably discharged.”

Needless to say, 1) I nearly wrecked my car and 2) we got the wrong scoundrel. I love my grandma.