It is Monday morning. I am a somnambulist.
I didn’t have much of a weekend. I got up at 5am yesterday to go work with Allison at the Delphi 300, fundraising for Poms. She regretted having signed up in the first place. It still amazes me how many people buy into the NASCAR bit. We took tickets yesterday, so we got to see firsthand who actually shows up to these things. Sometimes, it’s what you’d expect: portly older men with ruddy cheeks, shirtless middle-aged dads with goatees and sunburnt nipples, 5-year-0lds decked out in official NASCAR merchandise, clearly more interested in picking up interesting debris than anything happening on the track. But there were a surprisingly number of young twenty-somethings there, too: clean-cut preps in pre-faded jeans and collared shirts with the wrists unbuttoned, their bored girlfriends in tube tops; unassuming housewives, with sunhats and white blouses with drawings of fruit on them.
People were nicer than I remember them. The last time I worked a racing event, I was in a concession stand, and I recall that we dealt with an unusually high amount of drunk, severely pink people (they looked like cooked lobsters with body hair), who would stand in line, staring at the price list, order their food, and upon hearing the (obviously inflated) total, would say “That much for a piece of pizza? I don’t want it!” Thanks, Sparky. Next!
Working the race track is all-in-all an extremely unpleasant experience. When Allison originally asked me in early August, I had told her no. Unfortunately, Saturday night came and she still had no one to go with her, so by default the duty fell to me. For starters, I have never worked there on a day that wasn’t scorchingly hot. Secondly, the stadium is tucked away on Rt. 53, so the surrounding infrastucture can’t handle the traffic well. Any race day requires an obscene amount of traffic cones, waving policemen, and inexorable jams. Thirdly, the roar of racing cars tends to immediately mute any conversation. Fourthly, the sheer number of people in attendance makes my rectum quiver. I don’t deal well with crowds.
Long story short, a lot of yesterday was awful. Good for me, however, Allison has promised not only to never drag me along, but never sign up to work the race track again. She was particular miffed that the Pom coach, who was also working, left quite early, leaving her (mostly 14 and 15-year old) charges to get home. There was only one other non-Pom working, a quiet dad who got pulled into working (again) and had to ferry a vanload of teenage girls to and from the event. Poor bastard; I know how he feels.
Luckily, the day was not a complete wash, as we got home around 2:30, showered, and then relaxed. I was thoroughly underwhelmed by Big Fish, learned that my replacement video card is in the mail, ate dinner with Allison’s family (and laughed at her dogs’ antics) downed some cough medicine and hit the hay like a runaway tractor.
And here I am. Monday morning. And I am a somnambulist.