Saturday's Are For Nascar

We drive an hour and a half out into the sticks of Las Vegas. It's bumper to bumper. A plane flies overhead. Oh wait, it's not a plane, its a motherfuckin' fighter jet. The stadium is right next to the largest airforce base in Nevada. It's nice out today; having been 115 degrees for the last 3 months, an 85 degree temperature tends to feel cool. We eventually make it into the parking lot and cruise in as some old man with a flashy-life-preserver-looking-thing around his torso escorts us to the appropriate place to park. They run a tight ship at Nascar races. Then there is the long wait for the tram into the stadium. It's me, Carolyn, and about a hundred and fifty drunkards rockin' Miller Lite cut-offs. I politely try and not make eye contact with any of these mongrels, less they find out that I am indeed not a racing fan and oh so very Jewish.

The stadium entrance is packed. We make it inside. Finding our seat is not too much of a hassle. Let's be realistic, we are at a Nascar race. There are throngs of people everywhere toting big, brash jackets, hats, shirts, bags, pants, shoes; all of which either promote a beer company or some random hick that drives fast for a living, or both.

It smells like rotten urine and sweet, old beer. I wallow in it. Breath it in. Could I do any less? This is my first race. I am now officially a fan.

Oh yeah that's right, by the way, the race was cool.