Weekend's over and I'm forced to trudge back to work. We need longer weekends...because I need more nights to get trashed on. It's days like this that I wish I'd been born into a more privileged life so that I could just spend my days lounging around the house or beach or International Space Station. My lack of privilege was reinforced earlier today when I was flipping through the channels and came across coverage of the 2003 Barrett-Jackson classic car auction, wherein someone payed $1.2 million for a Jaguar. And it didn't even have air
But alas, there is no million-dollar Jag in my garage, so I'm forced to continue as one of the working class. Or at least one of the white-collar middle-class kind of people. No manufacturing jobs for me, please.
Friday afternoon. The weekend spread out before me like a dirty whore awaiting the debauchery to come. I left work a few minutes early and
hit the open road. Well, open for about three minutes, as I was on State HIghway 114, which leads to the North Texas Mecca of Trashy Motorsports, the Texas Motor Speedway. As time trials were being held on Friday for Sunday's race, I was forced to contend with trafffic caused by single-brain-celled morons making their way home from the speedway. Every other car had a symbol of God pasted on the back. Not a Jesus fish, but a large number three, because God to these people is the fallen patron saint of Trashcar...err...NASCAR, Dale Earnhardt, who, in a display of stupidity, took it upon himself to do something smart. He took a perfectly good car, drove it around a track at 180+ miles per hour, and turned the wheel so that he slammed into a side wall, turning himself into a rather good facsimile of chorizo. One has to wonder if his last words were "Hey, watch this!"
I don't get the appeal of NASCAR. It ranks up there with Copenhagen Chewing Tobacco on my list of fun things. But the odd thing is, I don't
have a problem with Formula One racing. I think I can only explain this dichotomy of feelings on auto racing by saying that it's a matter of class. Formula One has names like Ferrari and McLaren--classy auto companies who attract sophisticated people. NASCAR attract unsophisticated people who consider Boone's Farm to be the epitome of fine wine. To them, the triple-wide is not a symbol of down-trodden socio-economic situations, but is rather a spacious mansion-like symbol of moderate economic success. Ford F-350 is their Ferrari 360. Daytona is their Monaco. Dairy Queen is their poor man's Spago. When you get down to it, I suppose, it's yet another case of "one man's trash is another man's treasure."
The bottom line in this situation is that my disdain for NASCAR (which is less than my disdain for the French) lies really in classism. Which is ironic, because, as I mentioned earlier, I wasn't born into an overly-privileged family. And I grew up in East Texas. So, by all accounts, I should be a NASCAR fan and a card-carrying member of the NRA, but I'm neither. I don't even care at all for professional wrestling (or wrasslin', as the people over at the trailer park call it). I think the roots of my personal classism comes from education and a desire to better myself than from wealth or a sense of entitlement. The way I see it, I worked my way to where I am today, why can't you? Get a damn job, quit living off the government, and for all you trashy, stretch-pants wearing Wal-Mart shopping women out there, keep your legs together for Christ's sake.