drink, drank, drunk

sink, sank, sunk

pink, pank, punk

dink, dank, dunk

link, lank, lunk

shrink, shrank, shrunk

fink, fank, funk

jink, jank, junk

mink, mank, munk

blink, blank, blunk

rink, rank, runk

stink, stank, stunk

hink, hank, hunk

tink, tank, tunk

brink, brank, brunk

trink, trank, trunk

wink, wank, wunk

slink, slank, slunk
…………..
Discuss, discass, discunk.

I’m guessing that, on the average, about once per week a driver hails me during my morning walk to ask for directions. I know that many joggers and exercise walkers resent being asked to stop their workout to give directions, and some go so far as to ignore the lost motorist. Being one who spends a good deal of time being lost, I always stop and try to help.

The problem is that the poor bastard asking directions has no idea that he or she is dealing with someone whose brain is not properly wired to give good directions.

As I’ve mentioned on several occasions, I know how to get from Point A (almost always my house) to Point B, from Point A to Points C, D, and E. However, if someone asks me how to get from point B to point E, my brain seizes.

The result, of course, is that the unsuspecting sorry-ass, lost motorist (who is at Point B but who wants to get to Point E) sees only the catatonic expression on my face, attributing it, surely, to the sweat and accelerated heart rate that comes from exercise. Little does he or she know that a klaxon is going off inside my head signifying a neurological meltdown as I try to mentally connect Point B to Point E.

Still, I do the best I can, and I dispense the requested directions. The hapless motorist drives away secure in the knowledge that, by following my directions, he or she will arrive at Point E.

Invariably, about a minute or two after the thankful driver leaves the scene, I realize (in the best case) that I gave the trusting soul roundabout directions born of my inadequate directional brain chemistry and (in the worst case) I sent the poor bastard in the wrong direction. On many occasions, I have feared that a now-more-than-ever-lost driver will circle back to kick my ass.

Hell, I mean well.

I think what I need is a shirt on which appears (front and back). “I GIVE SHITTY DIRECTIONS. ASK AT YOUR OWN RISK.”

It’s sad (and telling of our priorities) that a drunken actor’s ravings are such big goddamned news, particularly at a time when there are frighteningly important things going on in the world.

That is all

Yes, it was hot as hell today.

When I went out early in the morning for my walk, it was already a steamy 84 degrees. I made the best of it by trying to take mental snapshots of portions of the walk so that I can remember them when I strut my shit down the same streets in about six months when the temperature is about 80 degrees lower and my face is frozen.

Sure, it was uncomfortable, but if you listened to radio reports (I avoid watching local news on television), you’d think that we were all being exposed to deadly radioactive fallout rather than a hot, summer day. Just about every report contained useful “tips” for dealing with the heat:

Stay indoors, preferably in an air-conditioned space, if possible. Ya think?

Wear loose, lightweight, comfortable clothes. Upon hearing that, I immediately decided against wearing a parka and woolen hat.

Drink plenty of fluids. I’ll definitely keep that in mind the next time I get thirsty in 100 degree heat.

Seek out shade, when possible. Christ, even cows and dogs know this.

Finally, as we are all bitching about the heat, it would serve us well to remember that there are troops on the ground in Iraq where it is often 15 degrees hotter, and they are spending their days dressed in full battle gear (including body armor and helmet) chasing bad guys.

I would like to say that I had a great time at the drag races yesterday, the blistering heat notwithstanding, and if my buddy Willie will be competing next year, I’ll be there again. That said, here are some random observations about a day at the drag strip.

Tattoos
Tattoos are decidedly in at the drag strip. I saw a rather astounding display of body art on both men and women. I saw dozens of men and one woman whose arms were completely covered with tattoos. Several men were also liberally tattooed between their neck and belt-line. So were a few women, at least the part of their torsos that were uncovered.

Two people were particularly memorable.

The Runner Up: This guy’s arms and most of the tops of his hands were covered in tattoos. Although he was wearing a tee shirt, what appeared to be the uppermost portion of large tattoos appeared on his neck, leaving one to safely assume that the main portion of the creatures’ that were peeking above his tee shirt covered his entire torso. He was wearing big, wide leather wristbands with double buckles on each (the purpose of which, particularly in the heat, escaped me) and he had four rings pierced through his lower lip. Gross.

The Winner: The clincher was the guy who was shirtless and wearing shorts so that the world could see that he was covered in tattoos, but here’s the thing. He had tattoos covering his face! WTF?

I was trying not to stare, but it was difficult. Besides, I suspect that getting people’s attention is, at least in part, what motivates folks like this.

Debris Clearing, Oil-Sucking, and Jet-Drying
The unfortunate reality is that these high-horsepower monsters running full out for a quarter mile often blow up something or other on the car, resulting in “stuff” coming off the motor and oil spewing onto the track. This results in a rather frustrating amount of downtime while the debris is cleared and the oil is sopped up by a couple special oil-sucking machines. After the oil sucking is complete, the track is dried with a trailer-mounted jet engine that blows some serious air on the track.

The announcers have the daunting task of talking through these seemingly interminable debris-clearing, oil-sucking, jet-drying delays, much like baseball announcers who are forced to babble during rain delays.

The Track Announcers
There is quite an elaborate and effective public address system at the drag strip. Most of the announcing duties are taken care of by one person (with a sidekick as I recall). It is quite remarkable that these guys introduce each one of hundreds of runs all day and manage to keep it straight. And, they also know A LOT about cars and drag racing, which is a good thing, given that the regulars at the track are also extremely knowledgeable.

The announcers’ vast, albeit esoteric, knowledge stands them in good stead during the debris-clearing, oil-sucking, jet-drying delays. Unfortunately for me, much of it went over my head, as when the announcer would tell a rather longish story to his sidekick, with a punch line that would be something like, “the differential in a 63 Impala!!” Huh? The audience got it.

Seems to me that at least some of the debris-clearing, oil-sucking, jet-drying pauses could be filled with Sinatra music. It is Jersey, after all, and it would give the announcers (and those of us who aren’t hip to differentials) a farookin’ break.

Drinking and Drunks
Alcohol is reasonably well controlled. Before being permitted to enter the pits, each driver is asked whether there are any glass bottles or alcoholic beverages in the car. We had none of the above and said so, and, perhaps because we were decidedly “grownups”, no one searched the car. I suspect it might have been different if we had been a carload of twenty-somethings. It seems to me that it would be easy to get alcoholic beverages into the track, if you were willing to be turned away or have them confiscated if you were busted.

Beer is sold in a restricted area and those who prove their age (my proof is my face) are given a paper bracelet to wear. Beer can be bought ($4.00 a pop) in that area, and must be consumed there. Worked for us.

I only saw two, drunks and they were both women. One of them came right out of central casting for the part of a loud-mouthed, obnoxious bar hog (with several tattoos, I might add). The other one looked as though she probably arrived looking quite normal but somehow managed to get herself absolutely stumbling-ass shitfaced (I’m figuring she got plastered on “smuggled” booze, as I do not recall seeing her in the Beer Area).. Rather, we saw her in a refreshment area (soft drinks only). She was doing her damnedest not to look drunk (You know how that goes), but was doing a bad job of it (You know how that goes too).

She asked one of my buddies if the guy in the hotdog stand “took credit cards”. Like I said, she was shitfaced.

Noise, Fumes
Noise? Absolutely. Ear protection (or knowing when to stick your fingers in your ears) is an absolute must, particularly if you are in the area of the starting line. Fumes? Fumes –a-plenty –exhaust, burned nitro, and burned rubber. To the regulars, it is perfume.

In summary, if you are one who does not wish to rub elbows with the heavily tattooed, or finds esoteric discussions of compression ratios intolerable, and can’t stand LOUD noise, and smelly fumes, I suggest you consider polo. Then again, there was no horseshit at the drag strip.

UPDATE: As I mentioned, we left before Willie’s last run in order to prevent heat exhaustion. However, Willie called to let me know that he won his class (Alcohol-Fuel Injected). He also won for having the lowest E.T. (elapsed time) in his class. He also received the “Jungle Jim” Award for outstanding showmanship. Way to go, Willie!

As we did last year, three of the Usual Suspects and I spent the day here to watch our buddy Willie take a few short Sunday spins at 150+ mph in his funny car.

It was nostalgia day at the track, and nothing newer than 1972 was permitted to run. There were some seriously badass cars there, including front engine nitro-burning dragsters, one of which crossed the finish line at 253 mph. What’s particularly cool is how much gray hair there is under those helmets.

It was brutally hot, and we spent all day (eight hours) in the blazing sun, so even though Willie was in the process of quite possibly winning his class again, we left in order to avoid heat exhaustion.

It was a great day, but I’m beat.

I’ve got a tough choice to make on this beautiful day.

Do I sit here in front of the computer and blog?

Or…

Do I go to The Deck, hang with the Usual Suspects and do some standing around in the water, drinking, eating tasty snacks and bullshitting swimming?

Tough choice, indeed.

See ya later!

Back in January, when Governor Corzine named Zulima Farber to the post of New Jersey’s Attorney General, Ms. Farber’s horrible driving record* became a subject of some discussion questioning the wisdom of naming her to be the chief law enforcement officer in the state. At that time, the Asbury Park Press opined that Ms. Farber was “grossly unqualified for the job.” The then-brand-new Governor was given the benefit of the doubt by most of the press and the public as well.

It only took about five months for things to go sideways when over the past Memorial Day weekend, Ms. Farber’s boyfriend, Hamlet Goore, was stopped by police at a seat-belt checkpoint and was found to be driving an unregistered van, and, according to the computer record available the police officer at the time of the stop, was driving while on the revoked list.** The officer summoned a tow truck to impound the vehicle, which is appropriate under the circumstances and is exactly what would happen to you or me.

However, if you happen to be the live-in boyfriend of the State Attorney General it doesn’t work out that way. While stopped, Mr. Goore called Ms. Farber, who shortly thereafter appeared on the scene in an official state-owned SUV driven by her official state chauffeur — a state police lieutenant. Witnesses report that the emergency lights on the state vehicle were flashing (although Ms. Farber disputes the part about the lights).

The chief law enforcement officer’s appearance at the scene with her state trooper driver in tow resulted in the tow truck being turned back, the arresting officer’s attempts to void two citations, and Mr. Goore’s being permitted to drive the vehicle to the house he shares with Ms. Farber. Link

Bad enough? No. It gets worse.

It seems that Mr. Goore, in fact, had paid the fine in 2005 to have his license reinstated, but there apparently was a screw up by the Motor Vehicle Commission in getting that information into the system. For regular peeps, that would mean a trip to a local Motor Vehicle Commission office get the mess sorted out.

However, if you happen to be the live-in boyfriend of the State Attorney General it doesn’t work out that way. Ms. Farber called her friend Angel Estrada, who is a Union County Freeholder and the Manager of the state Motor Vehicle Commission’s office in Elizabeth*** Mr. Estrada shepherded Mr. Goore through the process, which included making a phone call to the Motor Vehicle Commission’s Headquarters in Trenton and waiting on line with Mr. Estrada to get things properly sorted out. Link

Ms. Farber has apologized but refuses to resign, claiming (with a straight face) that she never sought any special treatment for her boyfriend.

Governor Corzine has appointed a special prosecutor to investigate all this, an exercise that will cost the New Jersey Taxpayers approximately $75,000 per month.

And the farookin’ beat goes on.

* Ms. Farber had 12 speeding tickets, one accident ticket, four bench warrants issued for her arrest for failure to appear in court, and three license suspensions. Link

** Mr. Goore’s driving record is also nothing to write home about, his license having been suspended ten times for various offenses, including excessive parking tickets and driving without insurance (mandatory license suspension in Jersey). Link

*** Yes, you read that right. Mr. Estrada is a Union County Freeholder AND the Manager of a State Motor Vehicle Office. This is, after all, New Jersey.

I saw the Broadway production of The History Boys.

The play is about a group of British students attending a special school session for the purpose of preparing for entrance exams into colleges, with each student’s ultimate goal being admission to Oxford or Cambridge. The interplay among the students and between the students and their teachers and the between the teachers and the headmaster is often very funny, sometimes emotionally heavy and always quite cerebral.

Perhaps it was the “cerebral” part that was the problem, particularly after a large lunch and a couple cocktails, for, in truth, I nodded off a couple times during the first act. Others in my group confessed to having done so as well.

The production very popular with critics and, indeed, won six 2006 Tony Awards, including the award for Best Play. This suggests to me that I should watch it again (perhaps when I’m hungry), but I won’t, given the price of Broadway show tickets.

If you’re in the mood for British accents and lots of not-quite-so-cerebral comedy, you might want to consider that Spamalot is playing in the theater next door to where The History Boys are.

Here’s why.