Mark’s Excellent Adventure
Posted by Mark in Entertainment, Family on October 22nd, 2009
Hi, I’m Mark! You might remember from such blog posts as the one where I saw a Weinermobile, or made a fool of myself, or perhaps both.
It has been a while since our last visit. I have not been suffering from writer’s block. I have been suffering from a lack of interest. I might very well have had lots to write about, but I just didn’t feel like writing anything at all.
How are you? I am fine.
Since our last visit I have been on an adventure. And I mean a real adventure that would qualify as an adventure in the general sense, and not just in the watered-down sense that applies just to me. For example, anything that requires standing in line pretty much qualifies as an adventure for me.
I seek and enjoy a quiet life.
On Friday my dad flew into town in his very own airplane to pick me up. We then jetted (or more accurately, propellered) down to Charlotte to visit my sister, Cheri. Cheri loves NASCAR and has some friends with connections. I would love to thank those friends by name, but they might rather not have their names listed publicly as doing such favors.
Plus also this blog probably needs more readers to even qualify as “public.”
So here’s what we did on Saturday. Around lunchtime we went on a tour of the Hendrick Motorsports complex. Besides the normal tourist areas, we got to see places where NO PHOTOGRAPHY IS ALLOWED. I probably shouldn’t say too much about those particular areas lest large guys in jackets festooned with corporate logos show up and ring our doorbell with a tire iron. Let’s just say that the race shop of the leading teams in NASCAR (Jimmie Johnson, Jeff Gordon, Mark Martin, and Dale Earnhardt, Jr.) are a notch or two above Cooter’s garage in The Dukes of Hazzard. You could eat off the floor of Hendrick’s garage, but you’d feel guilty about getting crumbs on it.
After the tour we went to Lowe’s Motor Speedway well before the race We got to walk up and down pit road and right by the open garages where engines were loudly being checked out. Christian music star Toby Mac was doing a live concert in turn 4. We strolled by driver Bobby Labonte sitting in a golf cart with his wife as they watched the concert on the track apron.
Oh, and the actual race on this unseasonably chilly October night? We watched it from a heated suite. I told you Cheri’s friends have connections. But what I really need to tell you about is the pre-race drivers’ meeting.
We got to go to the pre-race drivers’ meeting.
Have you ever felt like you had walked into a book or movie and were no longer in the real world? That’s what the driver’s meeting was like. I’ve been watching NASCAR since 1997 so all the drivers and crew chiefs seem like TV characters and not real people. And there I was milling around with maybe 200 Joe Shmoes like me while the drivers sat and listened to a few instructions about the upcoming race. (“Fellas, we’re going to stick with counter-clockwise again this week”).
Don’t believe me? Here’s a poor quality photo I took of Dale Earnhardt, Jr. his own self:
Seeing all these guys was simply surreal. Richard Petty was there with his big hat and sunglasses. Richard Petty should not exist in flesh and blood. My brain processed seeing Richard Petty in person similarly to how it would process being in the same room as Batman. It just didn’t feel right.
Some say one’s true character is revealed in a high pressure situation. If so, I’m not quite happy about what transpired next.
After the meeting we were making our way to the door after most of the drivers had gone. I looked over and something caught my eye. There, in her gleaming white fire suit, was Miss Sprint Cup. For those of you not into NASCAR culture, I should explain that Sprint sponsors NASCAR’s top racing series. The trophy is called the Sprint Cup. Miss Sprint Cup is an attractive young lady who stands behind the race winner each week on TV in her Sprint fire suit and smiles. And smiles some more.
So there she was. Another character in the movie into which I was currently trespassing. I joked to Cheri that I should mimic the scene in Say Anything when Lloyd Dobler pauses briefly behind Diane Court so that a friend can snap a photo that makes it look like he was hanging out with her. I really wanted that picture. It’s not that I’m obsessed with Miss Sprint Cup (I already have dozens of photos of me next to my beautiful wife), it’s just that Miss Sprint Cup is so recognizable and I’m so uncool that it would be objectively funny for a picture of me beside her to exist.
Cheri said I should just go ask her to take a picture with me. She was just standing there talking to people like us. I hesitated. Then another dorky guy just walked up and asked her if he could get a picture with her. She smiled the TV smile and happily went along. Cheri all but pushed me forward. All I needed to do was say, “Excuse me, would you mind having another quick picture taken?” The poor girl is probably contractually obligated to be friendly, after all.
But I choked. Wouldn’t do it. Didn’t want to impose. So I went online and found Miss Sprint Cup on Facebook and grabbed a picture of her standing next to some other random guy that could have been me. You’ll have to use your imagination:
Miss Sprint Cup and a Random Guy
I regretted my lack of intestinal fortitude before we’d even left the room. I knew that next time such a unique opportunity arose, I could not fall short. I would come through. Who would’ve guessed that in less than sixty seconds I would happen across another well-known figure, even more recognizable than Miss Sprint Cup?
This time, I did not crumble under the pressure:
Mark and Count Chocula
So I ended up with a picture of me standing next to Count Chocula instead of Miss Sprint Cup. Upon reviewing the photo and noticing the angular features and prominent chin, this was probably a better match anyway.
Wigging Out
How little can it cost to entertain a creative seven-year old girl? About $0.99 for a blank Styrofoam wig holder, plus some markers.
Shelby named her Cornelia. The braided ponytail you see is pinned to the back of her (Cornelia’s) head. Rather than try to create realistic-looking eyes, Shelby decided it made more sense to assume her eyes were closed and go for the green eyeshadow.
Cornelia watched a football game with me Saturday night, which was a little creepy. (I suppose I should point out that the football game was on TV. I did not take Cornelia out of the house. That would be a lot creepy).
Safety First
The theme of today’s blog entry is Safety. I’ll pause while you fellow children of the ’80’s fondly recall your Men Without Hats album (you’ll notice I didn’t say “albums”).
Shelby went on a second-grade field trip with her class on Monday. They went to a place that features a miniature layout of the city of Lexington with sidewalks, working stoplights, drivable mini cars, etc. Sounds pretty neat. (Jacob was quick to give her some inside scoop and told her that five years ago when his class went, the red car was the fastest). Uniformed police officers taught the kids about general safety and situational awareness. At some point during the trip Shelby was running around and fell and scraped her knee. She managed to come home with an injury and bandages from a field trip to a place called “Safety City.”
It reminded me of the time I almost rear-ended a car because I was distracted trying to read a road sign that was alternately flashing “Warning!” and then “Slow Traffic Ahead!”
In somewhat of a coincidence, like Shelby I also spent part of my Monday in a heightened state of situational awareness. Some co-workers and I attended a retirement lunch for a colleague at a Japanese restaurant. Perhaps I should clarify that he wasn’t a colleague AT a Japanese restaurant. He was a colleague at OUR workplace and we went to the Japanese restaurant to celebrate. Anyway, we all sat around one of those open Hibachi grills manned by a chef with a flair for the dramatic. (Presumably the less flamboyant chefs are relegated to steaming rice back in the kitchen).
We were enjoying the cooking performance as he brandished and twirled his knife and spatula (contrary to popular opinion, it is indeed possible to brandish a spatula). Have you ever wondered what might add an unanticipated degree of excitement to watching a Japanese chef cook right in front of you? I can tell you. Try noticing that the chef’s index finger is covered in a heavy bandage.
Well, then.
I thought about his finger injury while watching him cut and chop about thirty inches from my eyeballs, which I happen to hold in high regard. Just what circumstances led him to cut his finger, and wouldn’t a similar loss of utensil control be even more likely to recur now that he had a heavy bandage getting in the way?
I tried not to flinch while contemplating. This is the bane of the introspective person. Fortunately one of my co-workers is much less socially inept than I, and simply asked, “Hey, what did you do to your finger, there?”
The chef smiled knowingly and assured us that it was not an on-the-job injury. We all shared a good laugh, relieved to learn that he hadn’t cut his finger extracting a wayward Ginsu from the abdomen of a patron. He went on to explain that what happened to his finger was that he watched an NFL game with some buddies on Sunday. One of them said something like, “Hey, you’re a chef! Why don’t you make something for us to eat during the game?” He smiled sheepishly and explained that he did prepare some food for the group but it “didn’t turn out too well.”
So we customers didn’t have anything to worry about because he didn’t hurt himself cooking at work, he only hurt himself cooking at home. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume there is a nuance in his argument that I have simply yet to grasp. Everybody knows a nuanced argument can be harder to grasp than a spatula.
Secretary of Transportation
On a recent night I was alone downstairs with the kids. I think Jacob and I were watching a football game while Shelby played a computer game nearby.
When Shelby’s bedtime came I went over and kneeled to watch the game she was playing for a minute. When she finished the game she leaned over, put her arms around my neck and gave me the best hug she’d ever given me. I said something like, “Wow! I sure wasn’t expecting to get such a great hug right now!”
Very matter-of-factly, she said, “I’m just looking for transportation.”
I pulled back and we looked silently at each other’s face for a moment while I tried to figure out what in the world she was talking about. This is not an uncommon situation in our house. We often ask her to translate into English the language of whatever alternate reality she currently inhabits.
It turns out that she was simply tired and ready for bed, and was looking for an easy way to get out of the high-armed chair she was sitting in at the computer. She figured if she latched onto my neck, when I stood up I would automatically lift her up and out of the chair. Transportation. She started giggling as she explained it to me, realizing how funny it was that I mistook her scheming for a simple hug.
We shared a good laugh and I let her ride piggyback upstairs to her room. So my seven-year old daughter successfully used false affection on her hapless father in order to gain transportation. I never would’ve imagined anything like this could happen. I mean, at least not until she turns sixteen.
Lucky 13
This week I went for a run through a nearby neighborhood. Before I tell you what happened I should give you a little background on a long-held dream of mine.
Somewhere in my past there was a shopping center with a posted speed limit of only 10 mph. I used to run by this speed limit sign occasionally, back in the days when I could have actually run the ten miles per hour for a whole hour.
Every time I ran by this 10 mph sign I would look around in hopes of finding a police officer. My plan was to approach the officer in a friendly manner and ask whether he would be willing to write me a warning if he clocked me exceeding 10 mph on foot. As a runner, I just thought it would be extremely cool to have a framed warning for excessive speed on foot. Heck, I might have even been willing to pay a $75 fine in order to have formal documentation that a safety officer deemed my speed excessive.
Alas, I never got the opportunity. And I hadn’t thought about that goal in years.
So this week I was running through the aforementioned neighborhood. I noticed a parked car that had been sideswiped and a light pole that was knocked down. I rounded a turn and saw what was a likely response to reckless driving in the area. The police department had placed one of those trailer-mounted, portable, speed indication devices on the side of the road to display to drivers how fast they were going.
Well, then.
One unknown in my scheme to get a running citation was whether a police radar would even register a human running past. So this was my chance to answer that question. (The speed limit was 25 so the possibility of earning a citation was way out of the question).
A quick glance confirmed that no cars were approaching. I swerved out into the middle of the road where the radar could see me. It jumped from zero to eight miles an hour. Success! The radar could see me. So that was that.
Except it wasn’t.
Looking back, there really was no reason for me to do anything but continue on at my normal pace. My question about radar visibility was answered. But something about having a radar and giant digital display staring me in the face was sort of an unspoken challenge.
Nine mph. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. I was rapidly approaching the radar but thought I had enough time left to hit a nice round 15 mph.
Do you remember how when you were a kid and had those little rubber band airplanes, you always could tell when the rubber band was nearing the end of its life because it started to develop little nicks in it? For some reason I thought of that phenomenon and my hamstrings at the same time. I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. I saw a big 13 flash onto the display just as I started backing down and coasted past the radar.
I smiled and wondered if anybody in the nearby houses witnessed what I just did and how silly I must have looked. I didn’t care. I may have only gotten my speed up to 13, but for a few precious seconds I got my age down to about 18.
(Stop reading here if you want to end on a heartwarming high note).
Giddy with my unexpected, wacky, carefree attitude, I proceeded into a park where I coaxed a couple of teenagers into throwing their football to me as I ran by on an extended deep fly pattern. The kid’s arm wasn’t quite up to the challenge, and I had to slow to wait on it. Then as luck would have it the ball went into a Rawlings Eclipse and I was completely blinded while it was in front of the sun. I winced and lurched as the ball one-hopped into my feet, and then bumbled around as I tried to pick it up with my sweaty hands. So instead of being the cool runner guy who wanted to catch their football, I was pretty much just a random middle-aged dork that the teenagers no doubt are still snickering at even today.
And the age I felt went from 18 back up to somewhere higher than it actually is. On the whole I guess I’m just thankful that I remembered how to get home.
By Hook or by Crook
So I keep hearing that one of the ways to reduce the spread of Swine Flu is to cough into the crook of your arm instead of your hand. I guess folks are less likely to pass germs via elbow crooks than hands. Probably good advice. But now I’m thinking about how I wash my hands multiple times a day but generally don’t wash my elbow crook more than twice. The same probably goes for everybody else, which means although it may be safer for the general public, we are going to have a preponderance of germy elbow crooks.
Which means you definitely won’t catch me at a square dance this winter. Not that you would any other winter, but it’s particularly unlikely this year.
King of the Road
I apologize for how long it’s been since my last post. I seem to run a little hot or cold on the whole blog thing. The start of college football season doesn’t seem to be helping my writing quantity. Or quality. Maybe I should make my blog seasonal.
Today I have composed an open letter to the aggressive teenage driver. You can read it even if you’re not aggressive, a teenager, a driver, or any combination thereof.
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Dear aggressive teenage driver,
How’s it going? Are you enjoying the freedom afforded by your still-warm-from-the-laminating-process driver’s license? I sincerely hope so. I fondly recall the heady days of excitedly driving my Mercury Lynx on even the most mundane of errands. The anticipation of pulling into a parking space all by myself and strutting into school was palpable. (Of course nobody else noticed because they were too busy strutting themselves. Collectively we resembled lemmings, except we were more concerned with Cliff’s notes than his edge. But I digress).
You may not yet realize that, generally speaking, one’s sense of adventure and physical reflexes are inversely proportional to one’s maturity level. This explains why so often you find yourself swerving in and out of slower traffic as you hasten to your destination to presumably discuss with friends whatever topics you have already discussed via text message. Have you ever spent much time wondering about us boring, clueless, nameless drivers that serve as moving obstacles along your single-minded journey?
My guess is not.
You see, most of us were also teenagers before we got older. Most (but certainly not all) of us figured out that aggressive driving just isn’t worth the trouble. The risks aren’t limited to getting a ticket that daddy might not pay for. Driving fast sometimes kills people. It requires more gasoline. Speeding on most local trips probably don’t save more than a minute if any time at all. You probably even complained to somebody about having to go to wherever it is you are now barreling toward. So why the rush to get there?
Besides, have you noticed that in stop-and-go traffic how the other lane always seems to be moving faster than yours? As soon as you cut somebody off and swerve into it, it slows down and the original lane starts moving faster. What’s up with that? It must just be bad luck or Murphy’s Law, right? Or maybe people not as good at driving as you don’t know how to maintain their speed. I mean, it couldn’t possibly be that some middle-aged guy ahead of you actually noticed you swerve violently into his lane, and then purposefully (but subtly) slowed the faster-moving lane down, only to speed back away after you abandoned it?
Nah. Couldn’t be. Surely a mature grown-up wouldn’t get a kick out of innocently frustrating you just because you’re behaving dangerously and acting like a jerk.
Have a nice trip! Sincerely,
Mark (and an army of smirking middle-aged former teenagers)
Cirque de Marque
Posted by Mark in Entertainment on August 31st, 2009
Yesterday my in-laws treated our family to an evening at the circus. It was very nice of them and a good time was had by all (except maybe one of the tigers which seemed a little surly).
It reminded me that I wrote something about a previous circus visit in 2006. I poked around and found it. It came from my pre-blog era. I have reproduced it below with minor edits because, hey, it’s my blog. Here you go (from 2006):
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You would be surprised if you tried to guess how many times I’ve been asked if I’ve ever considered joining the circus. Well, if you guessed “zero” maybe you wouldn’t be too surprised. With my insufficiently demonstrative personality let’s just say that “circus performer” didn’t appear high on my career aptitude test in high school.
In fact, I had never attended a circus until several weeks go when my family attended one with my in-laws. We had a very good time, and it gave me plenty of opportunities to pinpoint just why I would not be a good fit for the circus.
1. Insufficient upper body strength and flexibility for acrobatics
2. No personality profile of me has ever included the word “flamboyant”
3. Get dizzy too easily
4. Would spend excessive time looking for signs that an elephant is about to go berserk like you see happen in India on TV once every few years
5. Uneasy about heights or unnecessary risks
6. Not fond of flashing lights and loud noises
7. Don’t look good in sequins (presumably)
Excuse me, are you Papa John?
Posted by Mark in Current Events, Friends on August 26th, 2009
In the news this week is a story about how Papa John’s Pizza founder John Schnatter tracked down and repurchased his beloved 1971 Camaro. He sold the car in 1983 to help his father and to launch his own pizza business. It’s a pretty neat story, especially considering that the car survived this long, but it also reminded me of a story that makes me happy every time I think of it.
Papa John’s is based in Louisville, where I presume Mr. Schnatter lives. Once in the late 1990’s I was in Louisville for business and stopped for lunch at an Italian restaurant. I was with two co-workers. One of them was a buddy named Nathan, and I confess I’m not 100% sure who the other guy was, so I won’t give him a name here.
Early on during the meal, I looked across the room and thought I saw Mr. Schnatter, who is pretty recognizable from television commercials. He was eating with another gentleman. My co-worker also thought he was Papa John. Nathan was facing the opposite direction and didn’t pay much attention, but commented that his family really liked a new Papa John’s pizza that had recently been introduced.
Throughout our meal I confess glancing over at Mr. Schnatter frequently. Considering I don’t get out much anyway, dining near a local celebrity was not something I did every day (unlike my current lifestyle of abundant galas).
Mr. Schnatter and the other guy finished their meal and stood to leave. Mr. Schnatter started to put on a striking leather jacket. It was obviously custom-made in the red, white, and green colors of Papa John’s (and perhaps not coincidentally, Italy). It was a little garish, but I thought it was cool. I turned to my co-worker and made some remark indicating that considering the looks of the jacket, I thought it was safe to conclude that he was indeed Papa John.
Nathan, who you will recall was not sitting where he could see all this happening, had a revelation upon hearing that Mr. Schnatter was leaving.
Nathan is not a shy person. He stood and excitedly said something along the lines of, “I’m going to go tell him how much we like that new pizza!” And he took off across the restaurant.
He strode up to Mr. Schnatter and friend. Keep in mind that Mr. Schnatter was wearing the bold Papa John’s jacket (which may have even had his name embroidered on it), and his face had been on dozens of different TV commercials over the years. Nathan smiled really big and asked, “Excuse me, are you Papa John?”
Except Nathan said it to the other guy.
I may have literally put my head into my hands in dismay. The plain-clothed guy smiled, shook his head, and pointed at the guy next to him wearing the garish Papa John’s jacket. Mr. Schnatter looked amused. Nathan was unfazed, turned toward him, and proceeded to compliment him on whatever the new pizza was and encouraging him to continue offering it. They exchanged pleasantries and Nathan returned to the table, still unfazed.
I think what makes me love this story so much is not just how entertaining it was to watch in all its good-natured awkwardness. It’s how much funnier it must have been to Mr. Schnatter and his friend. I imagine them going outside and the friend saying, “Do you think that guy considers how big a coincidence it is that I just happened to be having lunch with the very guy he mistook me for?”
Dog Day
Random thoughts prevail today.
This week I went to a dermatologist for the first of annual screenings for skin cancer and such. During the visit I felt empathy toward a county fair squash having its every bump and blemish examined. I am pretty sure it was the closest I had ever identified with any kind of gourd.
This week I saw a news headline that read “Austrian Lab Eyed in Doping Investigation.” My initial reaction was, “For heaven’s sake, people are giving performance enhancing drugs to show dogs now?!” Upon closer examination I realized the article was about a “lab” as in “laboratory” and not as in “Labrador Retriever.” Ah.
Speaking of canines (that’s dogs to the layperson), if you live in the Charlotte, NC area and have a crazy dog or a new puppy with behavior issues (e.g. barking, jumping, or a general lack of being housebroken), I have got a deal for you. My sister, Cheri, is a certified dog trainer and now offers in-home dog training. You can find her here.
And now for a gratuitous cute photo of a couple of her satisfied clients. I love this picture:
