I am not a big fan of NASCAR. It’s not snobbery. It just doesn’t do anything for me. This is in sharp contrast to the thousands of brightly-hued, leather jacket-sporting denizens invading my sleepy suburban hamlet this weekend for the Something or Other 500 at California Speedway.
The track is close enough that you can hear the sound of revved engines on the breeze, the smell of conspicuous fuel consumption in the morning. There’s really only one solution: I’m going to Vegas.
Despite a full slate of responsibilites which threatened my participation in BettyFest, I will be making that northward drive later this evening after my niece’s birthday party, trading