When To Hold, When To Fold, & When To Call It

Sunday night, I joined my parents for dinner, hoping to catch the Coca-Cola 600 (or World 600 if you want to sound old-school, even though Coke has had the naming rights for something like 25 years) with my dad after a steak-tips-and-corn feast. Sure, for Memorial Day races, the Indy 500 gets all the press, because it's the Indy 500. But take away the prestige of the Brickyard and it's just another high-speed parade, this year coupled with the drama of a winner who's probably more of a household name for his "Dancing With The Stars" appearance than for his three Indy victories. Wake me up when Tom Brady's recognized for his appearance on some reality series instead of his three rings.

Anyway, that was the hope. The reality was watching the race on Monday afternoon, after rain drenched central North Carolina Sunday night. Rain had truncated the weekend's practice sessions and the Nationwide Series race Saturday night, and on Monday it did the same, forcing NASCAR to call the race with just over half the laps complete. That's 227 of 400 laps, but with three or four breaks for rain on the track in that time span. One of the broadcasters jokingly called it the "24 Hours Of Charlotte," but sadly, he was only an hour or two off from being right.

One of my friends was at yesterday's race. Maybe that's why I felt more for the fans than I did say, at the Daytona 500 this year when it was rain-shortened 48 laps shy of the finish. Of course, I didn't know anyone in the stands that night, and it sent my favorite driver to Victory Lane, so who was I to complain? Not surprisingly, my first time at the track was in the midst of a rainstorm. It was Loudon in 1995, the Busch North/Modified Tour prelude to Sunday's Winston Cup race. My dad and I watched practice in the morning, then settled into the grandstands for the Busch North cars...and watched as rain fell with 92 laps complete. We left for the truck, changed into drier clothes, and headed home, where we learned that they did restart the race after a few hours of drying the track off.

It sucks to be at the track in the rain. There's nowhere to hide, unless you're one of the lucky few to pack the grandstand terrace under the hospitality suites or you can make it to ground level to duck under the grandstands themselves, where you may get dripped on by rain or a spilled beer. Donning a poncho and stashing your scanner becomes a race against the clock, especially when the ponchos inevitably slide to the bottom of the scanner bag under the extra sets of headphones. If you decide to bolt, now you have to gather all your crap with you in hopes that none of it gets wet. And then, after you find cover and the rain blows over, they have to dry the track. Your choices are to browse the souvenir alley for new Dale Jr. t-shirts, or watch the parade of safety vehicles and jet-engine blowers circling the track at low speeds. And you pray that the hour or two of jet-engine whine and wasted time aren't all for naught when a stray cloud feels the need to rain just a bit more on your parade.

If the race isn't to halfway yet, you're stuck there wondering, will they get this restarted? Will we have to come back tomorrow if they can't dry the track? How will this mess with my schedule? If the race is past halfway, you're stuck there wondering, will they get this restarted? Will they just call it early? How long are we going to have to wait to find out?

The fans yesterday got treated to both questions.

Weather aside, this year's World 600 wasn't shaping up to be the most exciting race. Most of the green-flag laps were led by none other than Kyle Busch, whose strongest competition seemed to come from Brian Vickers, whose pit crew (as per usual) fell short at every opportunity. That's probably why, when the final red flag flew at almost 4:30, I wished NASCAR would call the race official. They had run past halfway, not much but enough to make it legal. They started the race not long after noon, and since then had red-flagged the race twice for rain already. A race that normally takes four hours to run to completion was already four and a half hours in, with no end in sight. I'm sure most of the drivers wanted to go the distance. But the fans had already been there the day before, and a few hardy ones were still in the stands Monday afternoon, hoping for a finish to the race they'd come to see.

NASCAR called it two hours later. They did a lot to get this one in. But at 5:00, I think they should have looked at the radar, acknowledged that everyone was already into their second day at the track, and called it a race.

I imagine calling a sporting event on account of weather is one of the hardest decisions to make. You need to balance both the integrity of the event and what's best for the fans' safety and sanity. You have to make a judgment call that'll get criticized if the weather changes after you make up your mind. It's really a no-win. That said, I think they made the right call last night, but at the wrong time. Let's say that the rain had stopped by 6pm. They may have been able to get the race restarted by 7:00 or 7:30. With two hours left to race, provided there was no more rain, that would wrap up the race at 9:30 at night. Give the remaining fans an hour to get back to their cars and pack up their tailgate parties, and then they have to get home. I was always spoiled; we live an hour from Loudon. On Cup race weekends, it would take us three hours, at least, to get home from the track. What of the fans who don't live just around the corner? In hindsight, it just seemed impractical to hold out until 6:30 at night to decide the show was over.

I guess, as a fan, you make your bed when you decide to go to an event that's weather-dependent. I dreaded the thought of them kicking on the lights for an evening ending. I thought back to the season finale at Atlanta in '98, a marathon that ran well into the evening hours by the time it got started, a race I only saw in replay footage the next day. It had been two long days for the Charlotte fans already; to stretch it out into Monday evening would have been unreasonable.

David Reutimann became the sixth driver to win his first career race in the World 600 yesterday. Granted, it was largely due to pit strategy, but with Keselowski's win a few weeks back, we've had a couple upsets this year, for sure. Too bad David's victory was overshadowed by the weather; hopefully he'll claim another one before long. I'm not a Reutimann fan, but I can't help but like a guy who runs his dad's old number and who almost didn't get a shot at the big time because, at 37, the sponsors felt he was "too old" to meet their expectations.

So Loudon is in a month. I wonder if I can coerce anyone to go.

Carmine & Jeff Tackle "It Was A Good Day"

So Carmine and I are trying to go mainstream with this little thing that was once restricted to single lines or stanzas traded back and forth in a Gchat window. This past Friday morning, I planted a predictable seed for one I knew would end up being epic.

Trust me, you have not lived until you have tried to come up with a highbrow, educated way to describe base sexual acts as described in street vernacular. That said, there should probably be a parental advisory on this, but then, I doubt anyone under, say, 10 is reading this.

Here's our take on "It Was A Good Day" by Ice Cube. Once again, Carmine's lyrics are in red; mine are in blue.

I am just rising from slumber, and merciful to any appropriate deities. However, for unknown reasons, this day seems somehow unusual.

There were no audible signals from the neighborhood canine population nor any particulate matter in the lower atmosphere. My mother produced morning sustenance devoid of swine tissue.

I nourished myself, but not to grotesque excess. At that time, I received phone communication from a girl I have a primal carnal interest in. I disconnected the call with a salutation as I exited my home, pondering all the while if I was likely to exist following another moon-to-sun cycle.

I'm compelled to embark, since I have a convertible automobile with an actuator that makes the rear suspension compress. While stopped at an illuminated traffic signal, I did not observe any individuals with the intent of violently seizing my motor vehicle.

The lack of potential thieves indicates a positive Qi flow. Also, I received a page from Kim, who possesses nocturnal nymphomania. I called my friends and questioned the lot of them which facility they chose for a round of James Naismith's aerobic activity.

If I join the athletic arena, I can be a formidable opponent. About seven days ago, in a display of frivolity I scored high points in all categories, showing superiority over my African-American peers in a manner akin to Michael Jordan. It is difficult for me to acknowledge, but this day has been satisfactory.

Proceeded to the apartment in order to bathe. There was no notable interference from persons lacking courage. It was within the last 24 hours that these ill-advised individuals attempted to assault me with firearms. I observed the law enforcement officers as they continued on their course. There was no display of authority directed toward this African American male as I failed to yield at the convergence of roadways.

I stopped at the domicile of a $mall-$tatured brother of mine, where he and his guests were partaking in a broadcast of "Yo! MTV Raps." I questioned the status of a concurrent dice game. I vigorously shook my hands, releasing the dice forcefully into a ring formation of black associates. My scores were a strong and successful streak of sevens and seven-elevens, such that with young Joseph's approval I claimed the monetary prize for the game. We followed with a game of dominoes, which I also called out upon my further success. Moreover, none of my associates or peers lost their lives in the urban reaches of Los Angeles. As such, this was a pleasing day.

I departed from my compatriot's dwelling flush with financial solvency. I also gave carriage to a young women with whom I have been attempting to achieve carnal knowledge since the final year of my secondary education. I thought it to be whimsical that I had brought along some fine ale, and she was able to provide some rather potent cannabis. As a segue to my enthusiasm for the Los Angles basketball franchise's victory over their Seattle counterpart, I caressed her rather ample derrière. At this time, I brandished my phallus and applied it to her genitalia without restriction or concern.

My member was capable of such vicious penetration that it caused momentary sensory dormancy to her posterior. I encouraged her consciousness an hour past midnight, and she wasted no time in comparing my identity to that of an elite fighter pilot portrayed in film by Thomas Cruise Mapother. I returned her to her home, and allowed momentum alone to propel my car, consuming some alcohol and activating my car's hydraulic suspension. I was satisfied with the progress of events thus far, allowed her to exit my vehicle, then proceeded upon my way.

This day was akin to a somnolent rendering in which one has taken flight. I did not observe a prostitute attempting to advertise services by way of briefly exposing her mammaries, nor a wingless rotorcraft searching for a homicide suspect. At 10:00 GMT, I procured a savory ground beef patty sandwich. I was fortunate enough to observe the lighted signage upon the Charles Goodyear Vulcanized Rubber Company's airship which indicated that O'Shea Jackson professionally represents and manages women of ill repute. Extremely intoxicated, however not to the point of involuntary regurgitation, I was less than the mean distance from home and my cellular alphanumeric display was still operating at full capacity. I was not even compelled to utilize my Avtomat Kalashnikov assault rifle and concluded that this day had indeed exceeded my tepid expectations.

Comments are welcome. Participation in the next round is even more encouraged.

Stop Typing And Drive?

So Gov. Lynch has a new bill on his desk to sign. This one is a primary-offense law against texting or typing while driving. Apparently feeling that the current secondary-offense "distracted driving" statutes aren't firm enough and don't cover text messaging specifically, our lawmakers have drafted a firmer, more direct law that means you can get pulled over simply for texting while driving.

I don't like it.

Of course, I've done it. Hell, what other kinds of dangerous things have I done behind the wheel? I've made phone calls, sent text messages, read text messages, read maps, played with a GPS, played with my iPod, found and plugged in my wireless earpiece, eaten Chicken McNuggets, adjusted the car stereo, adjusted the HVAC settings, held conversations with pretty girls in the passenger seat...yeah, that should cover it. Oh, and I got my mom to run a red light once when she thought I said "go," though I'm not sure how she thought my command over the phone referred to her particular traffic light.

Most of those, you can do blindly, or with a stray glance. You know, spin the iPod wheel, see you're on "Poker Face" by Lady GaGa, and know that you're about a spin and two clicks from a good song. By default, that makes texting while driving probably one of the more dangerous things I've done. Particularly when you care about spelling and grammar, texting on a non-QWERTY keyboard is not something that you can do as an auxiliary function. I know this, and I try to minimize it. "OK" is a fine text response when driving. A complete sentence isn't. And if conversation is needed, I'll simply call (my cell phone does have voice capabilities, after all) or pull over (some people don't talk).

But that's a decision that I, as an adult with common sense, can recognize for myself. It's like the iPod. The iPod is best adjusted at a traffic light or an open, clear stretch of highway. While zipping around my parents' neighborhood or downtown Manchester? Not so much. I think most people can evaluate when something is a bad idea and when something is not. Granted, some are better at this than others, and some are genuinely bad at it, but if you don't have losers, you never know who the winners are.

I don't think we need someone else deciding for us, based on a few bad decisions people have made. It always takes one dumbass T operator in Boston or a carload of cute white girls to turn this into some lawmaker's cause célèbre. Now, we're a step closer from having a law on the books that means an officer can pull you over because you were texting. Oh, but there's an exception for entering a phone number or choosing a person to call! How can an officer tell the difference at speed? Furthermore, can you prove you didn't delete a text you chose not to send when the blue lights fired up? What if it's an iPod you're distracted by? Can you prove it was really your iPod and not that phone in the cupholder? What if you're at a stop light, or stopped anywhere? You're on the road, in an at-duty position to drive...aren't you just as guilty? We're talking about a driving environment where simply not having your eyes on the bumper in front of you could be evidence to pull you over.

Realistically, I don't think the enforcement would be so strong that cops would be suddenly inundated with text-messaging scofflaws to rival Nick Angel's take in the first 15 minutes of "Hot Fuzz." But it's about principle and precedents. We're allowing people to create legislation to govern the minutiae of our daily life, things like seatbelts and texting and cell phone calls and motorcycle helmets that should only be governed by common sense and, harsh as it sounds, a little Darwinism. The more control and independence we cede away in these smaller battles, it makes it ever easier to tackle the bigger ones. Some people use firearms in a manner that harms others. You see where I'm going here.

And what gets me is that the pro-law crowd doesn't quite get it, either. I'll read the Union Leader articles online, and the reader comments. They're tossing around a primary-offense seatbelt law now. The minute someone objects to the legislation, someone counters with, "How can you say seatbelts aren't a good idea? They save lives!" That's not the point at all. The point is, we don't want a law to tell us we have to do it. I admit, texting while driving is one of the dumber things I do in my car. I try to avoid it. But I don't think I need a law to guide me in that direction. I can make that decision for myself, just like I choose to wear my seatbelt every time I get into a car. I think the majority of people are smart enough to figure that out for themselves, too. They don't need a law, either.

I mean, if you really stop and think about it, driving is a pretty distracting activity. I'm just talking about road signs, construction crews, billboards, funny license plates and/or bumper stickers, wildlife, pedestrians and cyclists, emergency vehicles, potholes, speed bumps, and benefit car washes for the Podunk High cheerleading squad. That's just the stuff we can't legislate away. When you consider the above, it's a wonder we can stay on the road at all.

My Little Demon(s)

I went to see "Angels & Demons" this afternoon. For the benefit of those who actually want to see the movie, I won't go into spoiler-level depth on what happens or how the movie diverges from the book. All plot and character changes aside, I enjoyed it, and I'll buy the DVD when it comes out.

My big question going in was how the timeline would play out. Angels & Demons was published prior to The Da Vinci Code, and so I wondered if the "A&D" film would take place before "DVC," or if they would adjust the script to fall after "DVC." The answer is, "A&D" takes place after the events of "DVC." It works; the events of either one didn't shape Robert Langdon so much that he couldn't reverse his experiences and still be believable.

But this is one problem with translating a series from one medium into another. I had the same kind of fear when Dennis Lehane's Gone, Baby, Gone was optioned. I loved that series of books, and I was glad to hear that Ben Affleck was putting his name behind a movie adaptation. There were just two problems: it was unrealistic for the movie to take place in the late '90s. Too many errors come up in backdating, the little things like an anachronistic license plate or building. The other problem is that the book was the fourth in a series of five. Now, do you go back and create three back-dated movies to cover the prior storyline? Do you adapt the story to make them fit in a new chronology? Those books in particular followed an evolution in the personal and professional relationship between Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro; you can't tell their story and gloss over that. To turn the first three books into sequels would do just that. To go back and create them as "prequel" movies could be chronologically awkward. And besides, we know neither of them risks dying. There's already a future for them, right?

That said, there were a couple subplots I hoped would surface in the film that did not. A few character changes, too. I suppose that's the nature of any adaptation, though. The late Michael Crichton had done a piece before his death on how the average 500-page fiction novel shrinks to fit a movie script, and that to condense a novel to fit two hours of screen time is quite difficult. You also lose the option of exposition, which results in characters talking about obvious things to keep the audience from being in the dark. After all, not everyone has read the book, or knew that an awareness of particle physics would be necessary to understand part of the story.

The matter of exposition was pointed out in some Fark posts that were rather critical of the book and movie. For that matter, among the Farkers, Dan Brown hate is close to Republican hate. I don't really get why. They paint him as a crappy author of predictable books written for idiots who cling to religion as a crutch. You know what? I find his books entertaining. It's no different from "National Treasure." I'm sure there's no secret treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence. But what if there were? Wouldn't that be the ultimate scavenger hunt, using your scholarly expertise to find clues in works preserved for centuries without a second glance? Sure, it's far-fetched at times, but it's fiction. Sentient alien robots that transform into functioning cars are far-fetched, too.

The Farkers (who clearly found some urinary infusion in their breakfast cereal) also whine about Brown "presenting legend and rumor as research." That's half of the intrigue. Maybe it inspires people to go out and educate themselves on a subject like the Illuminati or the Priory of Sion. After reading DVC, my father ordered a copy of Holy Blood, Holy Grail, the academic book that Dan Brown admitted was a foundation for the fictional DVC. The book is boring as hell for the first two-thirds, but it makes you question what you were indoctrinated to believe. It's healthy to question. An open mind is a good thing.

On one casting-related note, my mom might be right. She enjoyed both books, but she never watched "DVC," and her excuse was that she didn't feel Tom Hanks made a good Robert Langdon. I wasn't bothered by Tom Hanks in the role either time around. But at the same time, I wouldn't have minded a younger actor in the role. Langdon is part academic, part playboy — I wouldn't see Hanks fitting that element. I'm thinking along the lines of Aaron Eckhart of "Thank You For Smoking" and "The Dark Knight" fame. That's still not quite a perfect casting, but Langdon carries a bit more charisma than Hanks can deliver.

I might hit on the Holy Blood, Holy Grail thing another night, but it's technically morning already, and I've got to work tomorrow.

White & Nerdy: Carmine & Jeff Tackle "Regulate"

One of my guiltiest pleasures is manipulation of the English language. Specifically, I enjoy taking song lyrics and finding ways to keep them recognizable, but making them incredibly articulate and eloquent, or just plain verbose. This is something Buxx, Carmine and I have all parried back and forth with in game fashion, each trying to outdo the other.

For some reason, this works best with popular rap and hip-hop tunes. Maybe it's because they tell more of a story; maybe it's because Carmine doesn't like butt-rock. Maybe it's because turning "pimpin' ain't easy" into "the profession of private sex brokering is a difficult enterprise" is more laughable than the more ordinary lyrics of most rock numbers.

Anyway, in a recent test of mettle and wits, Carmine and I went back and forth reworking the classic rap hit "Regulate" by Warren G with Nate Dogg. We did this in a series of Facebook status updates, something I may continue in the future with other tunes. For your benefit, Carmine's contributions are in red, mine in blue. Enjoy.

I observed full lunar-cycle visibility against a cloudless, onyx sky.

Concurrently, Warren Griffin the 3rd was on the boulevard attempting to procure female company, which will be instrumental in acquiring intimacy which some may liken to heavily syncopated soul music. Operating my motor vehicle in a state of solitary relaxation.

At the same time, Mr. Nathan Dogg was scouting the eastern reaches of the greater Long Beach community, in an attempt to locate Mr. Griffin. However, upon this search he sighted a car occupied by several women. This was not something to be concerned about, as all women are aware of the reputation of Los Angeles and its associated hip-hop scene.

Turning into the intersection of Lewis Avenue and E. 21st Street, I happened upon a group of African American peers engaging in an urban hustling activity utilizing a polyhedral number generator. Thus, I motivated myself to join the contest. Upon egressing from my vehicle, I administered a colloquial greeting. Several contestants then brandished firearms and I acknowledged that I was detained.

I became aware that the women in the approaching car were gazing at me, and undertook evasive driving to avoid their car. The prostitutes were so focused on my countenance that they lost control and collided with the sidewalk. Upon seeing this display, I deduced that there were greater priorities than carnal delight, particularly when I discovered my compatriot was in the midst of a confrontation with some less-than-savory individuals.

I'm the victim of a forceful larceny. I'm under duress to surrender my possessions. It's astounding to entertain the idea that they are seizing Warren's material gains. Upon taking my digital jewelery and my luxury Swiss chronometer, I questioned my captor as to what would follow in this sequence.

They have my friend restrained and surrounded, though none of them have considered whether they are equally matched to their adversary. I slow my car down to the curb, arriving just before they engage in any further antics. It is clear that the only appropriate action will be to unveil my firearm and take these delinquents' lives.

They have ballistics trained upon my crown, I fear my time is neigh. It's impossible to think that this could occur within familiar city limits. Were I to have Icarian implements, I would take flight.. allow me to mediate upon the situation. At this time, the visage of my esteemed partner Nathan is cast upon my eyes.

I have sixteen bullets in the magazine and an additional round chambered. So armed, Nathan Dogg is prepared to accelerate corporeal cooling. They proceed to collapsing upon the ground and calling out in elevated voices, but alas, their pleas for help are less than timely. Pursuant to their behavior, Mssrs. Dogg and Griffin were forced to take control and exact justice.

I forced all the delinquents into an unconscious and prone position, allowing my firearm to discharge each bullet with force. After this act of vigilantism, I pause to redirect my thoughts to my earlier carnal pursuits. I say to my friend, "If you are also interested in female companionship, follow my lead, as I neglected several women on the sidewalk not far from our present location."

It's widely verified that Nathan appreciates women with an open minded approach to sexual activities. Prior to my imposition, I was in-tune to a similar pursuit. Revisit the situation, as commencement has become apparent. Nathan and myself, Warren Griffin III.

As I suspected, the women were where I had left them, and required immediate attention. Of course, Nathan and young Warren were searching for something entirely different. One of these ladies was quite seductive, and stated, "I am impressed by your stature. My vehicle is inoperable, and you have a trustworthy personality. Would you please provide us with transportation?" Now, my automobile is loaded with female passengers, and everything is copacetic. We are en route to another location, the East Side Motel.

As if under chemical influence, I proceed into a new epoch. Similarly minded urban music artists, I challenge you to bring your best effort forth. Groove oriented music comprising an heretofore uncharted tier.

The underlying measure of the music comprises the low-frequency tones, and the standard low-frequency tones occupy the range typically held by higher-frequency sound.

Combinations of notes played in harmony, coiled steel wire to generate said note triplets...we provide a musical arrangement over the rhythm. Gangster funk music: a genre in which metered bassline and subsistence are mutually exclusive.

If you are aware in the same manner as myself, you will be apprehensive to bring forth a challenge. The time has arrived for r&b music that has been influenced by urban organized crime.

If your cannabis consumption is akin to my own, then you are likely in an altered state of mind on a nearly daily basis. And if you are a disrespectful urchin of limited means, then those indigenous to the Los Angeles area will exact vigilantism on you in like fashion to our earlier exploits.

Comments, props, shoutouts, etc. are welcome.

Back In The Saddle Again

Yes, Jeff, it's been almost three years since you've been into this blogging business.

That's about right. I forget why I stopped exactly. Maybe it was because my posts were devolving into an annoying sameness and a certain level of self-loathing. Maybe it was because I felt like every post had to have some kind of gravitas. Maybe it was because I was sick of typing the posts, splitting big HTML files, then simulposting the posts to LiveJournal just in case anyone wanted to comment on them.

Well, I'm back. From the technical side, I'm done with reinventing the wheel. Maybe in the RPI days, it was a display of machismo to have everything hand-coded and hosted, but now, I'm going to be content with an established platform that allows for immediate comments. I already like this approach more, and it seems more elegant than LiveJournal was, from the surface anyway.

From the content side, I've decided that each blog post doesn't need to be a catalog of what I did this day/week/month. I've decided I can post about something insignificant. Maybe it's music, maybe it's politics...though I intend to set that up as a separate blog eventually. Just what we need, another right-wing political blog! Maybe it's some Fark thread I found amusing. I just figured, Facebook isn't set up for blogging per se, or at least the Notes feature is a poor approach for something continuous. And if I want to integrate this into the pwn3d.net layout as a whole (which is going to get changed, honestly), I can just parse the RSS feed, which should be just nerdy enough to impress those who really care about blog architecture over content.

That said, here goes nothing. Loyal readers, welcome back. New readers, strap in and enjoy.