I’ve attended my share of 500′s. I’m not saying they weren’t fun, because they were. I’m just saying they weren’t perfect.

Until now.

This time? The wide-ranging power of the Pagoda — and the kick-ass media credential that the League so recklessly gave me — will ensure that this changes. It will ensure perfection.

Or so I dream.

My perfect Indy 500 will proceed as follows:

3:39 AM — Return home from Flipside’s legendary pre-race party. Receive no admonishment from the missus regarding my late arrival. All’s well.

3:42 — An in-home nurse — who IndyCar wisely hired for me, and who looks remarkably similar to Marisa Miller — hooks me up to six liters of intravenous fluid and various anesthetics. I pass out fall asleep peacefully, mid-transfusion.

6:15— Wake up refreshed and completely non-hungover. Eat left-over Porterhouse from Tony Kanaan’s Friday-night cookout. Still delicious.

6:28 — Forgo shower. Opt for nurse-performed sponge bath. Drink the day’s first two beers.

7:20 — My ride is here to take me out to the Speedway. My ride is a fully armed Harrier Jet.

7:21 — Arrive at the track. Demand to hover above lowly peasants stuck in gridlock traffic. Laugh menacingly at them and their archaic forms of transportation.

7:27 — Unleash several air-to-air Sidewinder missiles at the WTHR News Chopper. Not death strikes, obviously. But mere warning shots. (“Warning shots” with a ferocious jet trail, that is.) The helicopter pilot and Rich Van Wyk look genuinely paralyzed with fear. I can’t stop laughing.

7:29 — Locate Lot 2, where I’m supposed to rendezvous with friends. Use all 38,000 pounds of thrust to vertically descend into the “Silent Pagoda/Maxim/Cheetah’s Tailgate Party Presented by Stella Artois.” Everything within a quarter-mile radius is either blown over or out-and-out disintegrated. Nervous, awestruck silence from the party goers … followed quickly by cheering and general regrouping.

7:30 — The party resumes.

7:30 – 10:38 — Unimaginable debauchery. The real kind. The Maxim girls are simply out of control … many farm creatures are ceremoniously slaughtered … a three-story bong designed by I.M. Pei draws widespread critical acclaim … and so forth and so on. Truthfully, 94% of the ongoings are probably not fit for print. Not here, at least. Moving on.

10:39 — Give a quick “Thanks for coming” to the tailgate’s two Guests of Honor: Willy T. Ribbs and J.D. Salinger. I discretely tell Willy that “there’s only ONE guest of honor in my book … and I’m speaking to him.” Willy nods his approval and calls us “like kin.” I feel like I’ve been knighted.

10:46 — Take the Pagoda’s official Delphi Safey Team Honda Ridgeline over to the garage area. I’m not driving, though. Gordon Johncock is. He’s our designated driver for the day. He’s good people.

10:49 — Immediately bump into Jack Arute. Quickly hammer-throw Arute out of the vicinity (much like Will Smith hammer-throws that beached whale in the “Hancock” movie trailer). Raucous applause ensues.

10:51 — Check in with Roger Penske. He mentions that he’s been looking for me. I immediately assume he’s here to ram an ice pick into my frontal lobe, “Goodfellas”-style. He’s not. He says he’s been following my legal career with great interest, and that he’s impressed with my body of work. He offers me the job of Team Penske’s in-house counsel. I accept, obviously. And then immediately bill him $2,600 for our little chat. He pays. In cash.

10:58 — Wander over to EJ Viso’s garage. He’s simultaneously snorting 8-balls and launching bottle rockets at his crewmen. I like the cut of his jib. He’s going places.

11:02 — Danica worriedly asks why I didn’t text her after I got home last night. Jesus. So clingy. Must. Get. Out.

11:03 — Bump into Tony Kanaan. Thank him for the cookout Friday night, as well as the custom-made fire suit and Tag Heuer watch he gave me. He responds that it was “no problem … just a small gesture to the most hard-ass human I’ve ever known.” He quickly resumes eating his pre-race meal: an adolescent coyote he tracked and killed earlier this morning.

11:09 — See Brian Barnhart. Order him to take me over to the red carpet in his golf cart. He says something about a “drivers’ meeting” and how he’s “already running behind schedule.” I am not amused. I raise the back of my hand ominously, the universal sign for “I’m about to slap the disobedience out of you.” He understands, tells me to get in.

11:11 — Drops me off at the red carpet, where the celebrities have been awaiting my arrival. I shove Bill Belichick face-first into an adjacent evergreen bush. Judith Light and I erupt into laughter, continue walking.

11:16 — Hit the V.I.P. buffet. Hard. Beef Wellington and gourmet breakfast taquitos and an endless bowl of Chili Cheese flavored Fritos. Alessandra Ambrosio keeps mentioning that she’s a big fan of my writing, failing to realize that I’m trying to eat. She eventually becomes a bother with her shameless flirting. I show her my wedding ring and tell her that I’m happily married. She dejectedly responds — to nobody in particular — that “the brilliant and dashing ones always are.”

11:59 — Adjourn to the “Press Room.” High-five Joe Don Baker on the way out. The f–king Whammer. Spectacularly random and awesome.

12:02 PM — Enter the Press Room. Rick Reilly is quick to greet me:

Reilly: I saw that you totally ripped off my “perfect day” bit from 10 years ago.

Me: So?

Reilly: So I just want you to know that whereas I invented the format, you refined it. Took it to new heights. It was a majestic piece. And damn you … it made me realize that I’m forever the Antonio Salieri to your Amadaus Mozart.

Me: Yeah I know. Is there any beer in here?

12:03 – 12:38 — Lots of schmoozing and beer drinking amongst the titans of journalism. Not for me, though. I’m drinking unhealthy quantities of Pacifico’s and playing an arcade-sized “Galaga” off in the corner.

12:39 — Conquer “Galaga.” Grow bored. Radio up to Race Control to “get this show on the road … give me Jim Nabors and the green flag, post haste.” Barnhart again reluctantly obliges.

12:41 — All pageantry comes to a stop. Nabors is hurriedly rushed out to the podium. He sings “Back Home Again in Indiana” marvelously, with aplomb and nobility. I shed a single proud tear.

12:44 — GREEN FLAG! GREEN FLAG! GREEN FLAG! A 24,000-horsepower stampede of unified badass blows down the front straightaway. Windows rattle. Goosebumps abound.

12:45 – 3:39 — 128 different lead changes. 90% of the turns involve cars going four-wide. Robin Miller and Curt Cavin meticulously explain every racing nuance to me, in real time. My dangerously high B.A.C. doesn’t preclude me from obtaining a total comprehension of the sport. I become the racing f–king master.

3:41 — Final lap, lead pack roaring out of Turn 4. Tony Kanaan goes airborne over six cars as he crosses the finish line. He wins his first Indy 500 … immediately unloads celebratory machine gun fire out of the cockpit. According to David McCullough — who’s standing next to me — it’s the single most fiercely awesome thirty-second stretch in American history. I concur.

3:42 — Begin post-race Pagoda recap.

3:47 — Submit finished post-race Pagoda recap.

3:49 — The Nobel Prize in Literature committee chairman calls. He’s already heard “good things” regarding the recap. Would like to talk. F–k off, professor, I’ve got a party to attend.

4:03 — Gordon Johncock picks me up on Pit Road. We head to the “Silent Pagoda/Maxim/’Earth Wind & Fire’ Tailgate After-Party Presented by Guiness.” That policeman who rides his motorcycle while standing up escorts us to the affair. He’s even more regal in person.

4:06 – 9:25 — Arrival. More debauchery. Gross, negligent, ancient Rome-type debauchery. The wildly, indisputably unprintable kind.

9:26 — My Harrier Jet arrives. Bid farewell to my friends and the ladies and Bob Sanders (who happened to stop by). While climbing into the cockpit, I take Penske’s cash and “make it rain” amongst the party goers. I immediately regret the decision. Financially unwise. Whatever. More where that came from. Commence vertical ascent.

9:27 — Land in my driveway. Thank the pilot and remorsefully explain why I have no cash to tip him. He says he doesn’t accept tips anyway. Fantastic. It’s been that type of day.

9:28 — Tuck in the kids. Kiss the wife. And bask in the glory of my perfect Indy 500.