After much deliberation, I’ve concluded that there will be no Chicago Recap. For one very simple reason: the race was just that spectacularly awesome. That remarkably entertaining. In every possible aspect. Thereby making my job here borderline impossible.
“Impossible” in the sense that there’s nothing to find fault with. Nothing to snidely question and/or mock. Nothing I’d change. Oh sure, there’s always the little stuff. I mean, yeah … we still yearn for that glorious day when Jack Arute’s face melts off — mid-interview — as if he’d just peered inside the Lost Ark. For only then will a race have reached True Perfection. But realistically, last Sunday in Chicago was as close to perfect as realistically possible. It was essentially as good as IndyCar gets.
The problem with that? Writing a 1,200-word article on a near-perfect race is all kinds of awkward. Dangerously, unpleasantly awkward. Or so I learned. And it wasn’t until the 9th re-write until I figured out why: when writing about your employer, there’s a remarkably thin — almost nonexistent — line between “glowing praise” and “shameless, dirty whoring.” At least in the hyper-cynical, anti-establishment, probably-hanging-on-for-dear-life halls of the Pagoda there is. Right or wrong, I decided that if I can’t find at least one legitimate reason to tell somebody from IndyCar or ESPN to go f–k a weedeater, then I probably shouldn’t say much at all. So I won’t. Because I can’t. Not with regard to the near-flawless Chicago gem. So I’ll keep it brief and just say one thing … right after I muster up the courage.
[snorting a heaping pile of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda … crossing myself]
That was a brilliant race. It really was. Fantastically compelling, start to finish. It was — without question — the best race I’ve ever seen. Well done, IndyCar. Well done. And let us leave it at that. Please. Lest the Pagoda take a graphic trip to Whoreville. (Population: me.) Instead, let’s move on to a more pressing concern …
… wrapping up the 2008 season.
We’ll finish this the way we started it: with a rousing, quasi-coherent Q&A session. Why? Because there’s a pleasing symmetry there, not unlike a badass Illuminati symbol. Or Roger Penske’s steely, geometric jowls.
On to the year-end questions, which — honest to God — are not my own. Let’s wrap this up with dignity and nobility. And let’s do it for every other small, nonsensical pseudo-racing blog who never got this chance.
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Why hasn’t IndyCar fired you yet?
That’s not the start I was looking for, frankly. But whatever. Since you asked … it’s mainly due to the fact that they’ve forgotten about the Pagoda. We’re off the grid, so to speak. And how do I know this? Because in the beginning, I was routinely forced to rewrite things they deemed “inappropriate.” Things like “needless cursing” and “references to elicit drug use.” But that steadfast watchfulness soon fell away. And it didn’t take long to figure out that nobody was even paying attention. Now? I could build a goddamn f–king opium den in here if I wanted to. And I did!!
Smell that? That there’s the musky fragrance of freedom. And opium.
What was the single coolest moment of the season?
I can narrow it down to four. That’s the best I can do. And because I just slugged back a tall glass of silver polish — thereby rendering my IQ a solid 85 points lower than usual — I’ll just go ahead and put the choices in the “Firestone Tire-riffic Move of the Race!” format. It just feels like the right thing to do.
Was it:
(A) EJ Viso — for no real reason other than boredom — using his Firestone Firehawks at Watkins Glen to hilariously f–k up Vitor Meira’s world?
(B) Danica Patrick ramming her Firestone Firehawks into the unsuspecting femurs of opposing pit-crew members during some race I’ve since forgotten?
(C) Helio Castroneves taking his Firestone Firehawks to a whopping 826 mph in Chicago, going from last place to third in just under eight seconds?
(D) Tony Kanaan winning the Richmond race … and then swallowing his Firestone Firehawks whole?
Vote now!!!
Did you receive that box of human hair I sent you?
Jesus Christ, Arute, you crazy bastard. Isn’t there some chain-smoking bartender you could be impregnating right now? Leave us non-swarthy folk alone.
What was the lowest moment of the year?
The 138-hour Sonoma race, no doubt. It was like watching a bad Tennessee Williams play … while being raped with an axe handle. I hate you, Sonoma.
I waited the entire season for a post from Malcolm Jamal Warner. What happened?
Yeah, well … I waited the entire season for Brian Barnhart to quit being a dick and answer my Pagodium questions. The lesson: things seldom work out here as they’re intended to.
Which driver surprised you the most this season?
Marco Andretti. Because I was under the distinct impression that he didn’t suck. Quite shockingly, he does. (And yes … I’m still bitter that he took out Kanaan at Indy. F–king hippie.)
If the starter was actually a marksman with a bow and arrow, would you adhere to the blue flag more diligently?
I’m honored that you assume I know what a “blue flag” signifies. I most certainly don’t. That said, I’ve always maintained that society at large would be better off if people just went about their business with a cocked bow-and-arrow. (Or possibly a crossbow, if push came to shove.) It’d be more polite … less annoying.
Some asshole in the elevator talking too loudly on his Blackberry? No problem. Just quietly take aim at his jugular. He’ll hang up.
Honestly, I can’t see why an IndyCar starter shouldn’t be afforded this same right.
Did you actually attend or watch any races this year? Or have you just been making this all up?
Interestingly enough, I was asked that exact same question in Iowa, the Friday night before the race. Team Penske president Tim Cindric and I happened to run into “Depeche Mode” keyboardist Andrew Fletcher. The three of killed a bottle of Knob Creek over a lively discussion … a discussion ranging from politics and soccer tilts to stereo equipment and — yes — the veracity of the Pagoda. After shutting down the bar, we ended up maiming a stripper with a rocking chair, breaking into a poorly designed zoo, and spending close to $450 at Cracker Barrel. I also suffered a partially torn ACL that night, though I’m not sure precisely when. Or how.
The point is, my answer now is the same as my answer then: it’s none of your goddamn business.
Did you fulfill your intended role as the “IndyCar Sherpa” to millions of potential racing newcomers?
Certainly. Because quite honestly, I’m confident that millions of racing newcomers blindly navigated their way down to the dark, cold, f–ked up bowels of the IndyCar site to seek out the aesthetic horrors of the Pagoda — despite being completely unaware of its very existence.
Can we talk about something else?
Can you direct me to that sharp “Pit Boss” blog? I’ve seen all the billboard advertisments for it along I-465, but I can’t seem to find it.
Oh, no problem. Happens all the time. What you want to do is, go to IndyCar.com … then click anywhere on the lower 5/8ths of the page. It’ll take you right there. Good luck.
Assuming this is the last Pagoda, how would you sum up your employment with IndyCar?
An impossible question to answer, really. Because here we are, right back to that aforementioned “thin — almost non-existent — line.” In a near-perfect display of symmetry. How fitting.
The fact of the matter is, if I can’t find one legitimate reason to tell IndyCar to go swallow a syphillis burger — if I can’t blame them for even one of the Pagoda’s many failings — then I probably shouldn’t say much at all. So I won’t. Because I can’t. Not with the opportunities they’ve afforded me here. Not with them being the only people on the planet who thought this could work. So I’ll just keep it brief and non-whorish and say one thing … right after I mentally prepare myself.
[smoking a quick bowl of carpet cleaner]
Thank you. For everything.
Well that’s a little over-the-top mushy, don’t you think?
Go f–k yourself. And enjoy the off-season, everybody.
