High expectations are dangerous, and should be avoided at all costs. Some might call that pessimistic. I’d call it wise.

Take my son, for example. When he was born, I had the usual thoughts that most every other father has: that the boy would eventually become the world’s first scratch-handicapped biophysicist-turned-Senator who holds most every Big Ten passing record of note, and whose philanthropic organization has won dozens of Nobel Prizes. Of course, that’s probably a touch unrealistic, and it could potentially set us both up for some slight disappointments (more scientifically described as “crushing emotional trauma”). And that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. Which is why I’ve since convinced myself that he’ll be on parole and bagging groceries at a seedy Food-Lion outside of Jacksonville when he’s 38, and he’ll have a tattoo of a Vietnamese lady on his forehead. Anything he achieves above & beyond that? Well that’s just gravy. Pure gravy. And gravy is always acceptable. It’s the secret of life, really.

Along those same lines, I prefer that our front lawn resemble an unkempt patch of farmland in post-Apocolyptic Sudan — where weeds & rusted-out gun turrets & stalks of corn all blend together in a horrific picture of neglect. Why? So that anyone who enters the house is pleasantly surprised & relieved, and thus far more easily impressed. (I was led to believe there’d be feral goats and filth in here, which there is NOT. And that staircase looks almost functional! How delightful! It’s charming!!! I LOVE IT!!) Such genuine praise — for our house — would be impossible to come by if we had the unwanted hype of a nicely manicured lawn. But nothing is impossible when you tap into the awesome power of lowered expectations. Nothing.

Not even for the Grand Prix of Sonoma, which we all just assumed would douse our souls with paralyzing boredom … and then defile our womenfolk while we slept. We were braced for not just normal monotony – but evil monotony. We were ready. And when it never showed? We were pleasantly surprised, by God. And relieved. And far more impressed than we would’ve been without the low expectations. It was nothing like we thought it’d be, with neither goats nor filth nor prolonged tedium to be found. It was, in a word, delightful. It was gravy. 

(The Indy Grand Prix of Sonoma … the raw power of lowered expectations!™)  

And let us now retire to the dusty, picturesque hills of northern California. Five Pagodas for that which was entirely awesome … one Pagoda for that which was uncomfortably pathetic and/or Jack Arute-ish. My call. 

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Jimmy Vasser exceeding awesomeness – 5 smooth Pagodas
Why this is just NOW coming to my attention, I don’t know. But I’m glad it has. Because Jimmy Vasser is Bruce Wayne, and I won’t hear otherwise. He reminds me a lot of myself in many ways, assuming I often lounge around the summer castle with other multi-billionaire winery owners as we expertly sip our goods and get plastered and fend off hordes of exceedingly attractive women chopper’d in via the south lawn helipad. Which I don’t.

Some people might call that the best pre-race segment ever. Those people would be correct. 

The giving of the command — minus-71 Pagodas
No offense to, ummm … [Googles who gave the command Sunday]… Jennifer Azzi, but this mustn’t continue on like this. It just can’t. Not if we are to use the starting command as it was originally intended: as a motivating instrument of good & a passionate call to arms. Or to put it another way, not as a farce.

Therefore, from here on out, each and every command shall be given by Shaquille O’Neal, who thundered our souls in Texas. Or AJ Foyt — preferably as he lights a match off his face. Those two, and those two only, shall be charged with this sacred task. Shove off, Jennifer.     

First lap melee – 4 Pagodas
Upon first glance, it looked like 75% of the field evaporated into semi-gaseous dust form. On the first lap, no less. Which, when dealing in the perennial dullness of Sonoma, is like sadly walking into a 3-hour insurance seminar, dreading what’s in store for you … and having a mountain lion pounce on your neck. Of course it’s not good — but it’s certainly not boring either. That shit grabs your attention, for better or worse, and makes it clear that you’d better keep your head on a swivel. It’s quite welcomed under the circumstances, especially when there are no gaping flesh wounds to speak of. 

Well played, Sonoma. You’ve managed to keep us enthralled for exactly one more lap than you did for all of the race last year.

VERSUS mispronounces “Franchitti” in a promotional spot — 2 accepting Pagodas
Instead of using the correct pronounciation of “Dario Fran-KEY-tti,” VERSUS went with the slightly less correct pronunciation of ”Dario WHAT’S-his-face.” And I guess my point is, Who cares? It’s a minor slip, and I’m not troubled by this. I mean, it’s only a promotional video that took weeks to craft and edit and then re-edit until deemed perfect by a squadron of marketing personnel – stuff inevitably falls through the cracks. Even quote-unquote “important” stuff … like the correct name of who it is you’re promoting. It happens. Sure, it usually happens in poorly funded elementary school radio productions in the depressed bandito regions of Argentina — but it happens. Trust me.    

Jack Arute breaks out a sexually charged Depression Era euphimism – 5 Pagodas
I’m on record as a stout proponent of injecting meaningless turn-of-the-century slang into the broadcast, and I wish Bob Jenkins would get on board with it. But he won’t. Not yet, at least. Instead, we’ll have to settle for Arute stepping up to the irreverent plate with a mighty ”Grandma, put your teeth in your pocketbook — it’s about to get wild!!!!!!” 

Oh, Jack … if I could be certain that I wouldn’t get loaded off of Vodka fumes & herpes ointment, I’d kiss you. 

Final 4 laps — 5 Pagodas
Hey, Wilson, Briscoe, Conway & everyone else clawing for their racing lives there at the end. I’ll ask you what I’ve asked every Indiana Pacer who’s ever played during my lifetime: WHY WAIT UNTIL THE LAST 10 MINUTES TO PLAY RACE YOUR ASS OFF??? WHY NOT DO IT ALL THE TIME??!?

Truth be told, I’m fairly certain I know why they don’t. And I get it. Kind of. The way the system is set up — from the Points Championship to cars costing millions of dollars — the drivers can’t risk it, not even in the final stretches. And that’s fine, I suppose. It often leads to drivers laying back & playing it safe & being content with where they are in final laps, but that’s the nature of the beast. And the nature of the beast is oftentimes uneventful.

But for whatever reasons, it was anything but down the stretch at Sonoma. It was a fierce frenzy of chaos & near-catastrophes, and the best four continuous laps of the year not held in Kentucky. And really, who would have ever expected that?