There’s a group of us who regularly meet up to watch the IZOD IndyCar telecasts. These are typically delightful little affairs filled with witty banter & many fine meats & tasering eachother for sport. And also IndyCar racing, I suppose. And recreational ether use. And all sorts of other happenings generally frowned upon by polite society. Our race-day telecast is a brief escape from the monotonies of adult life, full of mischief and questionable decision-making. It’s our lovely little patch of International Waters in a vast ocean of Responsibility. It is our Manctuary.

So when a trusted & highly decorated Field General of the Pagoda so recklessly opted to bring his 4-year-old to Sunday’s proceedings, worlds collided. And they collided hard. Our cherished Manctuary was carpet-bombed into ruin. Not because the kid was unruly or misbehaved — because he certainly wasn’t. Far from it. He was polite & quiet & knew more about IndyCar than all of us combined. Rather, it was simply because he was there.

For you see, ladies, the blessed Manctuary — no matter its form — is a fragile thing. It’s nothing more than a whisper-thin layer of insulation where we can say & do & spear things as we please. Even the slightest breach of  that insulation is enough to castrate its face & murder its innocence. Because the Manctuary is built from a total obliviousness to the responsibilities of the outside world, and I can’t in good conscience snort a line of DayQuil whilst sitting next to a toddler. I just can’t. (That would be too jarring & likely a criminal offense of some kind.) Not that I’d actually do it in his absence. But it’s nice to have those options.

And when those options are gone, so too is the Manctuary. It is destroyed, quickly & entirely burned to the ground. And in its place grows that familiar sense of prudent restraint — like a wise & careful phoenix rising up from the charred ashes of an irresponsible potato gun. Sigh.

And with that bit of melancholy aside, let us now adjourn to the very sensible hills of Mid-Ohio!! Five Pagodas for that which was decidedly awesome … one Pagoda for that which was uncomfortably pathetic and/or Marty-Reid-ish. My call.

*     *     *

The VERSUS pre-race show goes heavy on the confrontations — 4 Pagodas
Scattered throughout nearly every part of the show was footage of Helio going all Ron Artest through the Edmonton grasslands. They had close-ups & wide-angles & slo-mo’s, all set to various thrash metal tracks or the “Braveheart” soundtrack. They weren’t “milking” the incident, per se — they were sucking the bone marrow out of it with a modified WetVac.

Same thing for the Wilson/Briscoe dustup on Saturday, which as an aside, had that distinct feel of a drunken carnival midget stepping up to Mothra. (UNLEASH THE FURY, RYAN!! GNAW ON HIS ACHILLES TENDON WITH YOUR LITTLE SHARP TEETH!!!) These are heady times we’re living in.

The point is, IndyCar is forced to publicly denounce such shenanigans & even fine the perpetrators on occassion. But the reality is, they couldn’t be more pleased with these confrontations. I have nothing to back up this unsubstantiated conjecture, of course. Except for the fact that VERSUS IS RUNNING THE FOOTAGE ON A NEAR-CONTINUOUS LOOP.

Arute’s mic goes silent for a solid 10 seconds — 4 Pagodas
Had this been an ABC telecast, it is a scarcely noticeable faux pas. One of thousands, really, hardly worth discussing. But such outright negligence on VERSUS? No, this doesn’t feel right. Much like Jason Bourne, they don’t do random … they don’t make mistakes. Something monumental took place, I just know it. Something wonderful. Something to initiate the “dump button” nuclear option. Commence groundless speculation!!

BOB JENKINS: Let’s go down to Jack Arute in the pits. Jack?

ARUTE: Get this, fellas! A black man, an amputee, and an AIDS victim walk into a bar and –

VERSUS PRODUCER: ABORT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, Arute, you inappropriate bastard. I’m learning to adore you. You are your very own smarmy Manctuary at all times, totally oblivious to polite society as well as the frequent rebuffs of ladyfriends.

You’re becoming our Kenny Powers.

Road Course Random Question #1 — 1 Pagoda
Because road courses lead to painfully long stretches of inactivity for the television-watching audience, our minds predictably wander. Sometimes a question is tabled that leads to a spirited discussion. This was one such example:

“What will Vitor Meira’s taxable income be for the 2010 fiscal year?”

We’re talking total taxable income. His salary, endorsement deals, speaking engagement fees, prop bets from Super Tex (“Looky here, Princesss — I’ll give you 20 bucks to drink this jug o’ cottonmouth venom!”) … all of it. We discussed this intensely, factoring in all sorts of variables & economic principles that seemed rational. Ultimately, the over/under came in at $350,000. With the caveat being that NONE OF US have any idea what we’re talking about.

Discuss.

Justin Wilson tangles with EJ Viso — 1 disappointed Pagoda
THIS was the squabble we wanted!!! Nevermind that Briscoe/Wilson shoving match that predictably fizzled into nothingness. Briscoe doesn’t have the requisite amount of CRAZY to take down such a large man. But EJ does.

WILSON: What the bloody hell, you roustabout?!! I’LL SETTLE YOU GOOD!!!  [raises fists like an 1890's pugilist]

VISO: What’d you call me?

WILSON: A roustabout!

VISO: [quietly & confidently grabs a spare javelin out of his cockpit ... stabs Wilson through the lung with it]

Sadly, it never came to that.

Takuma Sato speaks — 482 Pagodas
There are few things more delightful than hearing this man speak. His dialect is a heavenly mix of Kazuhiro from “Gung Ho” and Christiane Amanpour. It’s got the brawn AND the brain. It says “I’m refined & well spoken … but I also party.” In fact, if his words could be somehow melted down & sculpted into the form of a commercial, THIS would be that commercial:

Welcome to Sato country, bitches. Welcome to MANDOM.

[throws playing card at bottle of Old Spice on desk ... misses by 18 feet]

Road Course Random Question #2 — 4 Pagodas
Because road courses lead to painfully long stretches of inactivity for the television-watching audience, our minds predictably wander. Sometimes a question is tabled that leads to a spirited discussion. This was one such example:

“Could Graham Rahal be any whiter?”

After considerable & impassioned debate, the final answer was inconclusive. There IS a slight chance he could be … but only if he donned old-timey pilot goggles & an ascot during races. Such was the consensus.

Discuss.

Some Italian guy wrecks on lap 63 — 4 Pagodas
In and of itself, that’s not terribly interesting. Or even noteworthy. But what IS both interesting & noteworthy is that this incident gave way to a previously undisclosed truth: that the Mid-Ohio track personnel consist almost ENTIRELY of stoic beekeepers & anorexic safari guides.

What the hell, Ohio? You’re not Brazil. Ease up on the whimsy.

Dario wins – 1.5 Pagodas
A fairly non-descript victory, really. For a fairly non-descript race.

[awkward silence]

So there’s that. You can discuss it more if you’d like. Me? I have other, more pressing matters to attend to.

[tries to snag a catfish with bare hands ... falls and shatters hip]

No IZOD Girl … again — negative 36-24-36 Pagodas
Much like the disappearance of the Lindbergh Baby, this country must forget our differences and unite in order to FIND CAMERON! (We can start by interrogating that fiendish Sprint Cup harpy. She’s up to no good, I tell you. SHE KNOWS SOMETHING!)

But then again, a smoldering hot IZOD Girl licking the camera lens with her eyes is certainly not for toddlers. Perhaps it was for the best that she’s been kidnapped by the Sprint Cup Girl & kept hostage in a well. (Allegedly.) Or maybe this was an executive decision & she’s just gone for good — a failed experiment in the clever placement of raw sex appeal. And perhaps a wise & responsible Candy-Crowley-like phoenix will rise up from her ashes. Sigh.