Date: Mon, 28 Aug 2000 10:51:26 -0500
From: "Jason R. Heimbaugh"
Subject: Bristol2000

The weekend report:

Thursday:

Left Thursday morning after packing (don't want to do that *too* early),
watering & feeding the cats for the next 4 days (Gianni, the superfatass,
actually made sure the food did *not* last the whole time, all bowls were
empty upon return, no emaciated cats, though) and one final hatsmail
check. Largely uneventful drive down, there was obviously a classic car
show somewhere around Evansville, IN and when we stopped for gas there
was an Eliminator beside us. I was suprised at how *small* it actually
was (never been up close to one before). Mentioned so to Terry.

T: So, you'd have trouble bootlegging whiskey?

J: I was thinking more of hot chicks in shortshorts.

T: So you couldn't fit a fine fox in front and three more in the back?

J: That was a Cadillac. I was thinking fuzzy guitars.

Radio commercial for a chain of stores called Tobacco Road:

"We can't mention the products we sell anymore on the radio, but to
put you in mind of how cheap the products we *do* sell are, listen to
these virtues of cheapness:

  [female]: Ladies, when you're out and want to send the message, 'I'm
  ready to check in.' it's time for Desparate. Go in and ask for the
  cheapest perfume available and get Desparate. When you need to knock
  out every other odor within 400 yds, get Desparate."

Got to the hotel, they lost our reservation. On *race weekend*. One of my
wives did not bring the confirmation number with her. Left it on her desk
at work after having made the reservation. Someone had a death in the
family and cancelled, we had a room for the weekend. Thank God for that!

Checked in, it's time to go back to Brownie's, the local redneck bar from
last year. We go in, don't recognize *anyone* other than the owner, Betty.
Especially disorienting as last year the Thursday & Friday crowds were
identical.

J: Perhaps there was a mining accident.

T: [laughing] That's not funny [J:Then...] Oh but it's so close to being
   true...

Betty is thrilled to see her buddy Terry & vice-versa. Ends up giving her
an Earnhardt jacket that she wouldn't let Terry open in the bar for fear of
pissing off the locals.

Guy playing pool (wearing blue shirt & olive slacks which helps the next
statement) looks *just* like Al Gore. After I bought the house a round &
am punching in numbers in the jukebox (oh this place was great, here I am
about to punch in the '9' in '2914' for "Flirtin' with Disaster" when the 
opening chords for it come blaring out of the jukebox speakers) he thanks
me for the beer and I asked "Al" (though somehow named "Steve") if his last
name was Gore.

S: No.

J: Oh, well did anyone ever mention that you look somewhat like him?

S: Nope. Can't stand him.

J: Me neither.

S: Don't much care for his opponent either.

J: Same. I wanted McCAIN.

S: Hey, go talk to Gene, he's the biggest McCAIN fan in the world.

Gilford Warren of Warren Heating & AC comes over to introduce himself and
the fact that he works in the heating & ac businees and tells me that I
*have* to get a new hat (wearing a black hat with a simple 3 on it).

G: And *that sticker* on your truck...

J: How do you know it's *my* truck?

G: [ignores] ...that's *illegal* here in Wise County. You're gonna have to
   pay a *big* fine in the morning.

Although *every* vehicle (OK, almost) down south has a number sticker on
it, the 3 sticker on my truck (somehow he *was* referring to mine) is a bit
ostentatious, even in Virginia.

G: Actually, I have to give credit were credit is due, I don't like the guy,
   but he's pretty much the best there is. We, the guys I work with in the
   heating & ac businees [he's *very* proud to be in the heating & ac bus.]
   go down to Bristol every year. We also go to Talladega, where we mark
   off our campsite with grey tape & meet some local heating & ac guys [the
   heating & ac tie-ins go on for quite some time, just re-read the last
   screen and think "heating & ac & heating & ac accessories"].

A nubile blonde who looks about 15, but in reality *might* be as old as 16,
walks in sucking a lollipop. I mean *sucking*, all-out [jrh]-sucking on it.
Licking around it with her tongue stuck out & swallowing it far deeper than
was really needed. Bet she's a hit here! Oh. Her *mom* is the bartender. Bet
that makes for some fun interactions with the drunks! Though none seen while
we were there...

Later, Terry's trying to get me to go play pool but tells me that I have to
lose the first few games to the locals.

J: Bullshit. If I play I'm gonna kick their ass.

T: You *have* to lose, at least the first couple or you'll get yourself in
   trouble.

J: I just told a stranger in a redneck bar that he looked like Al Gore. I
   can take that chance.

Did play pool, lost (unintentionally, it was mine to win) game 1, won the
next 4, split the last 2. Not too bad. Most of the games were against Steve
"Gore". He was embarrassed to mention in the what-do-you-do conversation
that he's actually a lawyer. Not a scum-sucking bottom-feeder (though *all*
are) but one who deals mainly with foster & abused kids finding them new
homes. More than we do for society: Lawyer away, dude.

Bruce (the guy who on the 2nd night last year thanked me for the beer after
I bought the house and asked me my name, J: Hi Bruce, I'm Jason. B: *Who*
told you my name? J: You did. Last night. B: Oh.) never did show up, not
like he'd remember us after a year, a day being too far beyond his grasp...

[image seen that night far too disturbing to put into print deleted]

Friday:

Drive down to the track. The "HO" in the "GOLD-SILVER HO-SALE" sign has
been covered up with one of those signs you can change the lettering on.
Park in our usual spot, only to be told that there's a 9 out of 10 chance
we'd get towed as there were orange cones in front (but the sign conflicted
by saying only you couldn't park on the pavement). So we park on the other
side of the road, have to chance it getting out.

Pick up a couple more John Boy & Billy CDs from their trailer on the way
into the track. I could listen to nothing but Hoyt & Delbert stories for
the rest of my life and die happy. "Awwww, hello?" "That you, Hoyt?" "All
my life, wanna fight about it?" "No. How's it goin'?" "NOT TOO GOOD."

Not much happens during practise & qualifying. Dale & Jr. both get on the
front pits so either could win on Saturday. Kevin Harvick (who races for
Richard Childress, owner of *the* number 3 Winston Cup car) gets the pole
and leads 241 of the 250 laps to win the Busch race. The race settles done
after 3 big wrecks in the first 42 laps (at <16 seconds a lap, that's 10
minutes of racing...)

Bastards! The orange cones have disappeared and (presumably) friends of the
track workers are parked safely in *our* spot. Oh well, trucks are just
made for driving through the median on a highway and we get headed back the
right direction. Get back to Brownie's relatively early.

New bartender, though one from last year. Real bitchy old woman. Does not
want to serve us, asks us for an ID. Yeah, either of us looks *20*. While
she's spending 5 minutes looking at Terry's driver's license (one patron
said, "Oh, they were here last night." Bitch: "I wasn't.") Terry walks
over and starts talking to & hugging Betty (reminder: the *owner* of the
bar). Hurry up on that ID check, your performance appraisal awaits!

Bruce is there, he invites Terry over to their table whilst I am off to
take a leak. We talk about how we "found" this place and me picking the
"rednick joint" over the "nahce place" and about how the employee at the
Martha Washington in Abingdon was *horrified* when we told him we went to
the Rockin' Horse in Bristol ("But people get hit with beer bottles
there!")

Bruce: Beer bottles? *Beer bottles*? Hell, people get *killed* at the
       Rockin' Horse. OK, no one has been killed there for several years.
       We always have fun there, used to be called the Hitchin' Post.

Later, Terry asks Bruce what his calling is. Then rephrases to ask what he
does for a job. He runs telephone lines with his son. Then he says that his
calling in life is painting ("I paint." [nods]). Seriously. Goes on about
what he likes to paint (mostly landscapes) and that he got interested from
taking some art classes when he was in college (really). He said if it
hadn't been so late he take us over to see some of the things he'd done.
Have to plan next year. Some people are just *way* interesting.

Waiting for the total for buying the house I talk to Betty. Talk about the
bar and I ask her why she only serves beer & no liquor.

B: These boys couldn't handle it.

Talk about some houses down around the Abingdon area and she asks me if I
like new or old houses.

J: Old.

B: Me too.

J: Oh, we just bought a 93-year old house.

B: So did I. Well, 3 years ago. Except that it's not old. And it's a
   double-wide.

Bar closes, Bruce zips off with Tracy (who really wants to marry him, he
keeps talking to her). Find out on Saturday that Bruce is a *grandfather*.
For the second time (as of just two weeks ago). His daughter both times,
he was there for the 2nd birth, not sure I could do that.

Get back to the room, I watch TV as it takes me 5 seconds to get ready for
bed. Terry finally gets done with whatever takes her 37 minutes to get
undressed and walks out of the bathroon area. Pauses.

J: You mean you've *just* heard them?

T: Um, yes.

Fatty next door was *obviously* bumpin' uglies with her way-too skinny
husband (actually, we never saw either one of them, descriptions based on
stereotypes of every other couple we saw in the area--at Brownie's one of
the big fatties was *sitting* on some poor skinny guy, J: "There really
outta be a union to protect guys like that." I was *serious*). Terry is not
*half* the woman of any woman there. And that's not just volume, that
includes (at least Friday night) volume.

Saturday:

Leave early enough to get a decent parking spot, but early enough that the
gates are not yet open. It's 10:00AM, race starts at 7:30PM. The joys of
dealing with being in the same location with 165,000 of your closest
friends.

Sitting in our seats, for morning practise 3 spotters (the 9, 32, & 60 cars,
none of whom has a chance to win) are there beside us. For the race they're
on top of the luxury boxes, but our seats are the best in the house and in
the shade so it kind of made sense they were there. For happy hour, both
of Dale Earnhardt Inc.'s spotters were there (the 8 & 1 cars, both with wins
this year).

Spotter1: What happened to your boy last night?

Spotter2: It wasn't *my* fault. I saw that accident forming before it
          happened and when it did told him "Spin in 2. Spin in 2." but he
          still didn't slow down.

Then they started talking about how bad the tittie bar they were at last
night was (old, flat, ugly). But then Terry got back and they all shut up.
Terry was (later) disappointed that it only took one woman to shut them up.

Pre-race buildup to the most exciting race of the year (Bristol Motor
Speedway slightly dropped the ball this year, no "Sweet Home Alabama" to
send the drivers off with):

"God Bless the USA" while parachuter with huge flag hanging drops to the
track -> "God Bless America" by the driver & crew's kids -> Invocation
(but not by Hal Marchum) -> National Anthem also by the kids. One minute
until the command to fire engines. "Green. Green. Green."

From the scanner:

Childress: Dale, Bobby Hillin's in that 9 car so be careful, there'll be
           trouble all around him tonight.

[caution out, only 10 laps on the tires]

Earnhardt: Follow the leaders or pit?

Childress: Stay out.

Earnhardt: I want 4 tires.

Childress: We can't lose the track position.

Earnhardt: I *hate* drivin' on scuffed tires! You never think of *that* do
           you?

[another caution, talking about what changes to make]

Earnhardt: Just give me four fucking tires. That'll fix it. Like it would've
           had we pitted last time.

[rained briefly yesterday, skies seem clear]

Earnhardt: What's the radar look like?

Crew Chief: We're sending someone. [...] Lots of green 35 miles out. We're
            7 laps to halfway. [halfway + 1 lap = official race]

[later]

Earnhardt: How's the radar now?

Crew Chief: Still 15 miles out.

[never did rain until we got back to Norton]

[passing cars in heavy traffic, Jr. in the 8 car is following his dad thru
the pack, then tries to pass him]

Earnhardt: Tell the 8 car he has to be *patient* in trafic. [read: tell him
           that only *I* am allowed to drive like me]

[caution with about 100 laps to go, Dale's in 8th, great pit stop gets him
to 2nd behind Rusty, but they missed a lug nut on the right rear and Dale
had to come back in the pits dropping him to 11th]

Childress: Dale, we're real sorry about that.

Spotter: We'll be able to make it up.

Earnhardt: THAT STILL DON'T MAKE ME HAPPY.

[caution with 40 laps to go, the 22 car takes only 2 tires to come out
first, Dale is 5th]

Earnhardt: Did the 22 only take 2 tires?

Childress: Yeah. He wasn't goin' anywhere with *4* tires. Don't worry about
           him.

Too much lapped traffic kept Dale from passing Martin & Stewart and he
probably couldn't have gotten around Rusty who won from the pole. 4th not
terrible. Race was good, not excellent (these are the races that make '95
& '99 *so* memorable). Robert Pressley turned himself into the Human
Firework when he hit the wall and the car exploded into a huge ball of fire
(sponge-filled rubber fuel cell saved him as only the fuel in the line will
catch on fire).

So. I've only ever seen 1 driver not win back-to-back. Winners (in order)
of races I've been to:

Sterling Marlin: Daytona, Daytona
Jeff Gordon: Indianapolis, Martinsville, Bristol
Ernie Irvan: Michigan
Mark Martin: Bristol, Michigan
Dale Earnhardt: Bristol, Talladega
Rusty Wallace: Michigan, Bristol

Drive back home, same trip through the median. Get to Brownie's just at
1:00 (closes at 2:00). Tracy mentions that we missed all the fights. Steve
"Gore" is by the door when we walk in, shakes my hand and buys our beers in
spite of the fact I thought he was "fucking Al fucking Gore". What we later
found out, another of the bartender's (the one with the lollipop-sucker
daughter) kids was there. Later, I asked Terry how long it took her to
figure out if the kid was male or female. T: "Oh, about 10 minutes." Said
girl looked just like a guy, small tits visible from *some* profile views.
I said that I was surprised she was still around town. Terry then said that
there were more than just her and *that* was the cause of the earlier fight
between an afternoon waitress and a night waitress over lesbians.

Bar closes. Goodbyes until next year. Back to the hotel. Fatty & Skinny
next door just have the TV on. As do we, but that's (thankfully) not the
only thing on in our room.

Sunday:

Stop at a Shoney's for breakfast. Sign on the door says:

SHIRT AND SHOES APPRECIATED

Get slightly lost, delayed by a train, air-conditioner completely fails
in the truck (though one mile from home), and get ready to go back to work
on Monday.

Only 1 year until the 2001 Night Race at Bristol...

Jason "3" H.