My First Indy 500

[Reprinted from "The Silent Pagoda" on IndyCar.com]

I moved to Indianapolis from New York City last July, when my wife started a job at the art museum here. It must be said that I wasn't terribly keen on Indianapolis. I grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, but my dad is from Indianapolis, and he invariably described it as "the Birmingham of the North." It was never my ambition to live in Birmingham, and I certainly did not wish to live in a colder version of it. So I made the move with some trepidation — sure, my living space quintupled and my expenses halved, but even so. Indianapolis. The Birmingham of the North.

Well, it turns out that I quite like Indianapolis. But in the year I've lived here, I've never felt entirely apart of the place. I bought a lawnmower. I watched some IU basketball games. I became employed by a highly reputable IndyCar.com blog. I even joined an IndyCar fantasy league this season in the hopes that I might connect to Indianapolis, but even so, it never felt quite like home.

Until, that is, I was standing in Turn 2, baseball cap in hand, oversize radio earphones around my neck, listening to Gomer Pyle sing "Back Home Again in Indiana." What was this odd feeling bursting forth from my breast? Was this ... pride? My God! A moonbeam o'er the water is casting a spell on me! Maybe it was the seven Bud Selects that had whet my whistle on the one-hour, four-mile bus trip to the parking lot, but there I was singing along, in love with the river Wabash and the smell of fresh-mown hay.

And it only got better from there. Because I grew up in Alabama, I'm a NASCAR fan, much to my Hoosier dad's chagrin. But when 11 perfectly formed rows of three roared past on that first lap, I realized what IndyCars have that NASCAR never can: gittyup. I couldn't catch my breath. And for the first laps, even after we sat down, I would half-jump out of my seat and point excitedly. Thank God everyone had their ear plugs in and radios turned up so no one heard me as I kept shouting, "They're passing! Passing!" It didn't matter if it was Kanaan winding his way toward the lead or the anchor-of-my-fantasy-team AJ Foyt IV passing Milka. The mere act of passing on this race track, in those cars, at that speed, struck me as miraculous — I had never imagined the complexity and courage required for passing while watching on television.

Also miraculous: They let you bring in coolers? Really? Full of beer? And sandwiches? And you can just sit there and watch Jaime Camera hit the wall three separate times in a single turn while peanut butter and/or jelly drips down your chin? Frankly, dear Pagoda dweller, the cooler was too much for me to handle. I stuffed mine full of beer and then felt compelled to drink all of them. There are men in this world who are capable of drinking right through a fine May afternoon, but I am not among them. During one of the many mid-race cautions, I found myself standing in a very long line so that I might eventually have the privilege of urinating into a trough alongside 30 other guys. So I called my wife.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Amazing," I said. "They're passing! Every lap, someone passes someone else! It's amazing!"

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

"Yes, definitely," I answered. "I mean, this isn't the drunkest I've ever been. But it's the drunkest I've ever been at 2 PM."

And so it went. My fantasy team certainly did not perform well — Foyt caught fire; Briscoe made Danica stomp; and Wheldon faded at the end. I would have loved to see an Andretti win (an Andretti dressed like Indiana Jones, no less), or to see the scrappy Vitor Meira pull out a victory. It would have been great to see Sheckter there at the end, or one of the Champ Car guys. I like an underdog story, and neither Dixon nor his car was ever an underdog at this year's 500. But none of that mattered. As far as I'm concerned, it was the best 500 in history.

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[John Green]

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Soon to be THE MAN

Only Jamal Crawford stands in his way now, and Flav is as good as gone. It's only a matter of time.
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My Perfect Indy 500

[Reprinted from "The Silent Pagoda" on IndyCar.com]

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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:

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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?

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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. Boooooring. 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 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.

[Roy Hobbson]

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Talk to Chuck: Josef Fritzl Edition

So I was talking with my broker the other day — just the usual small talk, you know ... how's the kids, how's the family, all that. And I'm all like, "life's good, bro ... just playing some golf, raping my daughter I keep chained up in the dungeon, living the dream." And he's all like, "What?" And then it dawns on me: this prick thinks I'm like, a monster or something.

[motioning off camera] Hold on, sweetie. I'll be there in a sec. Don't move or I swear to fucking God I will choke you out and stuff you back in your crate.

So, you know — I'm just wondering: who's side is he on here? I mean, he's MY broker. And yet, he doesn't give me any credit. Because c'mon, let's face it: I could've just killed my daughter and our seven little incestuous rape children and nobody would've been the wiser. But you know what? I didn't. I took the high road. And yet, from my broker — no love. Nothing. Zip. Nada. And I'M the monster??? Pfffft.

I don't know. It's just frustrating.

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Welcome Back, Dominic Rhodes. Stay Away From Marvin.

It's with mixed emotions that Naptown welcomes back Mr.-Should've-Been-Super Bowl-XLI-MVP Dominic Rhodes.

Will he bring back the glory of the Addai/Rhodes tandem that dominated the 2006 season? Or will he revert to his old ways of girlfriend-beating, drunk-driving, weed-smoking and pants-pissing that broke the hearts of Colts faithful? Let's hope it's the former, and let's pray that Marvin doesn't introduce him to the finer points of armor piercing Belgian Fabrique handguns.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the best part of this news for Colts fans: no more Kenton Keith.

31 Gun Salute

An American visionary has passed. Irvine Robbins -- who put the "Robbins" in "Baskin-Robbins" -- was 90 years old.

"Frankly, I never met a flavor I didn't like," Robbins told The New York Times in 1973.

Nor they you, Mr. Robbins.

Friend or Foe: Catch Up Edition

Becoming a father ... again: My wife delivered our second child on Tuesday. Which actually feels like eight weeks ago. I've lost all sense of time and what it feels like to rest. I'm unshaven and delirious. I'm living off congratulatory cupcakes and ventricle-shattering amounts of caffeine. I've accepted the fact that I will never again golf, even on the nicest of days. And our Seven Pounds of Fury continuously speaks in fluent tornado siren. But whatever. Friend. Oddly enough.

Marvin Harrison: A custom made, .50-caliber Belgium handgun? Seriously? What the hell, Marvin? Who are you ... Erwin Rommel? Danny Vermin? Maybe we should just tone down the exotic heavy weaponry. You're guarding a bar and a carwash. Not the Lost Ark. Jesus. Foe. As much as it pains me.

Learning to change a girl's diaper: Having changed thousands of diapers already, it shouldn't be a problem. What's the big deal? you say. How different could it be? Well fuck you. That's how different it could be. Because I'm used to the boy's diapers ... where what you see is what you get. See the problem, clean the problem, move on. But the girl's? Sweet fucking Desitin. Comparatively speaking, it's like cleaning out the vast Catacombs of St. Callixtus down there. More nooks and crannies and folds than Scottie Pippen's scalp. Foe. Damn you, complicated female anatomy.

NBA Playoffs: Mesmerizing. Just mesmerizing. And an unprecedented turnaround, really. Because the NBA -- as far as watchability -- has pulled off a real life Rod Tidwell. From unconscious and possibly paralyzed to instantly doing hand springs and hard-core break-dancing moves. Between the NBA's reemergence and Costco once again selling 8-pound boxes of Frosted Mini Wheats ... all's right with the world. Friend.

The remote key entry on our new car: I like the old one better. Much better. Click it once -- doors lock, alarm gets set, all in one quick (and discrete) move. So after I'd park at the seedy Village Pantry in Broad Ripple, the fierce looking hobos and winos meandering around the bus stop out front wouldn't care that the alarm was being activated. They'd know that I was simply locking my doors ... not necessarily judging them. They understood. They may be potentially violent homeless people ... but they're not morons. Which brings me to my new car. The one where I need a SECOND -- far less discrete -- maneuver to activate the alarm. Damn it all! Because it's painfully clear what I'm saying with this extraneous, albeit very needed move:

Yeah ... the doors ARE locked. You heard right. That's what the first, somewhat quiet beep indicated. But you know what? That's probably not gonna cut it. Not with you dressed in old paper mache and twine. I think I'll to take the extra precautions here. **BEEEEP BEEEEP** Uh-huh. That would be the alarm right there. It's on. Bask in my condescending whiteness, peasants.

Fuck you, Chevy. Thanks for making me look like an asshole and probably getting me stabbed. Foe.

My 38 trips to Target in the last three days: Do you know where the Cottonelle feminine wipes are? I do. In fact, I could go all Steve Williams and give you their exact yardage from the store entrance. And I could do it from memory. Same goes for nursing bras, nursing pads, Maxi pads, the Playstation 3 console (sweet, sweet respite!), Preparation H, and Pampers Newborn Swaddlers. Foe. A pox upon you, Target. You and your wide array of post-delivery products.

Kentucky Derby: Blah blah blah quarter post blah blah evil gay jockey blah blah blah dead horse on the track blah blah blah. Yawn. There's about zero things to like about horse racing. It's all so predictable. Nothing changes. Foe.

Post-delivery nonchalance: I get it. These people deliver lots and lots and lots of babies. They've seen it all, and it's old hat to them. Well guess what, Doc. IT'S NOT OLD HAT TO ME!!! I'm not really down with just leaving the placenta on the table as if it were a Kroger vegetable tray. Move the fucking thing!! Throw it away. Take it out for testing. I don't care. Do something. I mean, it's a sizable part of a human body. And it looks like a blood-soaked Goodyear radial. Holy Christ. The room is spinning again. Foe.

Tom Crean laying down the law at IU:



Here here, Coach. Well played. Friend. Damn near best friends. Holy shit this guy's fantastic.


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