Tuesday, July 27, 2010

The Valley of Unforgiveness

Well, I've been wanting to post this since Sunday night, late. But I needed to get over the initial shock so that the words would come to me.
I went to the valley this weekend. Yes, you locals know what I'm talking about...Lebanon Valley...you know, the racetrack.
Holy sh*t, what a circus. What a f*cking circus.

I went with my gentleman friend (the irony will reveal itself, don't worry) the Sisco kid. We had tickets in the family section, a smart move on his part because I can't even imagine how the evening would have unfolded if there was even a drop of beer involved.

The stands at the valley are divided into sections, designated by color. While we were waiting in line to hand over our tickets you can imagine the first thing that caught my eye, besides the children toasting over sized marshmallows over a garbage can fire in the parking lot.

"Um..." I pulled on Sisco's shirt. "Does that actually say 'Black Section'?"
"It actually does," he said, laughing nervously.

We made our way to our "seats" and as we got closer it became very clear that not only were we in the family section, apparently we were in the Big n' Tall section as well. There were the seats (basically numbers spray painted on wooden planks). In front of us, was an older fella, reclined all the way back, his comfy seat grating harshly against my knees which were spread as far as they could go (well beyond what even I would consider obscene, and I rode on the back of a quad that day, so I should know).

Behind us, same thing. My back was literally resting between this guy's thighs. Suddenly, I wished for a beer...or laudanum.
The evening was shaping up nicely. The sprint cars, averaging about 130 mph that night, kicked up more dust than a stud at a desert rodeo. In fact, by the end of the evening I had so much dirt on my face that there was an actual outline of filth on my nose outlining where my glasses should have been.

And, let's not forget the people watching aspect of this cultural gem. The main drag (i.e. food, t-shirts, more food and a piss troth) was littered with New York State's finest. Sisco got a a coffee you could pave a parking lot with and we leaned against a closed 'Sausage' booth, amazed.
"We should go," I said, barely able to contain my expression of horror.
"No, no, let's just wait here," he said, sipping his Creamora poison. "I want to take it all in."

So we did. We watched a 400 lb hobbit of a man hover over his pizza with almost coital desperation.

"See, see," Sisco said. "A couple of pieces of Wonderbread, some ketchup, some government cheese...that guy's in heaven right now." And he was right. The big hobbit was focused and clearly happy. And thankfully he had tucked in his t-shirt and cinched his black jeans at the waist with a belt that might as well have been a shoelace.
"Thank god he has a belt," I said. "That would've been a close one."
I won't mention the bathrooms, except to say that in the stunned silence on the ride home Sisco spoke up.
"I would rather burn my a**hole shut than have to take a sh*t in that bathroom." He shook his head. When I stopped laughing, which took about 5 good minutes, I nodded my head furiously.
"You know, I think they have a special souldering iron for that kind of job...I mean, I think they even sell them here."
"Yup," he kept his eyes steady on the road, spitting into an empty Monster can.
"You know," I said watching the stream of tobacco spit leave his mouth, "People in glass houses..."
"Whatever, babe."

We swung into the trailer park to get the kids from my brother's place. Lucian's face was all smiles and covered with BBQ sauce.
"I had ribs," he said sleepily as Sisco carried him barefoot to the car.
"I'm glad, buddy. Now go back to sleep."
The car ride to the house was punctuated by the acrid, very fresh scent of dog sh*t.
"Of course, why not?" I was laughing hysterically, unable to breathe.

I should also mention, in an attempt to distract myself from my precarious position between Weebil One and Weebil Two I tried my first plug of Copenhagen...not the city. Our friend Skeeter who was with us saw the can and whistled, saying, "Hoo hoo, you got a real man there, Nichole. That stuff's old school."
Within five minutes I had a plug in my bottom lip. I actually like it...a lot. Just as the numbness was settling in, Skeeter made vomiting gestures with his hands and mouth.
"What," I mumbled, trying to keep the tobacco in my mouth.
"It's gonna MAKE YOU SICK," he said over the roar of the cars.

I spit it out reluctantly.

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