Part 4- My 2011 Indy Blog Mess: Opening Day Shennanigans

 

Curt Boggs Photo

I am never late to opening day at IMS, but I gotta pay the bills.

I arrived late at this Opening Day at IMS because I had to work. 

The National Anthem was playing as I drove the Georgetown Road tunnel under MY racetrack. 

I flashed my bronzed badge thingy to the underpaid yellow shirted government agents. 

I was pleasantly surprised by the light traffic.

I crested the hill of the tunnel road and immediately noticed that my convenient ingress to the third turn infield parking and party zone was blocked by that stupid fucking Hotwheels ramp thingy.

Curt Boggs Photo

Motherfuckers. 

This impediment to my parking spot is an improper and imprudent grave injustice…and it will not stand…for long…because I’m going to knock that stupid fucking thing down and get it out of the way and out of MY racetrack.

It looks ignant, and God knows there is enough ignant stuff to look at these days.

Anyhoo…I zig-zag around the Hotwheel thang and park the Paul Tracy Commemorative Beer Wagon. 

I power-slam a Coors real quick because I have issues, then I load up for the trip to the Vigoda Plaza.

As I am doing this, the track goes green for the first time.  The sounds of real and shiny and fast Indy cars fill my ears.  My heart soars.  I think to myself, “Damn…this has been a long and shitty winter!”

The permanent scowl on my face disappears…temporarily.

I get to the Vigoda Plaza and notice many vintage cars parked haphazardly everywhere.  This is because it has been declared that Opening Day will be a celebration of the automobile.

Or something.

Al Gore silently weeps.

Maybe.

Curt Boggs Photo

Then, I head out to my super-secret Turn One roost where I figure I will find some of my racin’ buddies who are camera dorks and wish they had my skills with an Instamatic.

My camera dork racin’ buddies have long, “go-to-hell” lenses for their fancy cameras.

I bet it’s because they are over-compensating for deficiencies elsewhere in their pitiful lives.

That’s what I think.

Anyhoo…there’s a big brew-up with much cursing and smoking and backslapping, and I really don’t pay much attention to what’s happening on the racetrack.  I’m too busy catching up with my bros and being a general embarrassment to them.

It was fun.

Pretty much…until I ran into Grover.

Fuck him!  He was all sheepish and stuff, and he wanted none of me.  My beer was safe.  For the time being…

My truck driver's back started screaming at me, as did my full bladder and empty stomach, so I strolled down to the Vigoda Plaza for a pee and a beer and a couple of overpriced horse-meat hamburgers.

There, I saw Lindy Thackston, who is a world-renown female version of a TV reporter for the Verses Network.  She is a broadcasting legend, and I told her so.

 

Paul Dalbey Photo

I told her that I thought she did great work on TV and that she came across as a knowledgeable fan and a corn-fed Indiana gal with a Hoosier twang who wasn’t a bimbo and didn’t go around having sex with IndyCar drivers.

And if you know me at all, you know that I would not say such things if I did not mean them sincerely.

She seemed appreciative, if not somewhat wary of me and my comments to her, and she slowly backed away.

She is a smart lady, who was raised by concerned parents.

Stay honorable, Lindy.

It wasn’t long before the rains came.

Rain don’t befront me none, as long as I get my rent money by next Friday.

So…it was time to stroll the garages for the first time to see what I could see.

I saw many Honda/Dallara/Firestones.   

That’s what I saw.

However, this is something else I saw…

Apparently, Chip Ganassi has more money than he knows what to do with, so he has formed a satellite Indy Racing team.

This outsourced proxy Ganassi team gets the junky broken parts that Dario Judd and Scott Dixon throw away.

Probably.

This is a team of mercenaries, and with Chip paying the bills, they apparently think they can do whatever the hell they please and get away with it.

They need to get up a little earlier to fool me, however.

When I saw them wheeling this Chevrolet engine block into their garage, I knew something was amiss.

I yelled at them.  Loudly. 

I said, “You can’t use that engine block!  That is against the engine lease program rules and stuff!  I’m tellin’!  I’m calling the cops!”

They were scared.