It probably appears that Avery is actually interested in that seal beyond the rock, but the picture just happened to have been taken as he was attempting to determine whether the seal was in fact sporting a jockey on its back as part of some sick, twisted seal race at the Miller Park Zoo. While I’m just a tad on the disappointed side that Avery hasn’t an interest in anything without hundreds of horsepower and a steering wheel, I’ll concede that not only did I nurture that particular addiction but also that he wasn’t feeling especially well when we went to the zoo. Otherwise, this weekend was rather enjoyable in that I got out of the house and spent some time with the two awesome people pictured above. Oh, and my mom brought my retar… errr… brother along also.

Just another excuse to undertake another phase of modification for my BMW. Interestingly enough, it wasn’t just the spilled coffee, the stale cigarette smell mixed with the aromas of a thousand different automotive fluids, the worn leather, the cracking trim, the outdated electronics. No, no. That might be enough for some people, but what ultimately convinced me that an interior makeover on my car was imminently necessary… was my son.

Indeed, I had already had an interior makeover planned for some time now. But with so many other more important phases immediately more accessible and infinitely more important, I had kept pushing it off and pushing it off, and in case I forgot, pushing it off. Instead, I’m now inclined to make this winter’s car project more than what it already was going to be.

On Thursday of last week Avery was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD). He was prescribed Adderall, and the last few days have been absolutely heaven as he’s been a perfect angel. The downside to all of this, and it might be completely unrelated, is that Avery seems to be having a few issues with keeping food down. As I already stated, this could be a simple case of the common flu hitting him at a totally inconvenient time, but I digress.

The entire thing would be totally acceptable, but for the projectile fucking vomiting. Yes, I’m sure everyone claims to know someone with a kid that unceremoniously upchucks the contents of his/her stomachs without a moment’s notice. Yeah, that can be disturbing, but it’s not projectile upchuck. When I say projectile fucking vomiting, what I mean to say is unholy-Linda-Blair-on-fucking-steroids-and-crack-after-a-midnight-binge-of-wings-and-Sprite-projectile-fucking-vomiting. Yes, it’s really that bad.

Last night’s episode occurred as we were making our way home from a cookout we didn’t eat at, and instead decided to hook up America’s favorite nasty fatty treat, McDonalds. After paying for the food at the first drive-thru window, Avery gave me warning that he wasn’t feeling good and that he might need to puke. I kindly told him that we were literally two and a half blocks away from home and that he could hold out. We made it to the second window, and while I can see our food and drinks awaiting us just on the other side of the sliding window, I can see no drive-thru employees to give it to me. As the clock ticks down on Avery’s stomach, I wonder whether or not these people were dropped on their fucking heads as children… or whether or not they’d like to be dropped on their fucking heads again if I don’t receive my quickly-cooling food in a more timely manner. Finally, some bitch who looked as though she had just learned how to dress herself and that she could use her mouth to talk (amongst other things, I’m sure), started to hand me my drinks. And that’s when Avery began to dry heave in the back seat. JesusChristdon’tlethimvomitinthebackseat. As the dumb broad finally started to hand me my food, more dry heaves. And finally, as I feathered the gas for departure and the dumb bitch at the window formed her mouth to say, “Have a good night,” Avery let loose. He let loose. He fucking let loose with a barrage of high-pressured, ultra high volume, no spray, no chunks, just liquid, going-for-the-world-record-length projectile fucking vomiting.

I realized after the fact that Avery must have been looking down when he launched, because the area of impact was kept to a minimum around his car seat. Poor kid was trying to save Daddy’s car like a champ, but as he hasn’t taken physics yet, he didn’t realize that vomit with the consistency of 100% liquid will invariably drip and stream away from the initial ground zero spot. He felt bad for puking in Daddy’s car, but I cheered him up with, “Hey buddy, it could have been worse. At least it smells like fruity gummy rings in Daddy’s car.” And it does, too. I won’t say the smell is unpleasant, but just in case, I left the sunroof and windows open in the garage last night, lest the smell of stomach acids finally break through the overwhelming power of the gummy rings.

Oh well, at least I have an excuse to get at that interior makeover now.

100,000 spectators.
200 miles per hour.
73 laps.
22 competitors.
13 corners.
5 straightaways.
Formula 1.

The greatest spectacle on Earth. If I could have been handed a dollar for every time this phrase was dropped this weekend, I’d be a rich man.

Friday, June 15th, 2007
Ever had one of those days when, despite everything, it seems to contradict space-time and endure for longer than what it actually is? My work day consists of eight hours of something that I would consider to be a hobby. I develop large-scale web applications. In short, I’m a software developer. To me, it’s a fun job. I love coming into work every day, except this day. The anticipation of what was to transpire in the proceding seventy-two hours was almost too much for me to bear. As a result, eight hours seemingly turned into eighty. Every second was a minute, every minute an hour, every hour a day. 4.30pm hit, I said “meep meep,” and was a streak out the door; a vapor flying on the wind. Roadrunner ain’t got shit on me.

My car was rather thankful that I was in this rare, festive mood. She pulled hard at the slightest lighter-than-air touch against the gas pedal. Feather the brake, a silky downshift, apex the corner, blip the throttle… all in the split second when a traffic light suddenly decides it’s time to knock your debonaire swaggering attitude down a peg and force you to stop. Not today, traffic light. The Bimmer was relishing the three-quarters of full-tilt dance I was demanding of her. Within fifteen minutes, I was home and she was stabled, with a little regret. Sorry, girl, I’ve got a lot to do in a seemingly small amount of time.

I head into the house and up the stairs to pack. I’m only going to be gone until Sunday evening, so… two pairs of boxers, check; two pairs of khaki shorts, check; two shirts, check; two pairs of socks, check; hygiene amenities, check. Run down the list again, double check. wallet… big check.

It seems as though the next five hours moved fast as I almost can’t recollect what transpired, but before I knew it Larz was parked in my driveway. Happily, but maybe a bit wary of what’s to come, we toss my temporary closet into the trunk and merrily head towards Bloomington, for our first stop of the night.

My poor father. Sitting on his front porch for two hours awaiting our arrival. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I’ve got bad news: I could only get tickets to Saturday’s qualifying and he would probably be hanging out at my gramma’s house during race day. No big deal, he says. It’s just good to get out of the house. We all agree. After a little friendly banter, we’re off on our new adventure. This is what life’s all about: good times, good people, no cares. I fucking need this weekend like I need air to breathe. Yes, I need it that bad.

Larz, my father and I: fairly alike in our musical tastes. Avenged Sevenfold, Buckcherry, a little Linkin Park thrown in, some old school Ozzy, Motley Crue… if it rocks, we’re into it. Despite that, I doubt it would have mattered if we were listening to polka on our way to Indianapolis that night. Road trips are all about the journey. The end result is rarely as fun as the process of getting there, and this was just one of those nights.

Our arrival into Indianapolis is marked with little fanfare at two o’clock in the morning. No majestic skyline, no way to fathom just how remarkable the size and layout of this city is. The 465 loop, surprisingly, is largely empty and barren, making it easy to navigate to the proper exit. A number of blocks and a Nine Inch Nails song later, we roll into the pseudo-suburban area in which my grandmother’s house is located. A brief meet-and-greet between Larz and my grandmother ensues, hugs for all, and it’s off to bed.

Saturday, June 16th, 2007
Daytime often comes too early for the wicked, and after having forgotten that we’ve lost an hour, thanks to timezone changes, we’re extremely forlorn that our time spent sleeping is brief and punctuated. Any feelings of sadness over sleep, however, are shorter lived as we have a new mission for today: find, locate and infiltrate the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

The ride to the track was much like our road trip the night before: listening to music, cracking jokes, making fun of motorists as they pass. Unfortunately, we’re a little uneducated as to the location of the speedway. It’s not like it’s inconspicuous mind you, but more like our expectations weren’t nearly as accurate as need be. Without road signs to guide us, we soon found ourselves very lost… with five minutes to spare before the start of qualifying. Fuck the alpha male reluctancy to seek directions, the desire to see tangible speed personified greatly outweighs our cares of whether we’re acting like true ignorant male specimens. Time to ask directions. After receiving our new route, which we’re only minutes away from, we speedily begin our descent into decadence.

Imagine a rock concert so intense, so fantastically sinful, you almost feel bad for partaking. Almost. Instead, you justify the whole thing by explaining it away as an almost once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Now imagine a town built around this whole idea. This is what it was like rolling down the main drag towards the speedway. Every billboard, every street sign, lightpole decoration, restaurant theme, all of it… designed to draw you in. For the addicts amongst us, this was akin to a binge-and-purge in the City of Sin.

With traffic at a standstill two blocks away, we have nothing to do except watch the other fans make their way towards the Mecca of Motorsports. Of the 100,000 patrons, only half could speak a fair bit of English. It didn’t matter. If Nascar is for rednecks, Formula 1 is for the beautiful people. And beautiful people there were. Everywhere. Supermodel-quality ladies, scantily clad, were not showpieces for the event. They weren’t holding signs pointing the direction, or showing off a new sports drink. These ladies were spectators, on the arms of their men, for whom they were showpieces. The sheer thought was overwhelming. All the stories of the posh and glamorous lifestyles of Formula 1 were looking to be, indeed, true. And at this point, we’ve only seen the normal ticketholders. What wonders of the flesh would befall us once we actually got in?!

Situations like this tend to make men restless, and restless we certainly were. The inability to get out of the car in the middle of the street and join in the festivities is maddening and could be considered a close relative of torture. What is it that drives the world’s most beautiful and glamorous to follow a traveling high-speed competitive rock show around the planet? We get our answer in the form of a one million dollar Ferrari leaving the paddock. The engine speed tears its way up to 19,000 RPMs, the sound ripping through the streets. This is our first addictive taste of the candy.

I’m already hooked.