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3/8/04

I was a Media Junket Junkie

lizabeth Taylor has done it. Courtney Love has done it. Liza Minelli has done it. And now me. We all go into rehab, swearing that this time we'll stay clean for good and then the pressures of superstardom get to us and we fall off the wagon. We can't be blamed for initially having good intentions. Theoretically, staying squeaky-clean sounds really good, but then you get that really scathing review of your one-woman show entitled "All About Me: My Life as an Interpretive Dance" or you marry a guy whose dowry consists of reconstructive surgery bills rivaling Michael Jackson's, and then you know; that King Cobra 40-ouncer starts looking like your homegirl. Of course, in my case it wasn't Cosmopolitans or Hillbilly Heroin that was calling my name when I hit my low, but a deadly mix of drag racing and writing.

I am sure there are those of you out there chortling to yourselves, "Oh! Isn't she the drama queen! Drag racing and writing, why, they've never hurt anyone." But I am here to inform you that although alone drag racing and writing are harmless substances that can be found in any kitchen pantry, mixed together they cause a whole heap of trouble. Trouble such as getting your face on a wanted poster at Famoso and being chased out of pits by wrench-wielding clutch monkeys, both of which have happened to me. And then the next thing you know, you're forced to sneak around with a wig and sunglasses, and god knows they don't make a decent wig nowadays.

"I can take it or leave it!" I said. And for a while I stayed away from both drag racing and writing, instead dedicating myself to more wholesome pursuits like collecting rock 'n' roll boy-groupies and back alley craps games. But then, I got a little cocky. I started to think I was in control of my habit and figured that if I did one or the other but not both together I would be safe. And that was fine for a while.

And then the NHRA sent me an email.

"Come, Pammy," they lulled me with their most soothing email voice, "Come to the NHRA MEDIA DRAG RACE CHALLENGE" (caps theirs).

They know. They know that the word "challenge" beckons me with its sinewy finger like the smell of barbecue in a Merrie Melodies cartoon. And the only way I could go was if I both wrote and attended a drag racing event. Those sneaky bastards!

We were to meet the day before the start of the Winternationals at the SpeedZone in the quaint and picturesque City of Industry. For those not acquainted with the places of historical significance in The City of Industry, SpeedZone, despite its name, is not the place to meet up with a beloved bathtub meth dealer. Although, on second thought, it could be a very Rockford Files-type location for a surreptitious meeting with a "colorful" personage. In actuality, SpeedZone is an arcade with an adjacent slick cart track-type place with (Shock! Surprise!) an epileptic seizure-inducing level of black and white checkerboard decor.

At the driver-wannabe Nirvana, we of the journalism world who are the ones to pick the short straw at the sports desk, would have the opportunity to Eat Real Food and Listen to Real Drivers Speak! The real drivers slated to appear were the adorably Morrissey-like Larry Dixon Jr.; the equally adorable if not quite so retro-'80s, Tony Pedregon; drag racing's own frightening Steven Seagal clone, Jerry Toliver, and some other people whom I didn't really give a damn about. (i.e. they were neither cute nor freakishly fascinating in the "oh-my-gawd-there's-a-horrifying-wreck-at-the-side-of-the-road" kind of way.)

But not only would we be treated to drivers getting up, bowing their heads and giving a litany of thanks to their sponsors, we would then have the opportunity to race against those drivers in "practice grudge matches in the drag racing simulator located at SpeedZone."

Oh. I was white-knuckling it, but those voices in my head saying, "Pam! One Day at a Time!" were being drowned out by the sound of Crazy Taxi, two-stroke engines and the blinking lights of faux-Christmas trees.

My interest was piqued. What exactly was a "practice grudge match?" Did this mean something like, "I really don't have anything against you, Mr. Fancypants Drag Racer. I'm just preparing for an as-yet-to-be-determined point in the future when I most undoubtedly will have something against you and want to settle it on the track?" I really had never heard of practicing having a grudge, but the idea most certainly appeals to my sense of pragmatism. Practice your grudges now and then when you actually do have a grudge you'll be primed and ready to answer frostily, shoot daggers with your gaze and generally back-stab with a great deal of efficiency.

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The solicitation pulled me in further. After a couple of practice rounds against the pros, we writing hacks would be "invited to compete against each other to determine the winner of a special NHRA POWERade Media Challenge trophy." (Crazy mix of caps and lower case theirs.)

With visions of trophies and kicking sedentary journalist butt on something resembling a track dancing in my head I made my way to the vast and uncharted San Gabriel Valley.

So, into the room I stalked like Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western, 3x5 cards with an acceptance speech on them for the trophy-bestowing ceremony in my holster. I eyed the competition carefully. Fat. Middle-aged. Men. Perfect! I was ready to tell them to send the trophy to the engravers now, because it was as good as mine.

I sat through the snooze-inducing list of sponsors, all the while replaying the practice tree in my head and the words and mannerisms that I would use to pretend to be a gracious winner when I got the hole-shot on them one after the other.

We went outside for the exciting (?) unveiling of the new/old Toliver car with the Schick Razor paint scheme.

OK, OK. Enough already! Hurry up with this nonsense. I'm readyto be a winner!

And then it started to sprinkle. As in rain.

"Sorry," they said, "We can't race today. But here's a credit for the video games! Enjoy yourself!"

Enjoy myself? ENJOY?! There would be no racing for me! No glory! No trophy! Nothing. And to make matters worse, their little weather-controlling scheme got me back writing and back into drag racing. Sneaky, conniving bastards!

So here I am. The Courtney Love of drag race writing off the wagon once again. But Betty Ford will just have to wait. After all, the day before the 2004 Finals is the perfect opportunity to schedule a rain date.