THIS WEEKEND'S PARALLEL UNIVERSE

3/8/05

Jeff Burk Photo

n the past, oh I don't know, three to four years, Burk and I have rarely stuck around for Sunday's eliminations at NHRA national events. In most cases, the reason is our mutual arrival at a red-line O.D. of administrative horse pucky, overzealous uniformed bow-wows, and the fact, that frankly, the issue (meaning outcomes of the two pro nitro eliminators) is only now and then in doubt. Two days of the above, and we're ready to hit the bricks. True, Allen Johnson, not a frequent winner on the POWERade trail, grabbed Pro Stock at the wordy 21st annual Checker Schuck's Kragen Nationals, but Tony Schumacher and John Force ... I don't know about you, but I've never heard of those guys before. (he said dripping with sarcasm).

We sensed that late Saturday afternoon qualifying.

"Dude," I said adopting my best Boy George whine, "do you really want to hurt me? You don't wanta to go back for a third day of this mental Abu Ghraib?"

Jeff responds: "Big Boy, I've reached my limit. I've done all I want to do here. I don't want to watch a 4.40 or 4.50 run sandwiched in by a pair of up-in-smokes on each side. I've kept the snub nose tucked away in the camera case for two days, but I'm not sure it can remain unsheathed for three. Let's go to the hop."

"And what do you mean by that?" Timmy said, stroking Lassie's golden coat.

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What he meant was a trip to the largest swap meet in the Phoenix area, the 21st annual Anything that Can Be Put On Sale, And Be Defended by Security with Howitzers Can Be Had Here, Inc. confab in South--Central (I'M GUESSING).

Now personally I'm not a swap meet kinda guy. Three cans of shoe-polish for a buck, hot dogs-on-a-stick), tiki god car chains, condoms with Bozo the clown face on them, not my idea of a wild day at the beach. However, given two days of, for the most part (NOT across the boards) mediocre performance, and a number of petty hassles, I figured what the f*ck, better here than getting a bath from the parish priest.

Because I've been going to the drags for 42 years, I can't say that I didn't wonder what was going on back at Firebird. Fortunately, Jeff's ever-ringing cell phone kept us abreast of the happenings. So, thankful that we were not neck-deep in a surging humanity fueled by the rage from $6.50 beer, we hit the aisles at the Swap Meet.

Impressive looking to the max. The place was under roofs, and had 3 quarter-mile walkways plus shutoff aisles overflowing with an amazing collection of treasures and trash, tin-horn patriotic jackets and scarves and the usual velvet Elvises. For me, it was kind of weird, almost like being in a twisted kind of parallel universe, going to down an all-concrete quarter-mile ala Billy Meyer, looking over stuff of every shape and size and prejudice.