STRANGE DAYS

 

Screw the book.

A strange race in a strange place where at any given moment “racing” is found on a nearby Interstate Highway or Parkway, even while a real race may be underway at Homestead-Miami Speedway

Though traveling internationally, but still wandering around a place wherein English is a second language and the TV dial is full of Spanish-language channels, en Me-ah-me Memo Rojas feels as though he’s still at home, especially so when encountering government officials, who not only speak the native tongue but do so in much the same B.S.-way remarkably similar to that which he departed in Mexico D.F. And “they” (I’m still looking for that rather elusive group, BTW) say math or music is the universal language! Hah! Politics es politicas, porque en todas partes encontrarás lo mismo, hombre. (Don’t bother to translate; it’s all dirty words, anyway).

Chip Ganassi Racing w/ Felix (y José) Sabates’ Mike Hull – the behind-the-scenes genius who has likely steered his genius boss (Ganassi hired Hull, right?) into more sportscar and open wheel Victory Lanes than might’ve otherwise been the case (at least Chip Ganassi recognizes it, one tends to think, I think, therefore I am, I think) showed up for work Thursday dressed head-to-toe in black – hat-to-shoes – feeling that if he was going to be consistently accused of cheating he may as well dress the Black Bart part.

After a $100,000 teardown a few weeks back, Grand-Am officials were left still looking for the secret success, um, cheat of Team TELMEX which showed Thursday, as usual, with a pristine DP and the members of which were visiting the Miami Zoo (aka, “South Beach”) long before everyone else.

After missing courses of Muscovy Duck breast and tuna-on-the-raw (had God meant such, fire wouldn’t be with us today) and some darn-fine wine last Saturday evening in Auburn, Calif., Joey “Five Fingers” Hand walks with a new walk, talks a new talk – or so everyone else observes – for no longer is he some yellow-suited Turner Motorsports Continental Tire Challenge GS wanker slipping into the big-boy’s Rolex Series pool. Instead, Five Fingers is now a Rolex 24 At Daytona winner that relative few others will ever be and, with the sudden fame, is accorded Red Carpet treatment wherever he traverses.

The Ganassi Guys (which is distinct from the GGG, or Ganassi Gate Guard, at the Rolex 24) have been winning so much that whosoever is successful in taking them out will be celebrated far and wide.

Dedicated to “taking out” the GG team, Burt Frisselle and Mark Wilkins, together again in the AIM Autosports’ No. 61 Gamma 88/BioSign BMW-Riley, swear they’ll don WWF-style latex head coverings (you know, something akin to the mask found on the “Masked Fiend” whose “office” is a WWF steel cage in a “ring” that’s really square). The big problem? The two drivers already are good guys and needn’t wait for some miraculous, head-smashing, ear-ringing moment to forevermore “see the light.”

Following in their father’s Wayne Taylor’s footsteps in more ways than just driving are brothers Ricky Bobby Taylor and Professor Jordan Taylor, who now with a modicum of suspicion stand quietly away from all others, conversing in hushed tones with one or fewer other humans (a cell phone is not a person, and Wayne Taylor speaks with his at least as often as he does anther human – which usually is on the other “end.” Then again, none of us peons actually hear that supposed “other end” conversation, either).

Speaking of Italians, reportedly now dead over the lack of a royalty (others might say “management fee”) is a deal that would’ve brought one of the world’s best Brazilian drivers to a Grand-Am Daytona Prototype ride for the season’s remainder. (No, Ozz, not you; you already compete in the series).

Dropping any pretense of civilized behavior – you know, essential social-active patter like “Hello, how are you? How’s the wife and kids? You still dying of cancer or is it in remission as yet? Did you choose synthetic or original-flavored for your last oil change?” – was a cigar-chomping Mark Raffauf to a certain paddock scribe who’s writing a book in which the former has an interest.

As the scribe appeared and kindly cutting to the chase as he would with minions found, well, everywhere (at least insofar as he’s concerned) Raffauf, cigar firmly clinched in teeth between cheek and gum, on Thursday grumbled, “Where’s the book?”

“Soon to be found in a deep, dark place,” thought the scribe, who long ago had been exposed to a cigar-chomping “uncle” of such monumentally gruff proportion that all who might follow were forevermore rendered mere wannabes.

Later,

DC