Teague's Techno - Latte

Nascar’s Gopher Cam: A Woman’s Perspective

This afternoon I attempted to re-enter the world and get caught up on the important news events of the week. This produced the following results:

**We now have the sophisticated technology to build, launch, locate, and shoot down an incoming space satellite.
**Albanian announced it independence from Kosovo.
**The shuttle Atlantis undocked successfully from the space station and is heading back to Earth.
**Nascar unveils its new “Gopher-Cam” for use at the Daytona 500.

Please exhale now.

You read it right. A gopher-cam. From the telecast, replay, replay, replay I saw it appears to be a little Kodak moment plastered right there on the track.

The Gopher-cam allows spectators, gawkers, and “fans” to see the underbelly of the cars as they race around the track.

During the 500 miles that comprise the Daytona 500. That’s right-500 miles. Or 4 hours of the mind-numbing, beef-jerky, pork rind fest of Junior and the boys.

I have tried for over a year to embrace all that is Nascar. I can almost stay awake for an entire race. I try to praise the embodiment of the free enterprise system as I squint to decipher the logo parade plastered across each car and each driver’s jumpsuit. I have also stopped asking how they can go to the bathroom with those suits on and stay strapped into those cars for over 4 hours, even though I have never received a satisfactory answer.

I know the terms “pit row,” “hat derby,” and “boogity-boogity-boogity.”

I try very hard not to blush when they talk about the “bush” race. I can distinguish between the Jimmie Johnson of the 48 Car and Jimmy Johnson former coach of the Cowboys. I watched the 90 minute race-amentary on Dale Earnhardt Junior on Saturday. (and by “watched” I mean walked in and out of the den saying only 5 or 6 sarcastic comments.)

I dutifully call the police station every month to see if they have made progress cracking our unsolved burglary “cold case” of Jim’s Nascar cereal bowls.

I knew all this would be necessary when living with a man who still takes his hat off and puts it over his heart when they pray before the race. “How many other sports do you know where they do that, honey?” he says ready for debate.

I nod with a sincerity only Meryl Streep could replicate.

But I will need Meryl’s help if I am to act respectfully and solemnly in the midst of “the Gopher-Cam.”

Why in the world would anyone want to see under those cars?

Under is where the problem is. Under is where the icky oil stuff drips onto my once pristine driveway. (And let me digress to assert that nothing, not even the info-mercial dudes’ slop will take oil off of a driveway.)

The Gopher-Cam combines all that I hope to shut out when my hands are pressed against my ears: noise, grime, and ferocious tires speeding uncomfortably close. With the addition of my brother’s  HD-TV Christmas gift these effects are even more spine-tingling and nightmare generating.

So, today, ladies, let me warn you to give your man a break.

Do not ask him to take out the trash: he is no doubt still too dazzled by the Gopher-Cam’s ingenuity to be bothered with such mundane tasks.

Do not ask him if everything is all right: his sullen mood is a result of the Daytona let-down and the miasma of having to look at his world from eye-level.

And, by all means, do not say you have to “race” to the store; the allusion will only sink him deeper into the Daytona-less abyss. If you slip up, remind him that the Detroit auto show is only 6 months away and the California race is Sunday.

Or, just do what I do: place your monthly call to the police station and be happy that he will never venture very far into your backyard to find the suspicious mound of dirt loosely flung over a cereal-bowl-sized box.