Been quite topsy-turvy the past few days. My aunt passed away Thursday morning, and I’m covering the NASCAR races this weekend for OnPitRow.com.

Speaking of such, hope you don’t mind my posting a column I wrote for the site this morning.

Danica Patrick vs. The Beast With The Least

It’s said, not altogether unwisely, that a major blogging no-no in terms of attracting and maintaining an audience is talking about yourself. In which case I apologize in advance to Charlie as I may be endangering this site’s readership. (I’d apologize to Steve as well, but he’s an idiot.) I’ll try to keep the personal angle to a minimum; however, it’s necessary to put the subsequent racing talk into context.

Over at my personal blog I have a saying: “The obligation to follow Christ doesn’t end where your job or political affiliation begin.” If you believe that Jesus is Who He says He is, that’s nothing you have the option of turning on and off in terms of how you conduct your professional matters. His command states you interact with people in a specific fashion? That’s what you do regardless of who, what, when, where, why or how. ‘Nuff said.

Now, take that to yesterday at Auto Club Speedway.

In a previous life, parts of which are discussed in my book, I did enough interviews and feature articles and the like in the music world to be relatively comfortable in the position I found myself today, namely covering this weekend’s races. Yes, there were a few moments of quiet disbelief I was physically where I was, such as when Jeff Gordon sat a few feet away from me while waiting for his turn in the media center. But for the most part, it was business in the same manner I’ve done business before.

The music industry — reference the earlier previous life comment — has much in common with NASCAR in terms of how things operate. The drivers are the artists; crew chiefs are record producers, crew members are the backup band, owners are record label heads, publicists are… well, publicists.

And journalists are journalists.

So what is the role of the journalist?

As the Rock used to say, know your role. You have an obligation to be accurate and truthful in your reporting. This noted, you are the eyes and ears of the fan. Your job is bringing knowledge of, and insight into, the people whose individual and collective effort creates the sport. For the fans. Always, for the fans.

How best to do this?

For me, there is only one way.

Be friendly toward and respectful of the people about whom I am writing or speaking. Remember they’re not there for me. I’m there for them. I’m there because of them. My job is to get their stories and convey them to the fans in an entertaining, informative fashion. Period.

And remember my obligation.

Take this to yesterday. There I was in the media center, filled with a minimum of three times more members of the press than had been present a few hours earlier for Dale Earnhardt Jr., all there for the purpose of listening to and questioning one of his sister’s employees at JR Motorsports. Namely, Mrs. Paul Hospenthal.

You’ve possibly heard of her by her maiden name of Danica Patrick.

Danica entered the room with a purposeful stride, looking much as she often looks when the camera is on and one suspects when it’s not: serious, intense to the point of being tightly wound. There was an additional dose of frustration in her demeanor, someone trying to maintain complete control of herself while dealing with what she would soon detail. Namely, the frustration of fighting both a car that had mustered no better than thirty-seventh fastest in the first practice session and twenty-seventh fastest in the one concluded just a few minutes earlier. Adding to this was the pressure that comes with doing something with which one was unfamiliar yet was now something needing to be done at a very high level. Namely, learning how a stock car should feel at a big flatter track like Auto Club, then communicating this to her crew chief so he could call for the appropriate adjustments. As Patrick stated more than once, it was nothing like the Indy car she was used to at such a place. To use a southern California reference, it was the auto racing equivalent of learning how to ski by starting at the top of the Matterhorn. And, like the Disneyland version of same, swiftly learning you didn’t have a whole lot of say in how the roller coaster ride operated. Patrick said she knew there would be a tremendous learning curve in her effort to become an accomplished NASCAR driver. The day had reinforced this knowledge big time.

That was the story. Simple; fairly cut and dried. There were appropriate ancillary questions to flesh out different aspects that could be asked: the difference in feel between low and high lines on the track, things like that. But really, not much else to add, or worthy of inclusion. A driver familiar with one kind of car in the process of learning another. Happens all the time. No big.

Ah, but no.

Because this is Danica Patrick.

As I sat in the press conference listening to a few racing questions, many more pop culture-ish ones, and observing Patrick doing her best to remain composed despite her evident aggravation at restating things she’s gone over a multitude of times before, I thought about professional responsibility and personal obligation. Professional responsibility was reporting the story in a straightforward manner. No opinion column disguised as a news article, no fluff ‘n puff in hopes of riding the publicity train that is Danica’s every move. Personal obligation was wishing there was a way to chat with her for a few minutes, not as driver and journalist but as two people. Toss out a few puns and jokes to lighten the mood; remind her that frustration is a mandatory part of learning any new task, especially when your visibility is as high as it gets and no-life detractors are yapping about your lack of accomplishment even as they themselves have never done anything in life. Encouragement. Kindness. Treating someone the way you yourself wish to be treated.

Obligation.

Certainly it can be argued Danica has, by usage of her looks to gain attention, brought at least part of this on herself. Which is where again the obligation comes into play. There is a mandated overview of people inherent in the obligation. Namely, we’re all people. We all have good points and bad. We all mess up. We’re all equally deserving of being loved and respected nonetheless. This does not change due to celebrity status.

Ever.

And so, here’s wishing Danica well, hoping she’ll have cause to relax and smile soon.

An final observation.

As I was leaving the track yesterday, being a fan I went through the souvenir trailers to buy a few things — hat here, t-shirt there. At Danica’s trailer, which at times seemed to have a bigger crowd than all the other trailers combined, I noticed a man with his young daughter. Probably seven or eight. She marched Dad over to the side of the trailer, which features a photo of Danica with determined look and equally determined pose, hand on hip. The girl copied the pose exactly, right down to the look, with Dad snapping photos left and right. Like he had any choice in the matter.

It’s for her I write.

Hope I never forget that.

Sorry; ’tis the best I’ve got at the moment. Also at my NASCAR blog. Go figure, huh.

Hey, It’s Tuesday, So Let’s Get That Update From Last Weekend Written

I was waiting for the Bondo in the pothole to finish curing first.

Anyway, quite the weekend to start off the season, what say? First there was the truck race… which became second due to the weather. Instead, first there was the Nationwide race, the only thing missing from which by ESPN’s perspective was Brett Farve as the grand marshal. All Danica, all the time.

It’s more than a little amusing to watch assorted members of the MSM pontificate about the overkill of Danica coverage even as they incessantly feed the machine. If said people were serious about such matters as promoting equal opportunity for female drivers, they’d be standing on street corners beating the drum 24/7 for Chrissy Wallace to get full-time sponsorship and a quality ride. Nothing against Rick Ware Racing; it’s terrific they’re giving Chrissy Wallace an opportunity. But we’re not talking championship caliber team come Nationwide time here.

Back to Chrissy, who last Saturday suffered a very premature exit from the race courtesy of John Menard Jr. over-indulging his son’s passion for auto racing by refusing to end his gifting of same to the child at the slot car level. It’s easy, all too easy, to hitch a ride on whichever bandwagon is currently barreling through pop culture town. Looking to be one of the Kool Kidz while doing so? Portray yourself as a vulture sneering at the soon to be carcass when its fifteen minute life span expires. In fact, you’re far more a leech than a vulture, clinging to every minute of the ride while it’s alive so as to gain maximum exposure basking in the glow of a short-lived candle belonging to someone else. Nevertheless, there is always a plethora of passengers on this carriage pulled by the dog and pony show. A far rarer animal is the one striving to shine the spotlight on those one believes truly deserve attention. Why? In the final breakdown, it’ll all about the ratings baby. Journalistic integrity? Meh. It’s implied by the byline, isn’t it? Uh… isn’t it?

That all said, Danica Patrick’s first turn at Nationwide warrants some mention from the racing aspect. She did all right before getting caught up in a wreck not of her own doing, driving cautiously and neither forcing the issue nor getting in anyone’s way. As to the race itself… what, Tony Stewart won the February Daytona Nationwide race? Wow. That never happens…

Back to Mrs. Hospenthal for a moment. A far more interesting test in her fledgling NASCAR career will be this coming weekend at Auto Club. How will she adapt to a flatter track where picking the correct line and getting the car right is of maximum importance? We’ll see come this Saturday. Regrettably, we won’t see Chrissy Wallace; she’s not scheduled for this race. Instead we’ll have the legendary Kenny Hendrick attempting to make the show. Thrillsville.

And for the record…

Chrissy Wallace is cute.

Next up was the truck race, which swiftly gave the impression most all participants had spent the twenty-four hour delay forgetting how to drive. Among those who had their evening plans unwillingly modified by others perfecting the art of brain fade was Jennifer Jo Cobb, who after a few years on the occasional guest appearance list is devoting 2010 to becoming a regular member of the NASCAR family. As a driver, not merely photo op.

Thankfully, Jennifer Jo Cobb can drive.

And then there was the Daytona 500.

To say the breaks in action courtesy of the track breaking were unfortunate is putting it as mildly as possible. Yes, drivers love worn-out racing surfaces. However, fans have the right to see a race in its entirety sans the broadcast crew interviewing everyone up to Digger in order to kill time. Certain delays are unavoidable, such as weather. That duly noted, this is the second straight year NASCAR has been unable to present its premiere and premier race either in its entirety or without interest and momentum-killing pauses. Not good.

Fortunately, the racing itself was sublime. No Big One, a slew of lead changes, and a last lap featuring Jamie McMurray hanging on to the lead for dear life as Dale Earnhardt Jr. finally showed the fire he’s been missing for the past year plus by blasting his way around and sometimes seemingly through fellow competitors en route to a second place finish he immediately labeled unsatisfactory as it wasn’t first. Good thing yesterday was a holiday for many, as the Junior Nation needed time to recuperate.

On to California.

I seem to have fallen into a bit of a first for me. Namely, an industrial strength writing funk. Odd.

The temptation is to blame my hand problems, but they haven’t flared up much the past few days. No, this is a good old-fashioned case of inability to focus on any given subject long enough for it to be committed to print.

Not that ideas aren’t piling up faster than Democrats deciding to not seek re-election this year. Perhaps that’s the problem: too many ideas.

Or perhaps I’m burned out on writing and need to give it a rest for a while.

I don’t know.

Hopefully I’ll get this figured out and sorted out soon so I can get back to it.

Or at least leave a “gone fishin’” sign on this modest little waystation on the information superhighway’s front door.

I’ve been having ever-increasing difficulty with my right hand when typing, mostly in the form of brief yet intense sharp shooting pains in different fingers or sometimes the hand itself. Sounds suspiciously like carpal tunnel. Anyway, it’s severely limited my ability to type much the past couple of days, hence the lack of posts here. Fun I am having not.

I’m doing what I should have been doing all along and wearing a wrist brace whenever in front of a keyboard. The pain wasn’t nearly as bad at work today as it had been, but I’m still taking it as easy as I can.

Prayer, please. Thanks.

Hey, at least it’s not about Sarah Palin. From my Examiner NASCAR column and my NASCAR blog.

Treating Danica Patrick the way we’d like to be treated

It’s easy to forget in our pop culture saturated world the ones idolized today and ignored tomorrow are in fact human. There are times those who choose to be objectified apparently forget this as well. Nevertheless, the same rules apply to them we wish applied to ourselves. Especially the one about do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Shakespeare wrote that we should be not afraid of greatness; some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them. So it is with celebrity. Some do that which throws them into the public eye as a birthright; an inescapable name association following them regardless of where they go in life. There are those who do what they do for the primary purpose of seeking applause and hoping for acclaim. And there are people who do what they do not because it draws attention, but rather despite this unavoidable aspect inherent in the passion they pursue.

Which leads to Danica Patrick and Dale Earnhardt Jr.

There are no more polarizing figures in auto racing than Mrs. Paul Hospenthal and Dale Earnhardt’s second son. They are both loved and loathed with equal fervor. Their driving ability, or to their detractors lack thereof, is the subject of more fierce debate than health care reform. The mere mention of their name among fans is an immediate lightning rod drawing commentary spanning a spectrum from celebratory to caustic. They’re not the It Drivers of the week. They are it, period.

Patrick is the public face of the IRL; the lone driver who puts fans in the seats. Open wheel has its hardcore followers, but in an era where it has almost completely slipped out of the sports world’s eye, let alone the public at large, she alone provides recognition. NASCAR is the only sport where someone, namely Jimmie Johnson, can win four straight championships and still walk through most public places without being recognized. Mention his name to the average sports fan and the usual response is what about the former coach of the Cowboys. Dale Jr.? Ah, there’s one even the least stock car minded fan knows.

Some idolize one or the other, perhaps both. Others seek to play the iconoclast, craving attention by ripping on Patrick and/or Dale Jr. plus their fans for the sole purpose of drawing attention to themselves by being an overaged brat. Whatever fuels their false sense of superiority.

Patrick and Earnhardt Jr. alone know what drives them to, well, drive. They know part of the deal is putting up with those who verbally tear them down at every opportunity. They also know being misunderstood by being genuinely unknown comes with the territory. One can learn only what those in the public eye wish to reveal about themselves when the microphone is on. It’s away from the spotlight, and solely away from the spotlight, where reality become known.

Alli Owens, who unlike 99 44/100% of the critics actually drives a race car, has an interesting take on things based on her experience during last weekend’s ARCA season opener at Daytona:

I noticed I had an anger being built up toward Danica and was totally frustrated about her being there. I felt like I was racing in the DANICA 200 instead of the Lucas Oil Slick Mist 200. We have struggled for 3 years to run a full season in ARCA and finally are with a good time and was a threat all week long and never once got good recognition for it. For a struggling driver it truly hurt my feelings. It wasn’t until after the race and talking to Danica that I realized I liked her as a person and it was the media that I was unhappy with.

As a person.

We forget that sometimes.

See, we’re used to seeing Danica Patrick in magazine photo shoots and press conferences. We’re used to pit road interviews. We’re used to thinking of Danica the driver. Danica the spokesperson. Danica the celebrity.

We’re not accustomed to thinking of Danica missing her grandmother who died from COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease).

That Danica is working with other celebrities whose families have been hit by COPD to help publicize the need to be tested for the disease. The whole thing kicks off February 14th. There’s more about it at DRIVE4COPD.COM.

You see, that’s the real Danica. The person behind, or underneath if you prefer, the image and hype and all that.

That’s the Danica the fans, the real fans, root for. In the final analysis, that’s the only Danica who truly matters.

The human one.

The one deserving to be treated as we’d like to be treated.

It’s a guitar with a natural finish, which since it’s light colored wood is called blonde. Good grief, people. What did you think I was talking about? Some people and their gutter minds, I tell you.

Anyway, this past weekend I came into possession of a brand new old guitar. It’s a model I owned one of in my tenderheaded teen years. Traded it for a different brand because that was the one my guitar hero (this was back when being one meant playing the actual instrument, not the video game) wielded. One of the dumber moves I’ve made in the past few decades. Now that I can actually play a little bit, I’ve rectified the error.

As noted, the guitar is used. They don’t make ‘em like this one anyone. Which is not a grumpy Gus grouse about how things were better in the good old days. They really don’t make them like this anymore. The guitar line itself still flies high, but this particular model has been discontinued since the mid ’80s. There was a brief reissue a few years ago, so I hear, but haven’t seen a trace of them anywhere. So off to the used market it is. Translation: eBeg… er, eBay.

Buying most anything on eBay can be a stab in the dark. But a guitar? You are running on serious faith. Even the best photographed one isn’t going to show everything. You won’t be able to examine it in detail. You can’t pick it up and play it to see how it feels. You don’t know how it sounds. Other than that you’re perfectly dialed in.

Nevertheless, into the bidding maelstrom I plunged. To be honest, I was looking more for an instant purchase than anything else. Bidding on eBay can be rather nerve-wracking when it’s something you seriously want. You never know when someone is going to dive-bomb at the last second — literally the last second — with some crazy bid designed to make sure it tops anything you dare offer. Not my idea of fun. Therefore, time to seek the Buy It Now tag. Yet even this approach has a downside. Namely, those attempting to exploit the disease known as gottahaveititis by setting a ridiculously high purchase price in addition to listing it as an auction item. If they get it, all the better for them. If not, it’ll still sell at whatever price tumbles out when the bidding concludes. Best to seek out set price non-auction items.

And so the search began. And continued. It quickly became apparent this would not be an easy task. While the chances of finding what I was looking for in mint condition were less than none unless I wanted to lay out far greater amounts of income than are at my disposal, trying to find one that didn’t look like it had been used to split logs after subbing as the sole baseball bat for both teams in a slugfest was high on the agenda. This proved to be something of a challenge.

I watched and waffled. There would be the occasional one looking like a possibility, but on further review became clear to not be something worth pursuing: inadequate photographic evidence of condition, shaky descriptions (“this beauty was formerly owned by a little old lady who only played it in a worship band on Sundays!”), price tags apparently derived from a Magic 8 Ball reading in lieu of anything vaguely resembling market value. Given that I am a firm believer in the philosophy of thoroughly proofing your aim before pulling the trigger when there is but one available bullet, tempting though some were I wasn’t seeing the one saying I’ll follow you home and please keep me.

And then I spotted her.

It, really. I’m not into the whole guitar male/female symbolism thing. But since the invariable first words whenever the guitar is mentioned to a member of the fairer sex is “you men and your blondes,” might as well be a her. But I digress. Anyway, at first few glances it didn’t register. It was an unusual color for this model, and I wasn’t quite sure whether I cared for the look. However, as the days wore on and I kept running across it, something about it called me.

Perhaps it was the generally unwanted nature of the instrument. Different models of this line sell for the tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars, but this one… the fact it hasn’t been made in any kind of quantity since the mid ’80s says it all as far as popularity. And there was the finish. Gentlemen prefer blondes, so the thinking goes; but given how few of these were made in the color and the even scarcer demand, not in this case. If Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree had been made into a guitar, this was it.

Perfect!

So I made the purchase. Last Saturday she finished making her way across the country to my door.

She’s a bit more beat up than the photos indicated, but nothing too bad for a thirty-five year old guitar: a few dings and dents here, some checking in the finish there. The listing proudly stated she had been professionally set up to play, which could be true as she hasn’t needed any kind of adjustments. However, it rapidly became apparent when I started playing her that her previous owner or owners were quite averse to the nicety known as proper handwashing. Unbelievable amount of gunk surrounding each fret. I went through four cleaning cloths where normally one would do and they were still coming out black. I’ve cleaned off everything around the frets, but one day I know I’ll have to take her to a skilled luthier for the purpose of removing, cleaning around and replacing the fretboard inlays.

Still, she’s mine. Plays beautifully; has the sweet sound I remember from the first time I owned one, a sound I’ve never found in any other guitar. Like her owner, she’s a bit of a ragtag soldier showing her years and some battle scars. But she’s still hanging in there. And, while I refuse to assign any excessive value to a material item, when I’m playing her I get the sense that she’s where she ought to be and hopefully will be for a long, long time.

That’s my new — new to me, anyway — hot ‘n dirty blonde girlfriend.

I’m quite thankful she’s mine.