Indy 500 Photos - Elf Classics

For a trip down memory lane (and for those who were not there) take a look at these photos donated by and commented on by Erick "Elf" Hildebrandt. Hilarious.

This is the aftermath of our campsite I believe this to be 2001. You all who were there will remember this for the obvious muddy mess. You also will remember Gabe choke slamming some idiot into the trash can on the left side of the picture (Note the trash strewn everywhere as evidence). Also there was an incident with 3 skanks in a bent Nova where as Arvai and I insulted their womanhood multiple times to get them to leave all the while Pat Allen, well, was being Pat Allen.

This is a classic Indy picture from I believe 1999.

Now here's a real trip down memory lane. You will see Sean Webb proudly displaying a busted and bloodied knee that was the result of the famous Pat Allen talking Tombstone Latin to some moron wearing a Kansas City Chiefs hat fight. At which time Arvai felt it was appropriate to tell the gentleman that "Hey man Chiefs suck". Which was followed by a Webb hay-maker to his face that originated in Kansas. As those of you who were present will recall the fight spilled over into an adjacent RC car race tent and was claimed by his own admission in a radio interview the next day to have been witnessed by Tony Stewart. This is the morning after as Webb proudly shows off his battle scars .

Here's another classic. This was taken when our group was tight with Dustin Evans and the Goodtimes Band mainly only because Mary gave Dusty some play. Not sure what year this is but I think that's Gabe's hat and that's definitely my PBR that douchebag is drinking.

A throwback picture from the Legion on Saturday afternoon of me with Jerry and Big John. Please notice Jerry's T-shirt from the 1911 race I think that is Ray Harroun on the front of it.

Here's a shot from what I believe to be 1997. you will notice Jason Woolums in this shot so we know when Poop=Foolums=MC2 is involved its going back aways. This shot was included for all of you who never got to see Big John in his prime, here you can see him telling all us kids to keep our asses out of trouble right before he leaves to go to the Legion to get bombed. You will notice the nice looking silver haired lady, this is John and Kat's mom for all of you who didn't have the pleasure of meeting this beautiful woman, here she is doing what she did best. Trying to keep up with Big John and keep him out of trouble.

Here's a picture I included for two reasons. One -I forgot how ugly that Val chick was, thanks for letting me mess around with her Arvai. Two - Who in the hell is the guy next to Mary!? Was this the random guy from Australia/Cambodia/Thailand that she brought for the year? Please inquire with your sister, John.

CBJ vs INDY

It is the end of March and I'm really worried.

But how can that be? The weather was nice today. I was fairly productive at work (er, at home working). I found some great, early Pink Floyd to listen to. Finished my taxes last night. Ate good. Bank account is where it should be. What's to worry about?

The Columbus Blue Jackets, that's what.

Don't get me wrong. I love the Blue Jackets and have grown into quite a fan - attending the majority of home games this year and am even in the process of building my own silly "blue light" helmet, should the boys in Union blue reach the playoffs for the first time in franchise history. And thus the problem.

It's not uncommon for us to be watching hockey at the Legion on a Friday, given years past. But we've never had "our team" in the hunt for the Stanley Cup, so the interest has not be there. Now, with a bonafide "our team" in contention, the threat of some veterans not being at Indy the entire weekend creeps into view.

I'm not saying that people are bailing - but there would be some traveling back and forth (from Indy to Columbus) to account for, and that can get tiresome. Of course, this all hinges on how the remaining Jackets season plays out - they are currently in 6th place in the West and must not fall lower than 8th.

The NHL playoffs start in mid April and last into June. Should the Jackets reach the playoffs, it's conceivable they might do well given their style of play. And I will be rooting for them as loud and proud as humanly possible ... but I might be doing so from Lot 1A at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

CBJ or Indy? A tough choice to say the least, but I hope it's a decision I have to make. GO JACKETS!

Three Doors ... D'oh!

It is official: The IMS director of entertainment hates me.

In keeping with the tradition of disappointing Carb Day fans, the popular rock group Three Doors Down is apparently slotted to take the free concert stage this year after the Pit Stop Challenge. And while their popularity cannot be denied, this is one hombre who will not be there.

In the past, the IMS has ripped nasty ones (The B-52's, Kenny Brack & The Subwoofers), but hasn't lost their ability to impress (The Black Crowes, Live). They also have the ability to turn a fun loving crowed into a swarming pit of profanity and pirate antics (Nick Lachey's introduction).

I know many were less-than-thrilled with Kid Rock last year, but some still insisted it was a good show. Personally, I was at the Legion holding down a table for my pals.

I suspect I'll be doing the same again this year.

Me vs. The Generator

A first hand view of one man's drunken battle against a diesel powered generator - by Erick "Elf" Hildebrandt.

It was a typical Saturday night before the running of the Indianapolis 500. Chaos was ensuing in every corner of the camping lot behind the American Legion Post 500. One could gaze just beyond the Legion and see the lights of the Pagoda at the start finish line of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and soak in the cool night air that only comes in May in the Midwest. As I continued to scan the scene in front of me I could only think to myself, "Man this has been an Indy to remember."

This was 2000 and it was the year of Tyrone the Human Wrecking Ball, the Paddywagon and Jabo's Dissapearance Downtown. Truly what a year this had been, as I surveyed the scene in front of me I noticed a few things. There sat Tyrone still trying to recover from his drunken state from 48 hours prior, probably still thinking of peanut butter cookies. There was Arvai, laughing his ass off at anything anyone said that was remotely funny. Ahh Peyton, doing what Peyton does so eloquently, complimenting the trashiest woman he could find on how beautiful her eyes were. Gabe appeared to be drawing on some piece of paper on a easel attached to a wagon some guy was pulling around, I still to this day don't understand what this guy was doing but I just remember him telling Gabe to "Just let your artistic nature go man". This man was unaware however that the only artistic nature Gabe was drawing was some T and A and a big hairy shank.

Amidst all this a noise was growing louder in my ears, what was this damn noise that was driving me to drink, oh wait I was already drinking, shall I say, reverberating in my ears the same as listening to Caroline Fife tell me how we are all racist hillbillies. Could this noise be from Pat Allen's tent? No it wasn't the sound of a 16 year old female in distress. Was it the sound of Jeff Mallue insulting all who dared pass, no it wasn't that and in any case that shit is funny.

As I looked around my eyes honed in on the source of this insulting drone, a bright beacon of light in a veritable sea of darkness, a diesel powered generator/light stand. My mind reverted back to that of my high school youth, I must destroy the offender, no matter how I rationalized it in my mind it must pay. I felt my legs carrying me toward the generator to perform my evil deeds, the generator grew louder as I approached, daring me to attack. I ignored the call of "Hey Elf, what the f&%k are you doing?" that seemed to come from the direction on Jason LeForge and Steve Camp. On I continued paying no mind to these do-gooders.

As I arrived to confront my oppressor it just continued rumbling on louder and louder, I MUST STOP THIS! In one swoop my left hand opened the service door to expose the heart and soul of the evil machine, quickly I surveyed my opponent and found it's weak spot, the oil service cap for the crankcase. I've found a way to defeat it, my mind was a whirl of destructive thoughts, what shall be the tools of my destruction?

The beer in my right hand should do the job, in a flash I had popped open the crankcase and was pouring my beer into the engine. On it ran however with not so much as a hiccup, this was one tough customer, I must change tactics. Quickly I found the throttle control lever attached to the governor. No engine will survive beer in place of oil and my left hand over-speeding the engine by about 4000 RPM. I grabbed it and pulled, the engine raced, more beer I need more beer, I continued to pour, the engine screamed in determined agony, it would not die!

I began to gain a respect for my adversary, my mind quickly changed to if I can't beat the SOB I'll join it. At this point the generator and I began to share my drink as I proclaimed, "One for me one for you". It told me how it was built on the Cummins Assembly Line in Columbus, IN and I told it about the time me and my buddies in the service drained the oil out of a Mercury Lynx and put a brick on the accelerator and watched the engine blow. We both had a laugh and I thought, "I'll agree to leave you in peace generator but a word of advice, don't let Pat Allen approach you with any phallic symbols".

It was then we parted ways, as I turned around I found a large group of people laughing their ass off at my shenanigans and my only thought was, hey somebody get me a beer.

The First of Many

Welcome to the new world. Rather than hammer everyone's email account, I've decided to start this blog and hopefully it will continue to document the upcoming years as well.

One benefit of the blog is it allows the readers to comment on any post, so this will definitely be more of a community interaction. Just try to keep it clean ... just kidding. If you have to curse, please do your best to edit properly. And that's a f------ order.

I will be adding more links, photos, etc. over the next few days as time allows.

Big Brother's Watching

Another glorious morning at the Speedway was unfolding as the late nighters finally begin to wake up. It was in the vicinity of about 7:30 or 8:00, give or take, and the Bloody Marys were being mixed faster than you can say "I know you have been making these for a long time, but I'm pretty sure this one needs more booze in it".

With Bloody Mary in hand I lit up a smoke, took a deep hit off of it, and started my routine assessment of the previous night's debauchery. "Nothing strange here", I thought to myself. "Let's see ... we've got a half eaten sandwich of some sort, a bra, a sh*tload of empty cans and something that looks like a turkey baster with hunting scope on it. Nope, everything's in order here".

About then, Brian "Cheerios" Cherolis came up to me, offered a toast to which I gladly accepted, and began joking about the level of intoxicated bliss he'd reached the night before. Not wanting him to feel alone, I mentioned that I too was pretty tore up and might have been the most banged-up person with the exception of his sister, Amy, who was en route to a potential Rookie of the Year title.

• Sparky: "Yeah, dude. Your sister was pretty f*cking mangled last night. Sheezus!"
• Cheerios: (laughing) "Yeah, what can you do? Hopefully she didn't do something stupid."
• Sparky: "Well, I guess we'll just have to ask her. I don't think she's up yet."
• Cheerios: "Ok then, time to go wake her a$$ up. C' mon!"

Now, this seemed like a pretty harmless exercise. We would go over to Amy's tent, maybe yell at her a little bit ... shake her, p|ss on the pillow, whatever. Nothing big, just enough to wake her up and hopefully induce a small headache. A simple, friendly harassment to get her up and moving.

As we rounded the corner of the camper, an odd sight came into view: there was Amy's tent, exactly where it was supposed to be. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the smaller tent balanced precisely on the very top of it, somehow staying centered as the morning wind calmly rocked it from side to side and spun it in a clockwise direction.

I began laughing, thinking that it took someone a long time to get this thing balanced on top of the larger tent. I looked over at Cheerios to see what his take on the situation was. His expression was not one of amusement, but rather bewilderment and horror. "That's Adducio's tent", he said quietly.

Trying to explain the sheer odd nature of this image would be almost impossible. Therefore, I've created a diagram to help illustrate:

With each step we drew closer to Amy's tent, and with each step a new level of understanding seemed to unfold. Andy Adducio was not in his tent, for it was currently perched on top of Amy's tent, and neither one of them had been seen yet this morning.

I slowed to a stop, then casually began walking backwards at the same pace that Cheerios was moving forward. His calmness gave way to a shaking that resembled a pot of water nearing its boiling point as he spoke through clenched teeth. "You f*cking better not be in there, Andy!"

Movement in the tent. Rapid movement triggered by the sound of Cheerios' voice, to be exact. The giggle of a female emerged from the tent and sent a wall of flames upward in Cheerios' eyes, seemingly blinding him to his surroundings and all consequences. He snatched up the flap of the tent, yanking up on the zipper and spreading the doors wide open. "This is going to be an a$$ beating" I said to myself as I tried not to laugh out loud.

• Cheerios: (not laughing) "Get out here you mother f*cker!"
• Amy: "Knock it off, Brian!"
• Andy: (from somewhere inside the tent)"Holy sh*t!"
• (Cheerios disappears inside the tent from waist up)
• Cheerios: "You are so f*cking dead!"
• Andy: "Dude, I didn't do anything!"

This brief exchange is followed by one of the funniest sights I've ever seen. As the upset, no, enraged Cheerios extracts himself from the tent, he drags Andy out into a clearing where he can reign blows upon him. Andy desperately grabs at the tent door and rakes his fingers on the ground in a lame attempt to slow the mutant juggernaut that is now Cheerios.

• Cheerios: "What did you do?!"
• Amy: "Brian, stop it!"
• Andy: "Holy sh*t!"
• Cheerios: "I'm going to rip your d*ck off and beat you with it!"

At this point I have stopped trying to stifle my laughter and have taken a knee, using the bumper to balance myself as others appear around the end of the camper. Laughing, I try to add fuel to the fire by shouting out absolutely untrue statements such as "Was that you guys that kept me up all night? That sh*t was LOUD, man!"

Andy, who has somehow managed to regain his feet, tries to break free of his attacker's grip. Unsuccessful, he is swung around in a series of dizzying circles that vaguely resemble a children's playground game. Cheerios eventually tires and releases his captive, sending Andy into one final twirl towards freedom. Andy stabilizes himself and drops to a defensive guard.

As the combatants trade glances, the air previously thick with anticipation gives way to laughter and those making juvenile "humping" sound effects. Brian begins to walk back to the front of the camper, giving Andy a look that can only mean "we're done for now, but I might beat your a$$ later".

A couple of hours later, it was Andy who made a statement by emerging from the camper with a potentially inappropriate tshirt. It was black and white and in simple, plain lettering said "RIDE IT HARD". And while this didn't exactly help to calm Cheerios down, it was funny to everyone else and therefore deemed appropriate, if not down right hilarious.

That weekend would continue on just like any other, as the sun rose and set without complication. Still, it seemed like Andy was always looking over his back, as though somebody were watching him.

Somebody like big brother.

Tyrone: Human Wrecking Ball

This particular Indy weekend would be remembered for many things: The Paddywagon ... Elf & The Generator... Jaybo's Downtown Trip... the list goes on. But there was one singular moment, in my opinion, that defined the group's very nature that weekend.

The annual Friday night "Turn Captain Morgan Into An Admiral" party was rampaging. It was loud, raucous and wasn't going to stop any time soon (or at least until people started passing out). Other campers wandered by with a look that seemed to say "if I wanted to kill myself, I'd go party with those guys".

As the music blared, the group evaded the rain by cramming together underneath the main tent. Equal amounts of booze were consumed and spilled by everyone, especially by those who had just arrived and were playing 'catch-up'. My brother, Jeremy "Cowboy" Rostorfer, and I were casually discussing how many drinks it would take before he declared "No Pride Night" (a level of intoxication which usually involves conversing and/or engaging in sexual congress with undesirable females).

Needless to say, we were all pretty banged up and well on our way to Indy bliss. In fact, I'm quite amazed that I can recall any details about this particular episode. Nobody could have imagined the terror that would soon strike. Terror in the shape of an old man.

During one of our conversations about solving the world's problems, a low end rumble emerged ... which quickly evolved into a high pitched symphony of screams and terror. Something or someone had plowed into the main tent and taken out a couple of people, knocking them down into lawn chairs and spilling even more of their drinks. Cries of "What the f*ck?" and "Who the f*ck is that guy?" sprouted up from the crowd.

I looked over to my left into the eye of the chaos, expecting to see a miniature tornado. What I found was an older man in a hooded sweatshirt being helped up from a broken chair. It was Tyrone, our neighbor from across the street.

Eventually, Tyrone made it to his feet and helped himself to one of his cigars. After a few minutes he opted for a draft beer, drinking it slow and precisely like a surgeon making an incision. He looked at Cowboy with his half-opened eyes. "Welp, time for me to get out of your guys' way", he slurred. I was impressed with the discipline it must have taken him to cut off his own fun, so I offered to help "guide" him across the vast and mysterious ten foot road leading to his place of slumber. Cowboy grabbed his other arm.

Earlier in the night, the observation was made that Tyrone's grandchild was playing a nice game of cards in their tent with some girls their age. We guessed they were about ten or twelve years old, and commented that in a few years they would be taking part in the raging madness that was now in front of their very eyes. Fortunately for everyone, the door to their card playing tent was not facing us and they did not witness some of the more lewd acts from our group. Unfortunately for them, that also meant they couldn't see Tyrone being walked across the street.

Somewhere near the half-way mark of the gravel road, Tyrone spoke again. "Man I tell you fellas sumthin... *hic*... there ain't nothing in this world that'd make me want to get f*cking married again". We weren't sure where he was going with this line of thought, but we acted interested and moved him closer to the van he was sleeping in. We were now in front of the tent and loosened our grip on him.

"... I'll tell you something else... my wife ... *hic*... never made me peanut butter cookies!" And with that memorable declaration, the mighty Tyrone fell.

It was a smooth, almost graceful fall... similar to the dive a synchronized swimmer might execute when entering a pool. His shoulder blade slammed into the tent frame pole, causing him to let out a muffled "ughhhhh" sound and breaking down the frame's structure immediately. The tent canvas gently slid down the remaining poles, hiding Tyrone in its thick darkness. A whimpering voice from inside the tent cried "Grandpa! Are you okay?!"

Tyrone responded. "Ughhhhhhhhh..."

To call it laughter would be a crime. Cowboy and I were crying with hysterical fits of stomping feet, switching from resting our hands on our knees to holding the other up by the arm. Tyrone rolled around in his canvas blanket while the children frantically fought their way out into the open air. They quickly made their way over to assist the large black bump with tennis shoes sticking out from under it.

After the power of basic motor skills returned to our bodies, we wiped the joyous tears from our aching cheekbones and helped Tyrone up. His eyes were now completely closed, although fluttering and allowing small amounts of light from the bonfire to enter. Just enough to have a general idea of large objects and light or dark shapes.

Cowboy helped Tyrone into the back of the van, closing the door quickly to keep him from spilling back out on to the wet grass. As the door slammed shut, a large *thud* sound that could have only been part of Tyrone's body slammed into the door. We busted out laughing again, hoping at the same time that he hadn't suffered a massive head wound.

So there went us two brothers, walking down to the Port-O-Lets together to relieve our bodies from the trauma that just occurred. The laughter would continue on for hours, nay, days and years afterward.

After the next year at Indy, we hardly saw Tyrone. Every now and then you might see him walking down the street and convince him to have a drink or two. If you're lucky, that is. But he once did drink ... a LOT. And it's because of his willingness to get loaded that others benefited. Sure, he may have made an a$$ out of himself, but who hasn't?

I'll forever be in debt to him for giving birth to the phrase "Tyrone drunk", and the night he made me laugh so hard I swore I'd pee myself.

The night Tyrone became a wrecking ball

Stupid Bucket

Editor's Note: At the behest of John Arvai III, I'm adding this story to the page. I don't necessarily think it's quite as classic as some others, but what the people want: they get. - Gabe Rostorfer

I had lost the cooler. Not just any cooler, mind you, but the Old Milwaukee's Best Light AM/FM radio cooler that Beretta loaned to me earlier in the month for time trials. I'd promised him that nothing would happen to it, and here I was looking all over creation for it with only minutes left before the group departed for our destination.

The destination? None other than the infamous Skoal Tent. I knew that if I rolled up there without any booze, or tried to cram my drinks into someone else's cooler, I was only setting myself up for defeat. My only hope was to find an alternate vessel for my 16 oz cans of Miller Lite.

My roaming eyes settled on a dull, white object beyond the smoke of the bonfire. It was a small bucket, no bigger than two gallons, and sat underneath the camper adjacent to ours. I deducted that it must belong to one of the Turkelson clan and felt optimistic that nobody would miss it, should I continue on my current path of luck regarding others' posessions.

As I picked up the bucket and felt its potential in my hand, I noticed some magic marker writing on the side of it: "Stupid Bucket". This would be perfect for about eight 16-ouncers and some ice. Perfect for my state of mind and where I was headed. Perfect.

After loading up my booze and grabbing some ice (that also probably wasn't mine), I was approached by Buck and had to reassure him that I would not lose the bucket, sarcastically recognizing the fact that it must be held in such high esteem sitting under the camper. Buck said "Just make sure you bring it back, ok"? Fair enough.

The Skoal Tent showcased its usual debauchery: the traditional vocal and visual threatening towards Dusty and his band, follwed by the traditional "on stage for Hang On Sloopy / everyone change hats / drink the keyboard player's booze" dance about half way through the show. Later on as we gathered up to leave, the now empty Stupid Bucket and I set off to seek bladderly relief and essentially lost contact with the rest of the group.

"No big deal", I thought. "I know exactly where I'm going and how to get there. C'mon, Bucket".

Cruising down the packed and closed-off Georgetown Street, I gleefully swung him to and fro in an attempt to dry up some of the leftover moisture from the ice. No matter how stupid he was, I had grown attached to Bucket over the course of the evening and felt he deserved a little fun before getting back to the campsite, where he was sure to be kicked around and spat in. I walked slowly, trying to make the trip (and my last 16-ouncer) last as long as possible.

About twenty yards before our camping lot's turnoff road, it happened. A hand shot out of the crowd, grabbing Stupid Bucket by the flimsy plastic handle. My reaction was one of surprise and laughter, knowing that nobody would have any reason to take Stupid Bucket away from me. They were just kidding, right?

Wrong. Seconds after the hand touched Stupid Bucket, the hand's good friend (the fist) touched my mouth extremely hard ... and was followed immediately by another friend to my temple. I dropped to the ground.

I was in vertigo. "What had just happened?", I wondered. "Why would anyone hit me and try to steal a bucket?... especially one that actually says Stupid - wait! What happened to Bucket?!!"

My eyes shot open to take in the Indiana sky and the towering streetlights above me. The beatdown had sent me t|ts-up as I could now feel the warm, dirty asphalt of Georgetown Street on my back. The bitter taste of blood in my mouth and the sharp pain in my head were enough to let me know I'd gotten a haymaker from Kansas, but all I cared about was Bucket and whether or not he'd survived.

I sent the signals to my brain: "Lift up the right arm... lift it NOW!" The brain resisted, so I followed up with a retort: "I don't care if you're temporarily in a state of disfunction due to extreme physical trauma, lift the arm. 'Lift that f*cking wing' I said!!"

As my shaking head gained altitude, I forced my eyes open and directed them towards my raised right hand - the hand which contained a plastic handle. At the end of the handle was Stupid Bucket.

I hugged, no I embraced Stupid Bucket for what felt like an eternity. My plastic friend had weathered the storm without so much as a scratch on its cheaply-manufactured surface. With this newly found joy, I rose up from the billows of motorcycle exhaust and crushed aluminum cans, refusing to dust myself off. We'd made it. Nobody else, just Bucket and I.

Once back at the camp site, I gently lowered Stupid Bucket to the ground. I didn't want him to be part of the feeding frenzy of questions and camera flashes that was soon to errupt. In fact, I didn't want any part of it either. I grabbed another cold one, lowered my head, and sulked past my friends without saying so much as a word. Up to the front of the camper where I could pull the curtain and try to quell the pain and embarrassment. I grabbed some Wet Wipes, folded them up, and jutted them into my bottom lip to soak up the blood.

Thanks to the newly-formed lip, the Miller Lite I was attempting to chug trickled out of my mouth and on to my bloody shirt. It made the white tshirt look like it had been washed with a load of red clothes. Just then, the curtain flew open to reveal Arvai and several other of my Indy commrades. John looked puzzled, inquiring "Dude ... what the f*ck happened?"

"Someone tried to take the Stupid Bucket", I answered.

I laid it all down for them: The pee break, the empty bucket, the hitting, how SkyNet would take over our defense grid and start a nuclear holocaust... everything. Eventually my lip began to close its wound and my drinking powers returned to normal, albeit with a little discomfort and 'supposed' brain damage. Fire hydrants. Funnel cake. I managed to hold off my peers and secured another Drinking Championship, crashing around 4:00am (or 'exactly one minute after whenever the hell Andy said he was done').

And so the next morning, with the bright Indiana sunshine breaking through and the Championship belt slung around my waist, I enjoyed a fine Bloody Mary with my new lip and looked forward to the day's events.

Along side of me, basking in the same Indiana sunshine, sat the Stupid Bucket: the real champion of that weekend.

Here They Come

I was sitting next to Eric 'Elf' Hildebrandt, most likely laughing about the time he told Arie Luyendyk to "go get a haircut you f*cking f*ggot". John Arvai III politely interrupted, informing us that reinforcements were en route and we should clear a couple seats for them. There was no doubt he was referring to Big John Arvai and Jerry Leforge, who respectfully make up two thirds of The Godfathers of Indy. We would resituate ourselves accordingly and make room, with me clearing a spot for Jerry.

The two Carb Day veterans drew closer, both of them cursing the long walk to find us. I shook Big John's hand whilst Jerry and I snapped our usual military salute to each other (which he'd taught me how to do properly many years before). We invited them to sit down and have a brewskie or six and watch the upcoming Pit Stop Challenge, to which they gladly accepted.

A short time later, Jerry left for the restroom so Big John and I struck up a conversation. With soggy cigar in mouth, he said "So how are you guys faring? Jerry and I are pretty f*cked up". Coming as no surprise to me, I joked that it was good to hear him cursing at the Speedway again, just like the old days. Big John explained that due to their level of intoxication and general disregard for yuppies at Carb Day, he and Jerry would be able to clear our section of the stands in no-to-little time. Great.

As Jerry returned from the restroom and found his seat next to me, something about him caught my eye. He didn't really "look" any different per se, except for an odd gleam in his eye, which seemed to keep him from focusing on any one object or person. My intuition told me that he probably drank a couple more on the way to and from the bathroom. I was pretty confident in my assessment of his sobriety, but thought it best to not stoke the fire by asking him how much he had drank, mostly because it was none of my "godd*mn business".

Around this time some of the cars waiting in the pits started up their engines for practice. It is quite honestly one of my favorite sounds in the world, especially while sitting in the infield at the Speedway with a cold one and good friends. It is an experience I hold dear to my heart and I hope it continues for many years to come.

As I contemplated my past and future years at Carb Day, I heard a queer sound emitting from Jerry. He was looking, no, he was glaring at the track and gently swaying from left to right. He pushed air out between his lips, making a consistent "bbrrrrrrrrrr" sound much like a toddler would after hearing their parent ask "what sound does the car make?"

I gave Jerry the benefit of the doubt, convincing myself that I had merely caught him in the middle of a belch. There was no way he was *this* loaded, right? I mean c'mon - he's one of the Godfathers!

There was a slight poking sensation on my right arm, so I turned to acknowledge Jerry's finger jabbing at my bicep. He now had, for lack of a better definition, a look in his eye that creeped me out. It was a slithery, quasi-evil expression that I would imagine seeing on the face of a jackyl right before its pack makes their open-terrain kill. (My grandmother is legally blind in both eyes, so I guess I've learned how to pick up on when someone's not really looking at anything particular. This was the look in Jerry's eyes: slightly down and towards the left, but not exactly focused on anything). He spoke with poor annunciation, but I could make out the following:

"Hey, yeah you know them cars is gettin' ready to start up when you hear that, baby". Jerry started chuckling, so I began laughing and nudged Elf, nodding towards Jerry's direction. By this time a couple of the cars had left the pits and were on their way back around to the yard of bricks just down the main straight.

"Here they come! Bbbrrrrrrrrr!"... it was like watching a four year old child who'd never seen an Indy car.

Elf and I were laughing pretty hard by this point, so I waited a few seconds and caught my breath before asking Jerry what the hell he was talking about. "Jerry," I calmly said, "what in the name of sh*t are you talking about?"

"The CARS!", he cried. "Them cars er comin back around. Hahaha ... wait, here they go! Bbbbrrrrrrrrrrr". This went on, and on... and on... and on. The ability to use vision was now rendered impossible thanks to the amount of tears in my eyes. Between the laughing and Elf poking me in the ribs every time Jerry spoke, my sides hurt badly and I began to feel like I would soon sh*t myself if it didn't stop. Jerry, with his swaying now a smooth and circular motion, spoke again.

"Hey Gabe, you sonofab*tch, I know how you won all them drinking titles. You know how I know? Cause I WATCHED you, mother f*cker. Yeeeeaahh, I watched you sneak away to take naps when you thought no one was looking, but *I* was looking and I caught you red handed.

"You couldn't win honorably. You had to cheat. But you know who can drink is Webb. Boy, you put him and I at the legion with equal amounts of beer in front of us and it's gonna go down to the wire, I'm telling ya."

Somewhere around this point he began to slur his speech to the point I couldn't understand what he was saying. Eventually his sentence fragments became unrecognizable, but he punctuated whatever his point was by spewing a series of profanities previously unspoken by any human being before or since.

At first, I felt hurt and disenchanted by Jerry's accusations towards my drinking victories of the past. Stil, I knew deep in my heart that it didn't happen that way, and that he was (hopefully) just kidding around. And that, folks, is what Indy is all about: Jerry Leforge making toddler race care noises and still believing that he can put 'em away with the best of 'em. And you know what? He still can.

Bbbrrrrrrrr...

Andy's Rage

Andy Adducchio is not the world's greatest cook. Nor is he the most patient person. However, despite these faults he has emerged as one of the key players at Indy. And he has done so by providing valued (and often underappreciated) entertainment to his fellows partiers, often at the risk of his own emotional and physical well being.

It was just like any other Saturday at the Speedway: booze, laughs and (thanks to Elf) an overabundance of bad dancing and even worse language. Andy had been pulling an all-afternoon detail in front of the grill and was trying to finish up the last of the hamburgers so he could concentrate on getting loaded. He was tired, half-drunk and in no mood to argue as he grabbed the last package of frozen patties and made his way to the grill.

Enter the man known as Mallue. Jeff Mallue, to be precise. The following conversation is not for the weak at heart.

Andy: "Hey guys, how many more of these burgers should I cook up? Like what - twelve or so?"

Jeff: "Six... twelve.. who gives a f*ck?!"

(Andy twirls around and throws the frozen patties as hard as he can. They whiz past several heads and smash into the side of the camper.)

Andy: "Who the f*ck said that?!"

Jeff: "I did! What are you gonna do about it?!"

At this point in the conversation, it's obvious that Jeff has enraged Andy. Seeing as how Jeff and Andy don't really know each other that well, one might think that the exchange of 'less than pleasant' words would cease and the two men would laugh it off, dismissing it as another good ole story. And for all intense purposes, in my opinion, it should have ended there.

But this is Indy... and Jeff is involved. There is no room for 'shoulda / woulda / coulda'.

Andy, surveying the campsite for his heckler, zeroes in on Jeff who is now standing defiantly in front of a cooler and welcoming a reaction by gently shaking his a$$. As Andy weaves his way through the trash and lawn chairs, Jeff quickly turns and positions himself in such a manner that his only intention could be to receive penetration from the rampaging Andy.

Jeff: "C'mon! What are you gonna do about it?!"

Andy: "I'm gonna do THIS!"

With the amount of thrust usually reserved for vehicles leaving the atmosphere, Andy grabs hold (by the hips, I believe) and proceeds to slam his crotch into the aforementioned backside of Jeff. Both men are shuffling their feet, trying to gain traction on the slippery, booze-laden tundra of the campsite. With his sunglasses bouncing off the bridge of his nose, Jeff locks his arms out in an outrigger position. He emitts howls of surprise and laughter... although some would later aruge that they were cries of pain.

The violent pounding noise is deafening, yet barely audible above the blood-curdling screams of horror and hysteric laughter. Bystanders spit liquid out of their noses and lose balance in their chairs, collapsing to the ground and asking their God to make it stop. Stop the pain.

Stop the rage.

But it is too late. The aggressor disengages, leaving Jeff to gather himself on his elbows and eventually recover to his feet, tugging at his drawers. Andy calmly turns and makes his way back over to the grill to shut down the afternoon's feast, barely acknowledging what has just transpired.

The sunset that evening had a particular red glow to it, referred to by some of the locals as 'La luna de sangre', or 'The blood moon'. But I have a different theory.

I think the moon was red from crying. Red from tears of rage.