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so, the Germans... i'd hinted, way too long ago, about the strange twist in the events that adorned the USGP weekend. since the resultant change in air pressure that ushered out the oppressive heat has me a tad deflated, and work is long left behind, and there are certain dead horses that i've been flogging for much too long, let's turn back the clock a bit, back to the last of June... ...after some pertinent digression, of course. hey, it's Ska "T" you're reading. i turn digression into an art form. so i tell myself. it's backstory, dammit. being the mongrelized Amerikan that i am, it's ironic that i've been saddled with a Germanic surname, especially considering the fact that the purest blood in my veins (of the 57 varieties) originates from Finland. aside from all of the Hitler&Kraut jokes at school, the only "benefit" i'd ever received was admission into a ChurchOfTheBrethren (almost Quakers) school in the Shenandoah valley... recalling my SAT scores, it had to be the germanic last name that got me in. it surely wasn't for my fervent and saintly demeanor. granted, i have met people from all walks of life and geo-position... knowing that people are people, everywhere, gives life hope, to me. so does their menus and musicology. but, there's always one bad apple.... let's call him "Reiner" (rhy-nah), since that's what his name was. he and three of his compatriots swung into the campground at Indy in a purple PTCruiser, sans tickets or reserved camping voucher. it was one fucked up spur-of-the-moment decision. immediately after our loud introductions, they unpacked a full-size grill from the tailgate... taped together to keep the ashes inside, and started burning slabs of beef. Hans Und Franz, the other two guys, were bear-sized genuinely friendly guys. all of them, on a one-year work visa. but Reiner...he was of the bony and mean type. fresh from the gene source of fundamental redneckism. dumb fucks. the first thing we did to piss him off was to politely refuse his offer of J�gerBombs. i have had dasJ�germeister. it is, to me, truly foul... like alcoholic deer balls (like those little "drunken" coctail onions, but smegma-flavoured, if you can imagine a taste described in words). add that to the ungodly syrupy cloyingness that is RedBull, and there's NO FUCKIN WAY that's going down my throat, despite its hallucinogenic qualities. i'd rather eat a freshly shat-upon mushroom. frowns. furrowed brows and guttural muttering. shortly thereafter, the three german au pairs materialized from nowhere. with no tents,either. smart comments about how silly Americans like to shower at a campground. out pussified meals. our gin&tonics. the skin, it crawls. the fists, they clench. it was when i found Alt Reiner rummaging around in our gear that i felt my BruceLee bits wanting to get busy. good thing they decided to take off for the store, right then. no more would he get close to anything. it was almost refreshing when a townie stumbled into the camp... drunk off of his gnarled ass, country-in-the-city accent and catchphrases, but a friendly sort, on a shortcut to his refrigerator. after that impasse, i got too pickled to care or remember. but, the icing on that particular cake was frosted at 6AM the next morning, when they cranked up the car stereo for a rousing rendition of a german-translation, techno-boombastic version of "Mikael Row The Boat Ashore". music to invade Poland by. and two words were not exchanged, not even when they passed out, again, in our big supply tent. before the race, which capped the day of infamy, i sat with the other guys, and next to one of the green-eyed fra�leins (a weakness of mine... but old fuck Amerikaners weren't in the offing... or the pursuit). and they were cool... reasonable people. Yea, i have seen from whence our trailer-park confessions arise. only they come from ScotLandIrelandSwedenEnglandItaly-everyfucking where, too. after all that, and the abortive race was run... a Blessing was in order. provided on the backstraight to SlickWillie. Patri-e Maranello.
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