Layers Of Earth

I must digress into a bit of Battlestar Galactica geekyness here. I love the re-imagined series - it’s the best thing on T.V. that doesn’t involve racing. There is a mystery involving the identity of the final Cylon, and here is my take on that, and Cylon theory in general.

So anyway, I think this, Battlestar Galactica’s final season,  is all a set up for the backstory driven “Caprica” series scheduled to be piloted this Fall. It is my belief that the basis of the conflict between humans, the Significant 7 and the Final 5 is all tied back to the creation of the Cylons themselves. From what we understand, the Adama’s and the Greystone’s will be the prominent families in Caprica, and I think the Cylon factions we see now represent the differing philosophies these families had when creating the Cylons. That’s right, I think the Adama’s and Greystone’s were either the creators of, or had a significant hand in the legislation that brought about the Cylons. Of course, there had to be some conflict, some philosophical difference between how these two families viewed Cylons, artificial intelligence in general and automatons and free will. It is easy to imagine a camp who believed that the Cylons were designed simply to serve (hence the “one God” monotheism held by the Significant 7), and another camp who saw them as living creatures, an evolutionary step entitled to rights and maybe even citizenship. I think the latter would be represented in the Final 5, or at least the four we have seen. The last remaining Cylon - who knows. That may be reserved for a clone of the creator of that line. We’ll see.

I think this explains how these Cylons are so different. The Final 5 that have been revealed seem to be inherently more human, more flawed and susseptible to illness. There is no philosophical quest driving them, at least to this point. The Significant 7, on the other hand, are obsessed with things that are inherently human - procreation, religeous ponderings, and what it is to “feel” something. Much, much more primative. Of the final 5 we have seen, they have demonstrated a bredth of human emotions - love, grief, hope, fear. There is little doubt that they are more evolved, or at least more “human” than the other Cylons.

So the conflict, the idea that the significant 7 can’t think or talk about the Final 5 makes sense if it was a programmed aversion, placed there by a creator who is a rival of the Final 5 creator. This means, I suspect, that the conclusion of BSG is also the culmination of another series, Caprica, with the family rivalry getting it’s final play in the quest for Earth.

Back to this idea of who is the final Cylon, I dunno. Whoever it is, I think there is another layer to it. For instance, if it were Doc Coddle, he is probably more than simply Doc Coddle. He is probably tied to the actual creation of the final 5. Or if it is Baltar, I like the idea that he programmed his own ignorance and that the 6 in his head is really a manifestation of his own guiding subconciousness, pre-programmed by him years prior. Maybe it IS an Adama, but not Lee, Zack or William… rather Grandpa Adama, perhaps the creator of the Final 5 Cylons themselves. If the Adama’s are in some way responsible for the whole Cylon mess, well, can you say “redemption”?

I met a guy from Finland once, and after a long involved conversation that spanned world politics, his country’s perchant for producing World Rally racing champions and the comparative qualities of Finnish porters, he stopped mid-sentence and questioned my upbringing. I told him I was a local product of the public school system, good parantage and a couple semesters of community college. He paused and mused that he was puzzled, because I wasn’t like most of the other American’s he had met. I wasn’t consumed with pop culture or the amero-centric worldview that had characterized the American’s he had met here or overseas. A friend on the fringes of the conversation used that moment to chime in, telling my new Finnish friend that indeed, George shouldn’t be confused with any other American.

To me, a fine complement personally, but a sad indictment of the state of America and its perception internationally. I am not that unique, I’ve since decided. There are plenty of well-read, informed introspective and outwardly open Americans who don’t see the world atlas starting with our country at the center of all things. There are thoughtful, kind, empathetic people surrounding us, overworked to distraction maybe, but they are here. I know this, because this describes myself, my family and many of my friends. If we strip away the agenda-driven issues at the margins further, I would submit that MOST Americans are a decent people, willing to work hard, endure sacrifice and entertain tolerance in order to build a better society.

But the refrain, about not being confused with some other American, stuck with me. So late one night, lubricated by a belly full of domestic craft beer and a head filled with Keith Olbermann, I struck up a progression in the inventive key of “G” and this song was born.

“Another American Anthem” builds on the idea of there being more to America than its consumer trappings. We don’t all agree with the privatized, unfeeling imperialism of our current administration. We can’t all be distracted into compliance, amused into apathy. I’m not that fat American tourist in the James Bond films, choking on indulgence and self-centered desires. If we break out of our pigeoned-holed, corporatly programmed interests, tear down the fences of party, religeon and musical genre preferences, we can make it a better thing for all.

I really believe that, as naive as it may seem. Rise prols, unite. Take back your country, your destiny. String up the fuckers while you’re at it. But most of all, think. Then think some more. Because there is nothing more useless, more sad, than a dumb democracy.

Enjoy the song. Pass it around. And while you’re at it, smile at a stranger…It just may make your day.

This was originally posted by me on Rowdy.com back in November of 2007…

I’ve attended several Daytona 500s, the World Series and even rushed the field after my team won the National Championship in college football. But none of them come close to the potent experience that was 1997 at the Homestead Motorsports Complex. It was one rollercoaster of emotion bookended by tragedy and triumph, experienced up close and personal.

For the 1997 Florida Dodge Dealers 400, I was setup as usual in timing and scoring, overlooking the frontstretch and pit road. I was in the back row, updating the track’s official website in real time with scoring and pictures, and making scoring one-sheets every 10 laps or so. On race day, the timing and scoring room fills up with people, mostly women, representing each team and charged with scoring their truck in handwritten form. Some are puffing on some RJR derivative (if they know what’s good for them), and getting down to the business at hand. Most are old pros at this, connected to their respective race team’s communications via headset. Everyone knows each other here. Some laugh and joke while others continue on the conversation they probably started last season. For better or worse, this is a traveling family, galvanized by the stresses of living to race. 

I noticed Andrea Nemechek there a couple of rows in front of me sitting on the aisle. She is wearing the family shirt, blue nd emblazoned with the name and number of her brother-in-law John’s truck. He had qualified 9th in the number eight.

The race was packed with rookies, and to be frank, Homestead circa 1997 was no place for an inexperienced truck racer. This was a flat, four-cornered minefield with tons of straight-away speed. You couldn’t go two wide through the corners, so you better figure out who leads on the straights. A glance down the finishing order reveals names long forgotten who never made it: Barry Bodine, Lonnie Rush, Bryan Reffner and Tammy Jo Kirk (remember “Luv-a-bles”?). Many were over their heads on this track, ill-equipped to compete. The nicely painted, aquamarine walls were scuffed many times over the race weekend.

The Florida Dodge Dealers 400 went off as scheduled, but I remember there being lots of attrition. To be honest, the race itself escapes my memory because what happened on lap 143 eclipses everything. I remember looking up at the TV monitor as this white number eight truck lost it in the middle of turn one, spun around counterclockwise half a turn, and impacted the wall. Hard. What took place in timing and scoring slows down in my memory. There is a moment, a realization. These are racing people, and they know. That is not a good impact. Hair stands on end. Everyone knows. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows.

Snapping back into reality, there is a flurry of activity. In terms of timing and scoring operations, this means a red flag. I’m biting my lower lip begging to ask how I should notate this in my scoring one-sheet, but Andrea Nemechek’s scuttling of her headset and hurried exit stops me. This is a moment to chill.

Once the trucks are halted, I end up outside, sneaking a Marlboro Light (not a Winston) and trying to listen in to my scanner. I have NASCAR’s channel programmed, but I am getting nothing but codes and things I don’t understand. I find myself standing near a woman, probably in her late 30’s, eyes red-rimmed. I had seen her before in timing and scoring. I muttered something about that not looking good, and she looks blankly at me and lights the end of her cigarette with the butt of the one she’s just finished. It was a code 2, she said. Not good. I hear the sound of the Metro-Dade Huey rescue chopper warming up in the infield.

We all know what happened to John Nemechek. He died later in the week as a result of massive head injuries suffered in that accident. But there is one thing, one moment, that stands out.

I am there, standing with the red-eyed woman, chain smoking away the stress of the moment. Suddenly, the ringmaster of timing and scoring, Betsy, comes out to where we are and beckons us and the other 15 or so people gathered there back inside. They are restarting the race. And I’ll never forget her words:

“We have to remember what is important here. We have a race to run.”

CODA

Nine months later, I see Andrea Nemechek again. This time I am in Homestead’s victory lane taking pictures of her, her husband Joe, and their brand new son, John Hunter. Joe had just won the Jiffy Lube 300, a family triumph for the ages.

I still get chills.

This is a repost of a blog I posted on rowdy.com back in November…. enjoy!

I am the luckiest race fan in the world. At least that’s what I think when I look back at my time working at what is now called the Homestead-Miami Speedway. It’s lived under many names over the past 12 years; The Homestead Motorsports Complex, the Metro-Dade Homestead Motorsports Complex, the Miami-Dade Homestead Motorsports Complex, and finally,  Homestead-Miami Speedway. I used to have to type all of those names out because between 1995 and 1999, I ran the official website for the race track, racemiami.com.

In 1995, I was developing websites for the new frontier called the internet. Nobody really knew what it was back hen. Email was really an AOL thing. So, I had a new company and I needed a feather in my cap, as it were, so I gathered up my courage and made an appointment to meet the promotions director at Miami Motorsports L.L.C. I pitched him the idea of making a website for the new Indy-styled oval they had built in Homestead. I bartered my way into the job, which helped me get my career building websites off the ground.

More importantly, at least to me, was the unfettered access I got to the track, the garage, and eventually even Victory Lane.

I won’t bore you all with the technical stuff, you know, the website development junk. It would have been limited to that if the PR guy at the time didn’t ask me for a favor. He asked if I could make these little print out sheets that updated the top 10 every 10 laps or so. Some girl would come up to where I was set up in timing and scoring and pick them up and bring them down to the media center for distribution. In exchange, I could spend the race weekends for NASCAR, CART and the AMA fully credentialed. What race fan would refuse. So pretty much for every event from 1996-1999 (when the track was sold to ISC), I was living the dream of every race fan.

So now that I’ve set the table, let me relay some of my treasured memories of racing at Homestead.
WHERE HAVE YOU GONE, DAVE REZENDES?

The first time I went through the process of picking up my credentials for a race was a real eye-opener. There I am, standing in line at the Registration center outside the backstretch of the track, when I find my self standing next to none other than one Bobby Allison. This was the first of many conflicted moments where being a fan AND acting as a professional clash. What do you do when you find yourself in the presence of one of your heroes, but you are also credentialed as a “Media” member. Those media types, I soon learned, don’t always enjoy the best of reputations amongst the competitors. Maybe some do, those like Poole who they know. Me, I am a nobody. I am a small fish who looks like a freaking hippie with hair down to my butt, but who also knows his racing in spite of his appearance. So there’s Bobby Allison. There’s me. I am nobody. I am supposedly professional. What do I do?

Nothing.

I found this is my lot in this gig. I am the outsider looking in, a fly on the wall, unable to summon up the courage to approach my heroes. Over the course of my Homestead gig, this scene repeats itself many times. With Terry Labonte. With Kyle Petty. With Earnhardt the elder, Jeff Gordon, Richard Petty and a NASCAR rookie named Tony Stewart.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, This is 1996 and now I am in the garage area heading for timing and scoring with my little red wagon stuffed with computer gear and a digital camera. Oh, that camera. An ancient thing by today’s standards. a Kodak number that took like a full second to actually take a picture from the time you hit the button. I think it was the only one in the garage at that time. All these full on photographers with their Nikon’s filled with real film and lenses the length of my arm would look at my digital apparatus and furrow puzzledly. What is that? A digital camera. Really? Looks like a toy. Maybe, but I’ll be published by 6pm.

I load in and find myself immersed in the social equivalent of a traveling circus. Everyone seems to know each other, there are inside jokes, innuendo, Slim Jims and ashtrays for everyone. Most of the folks in timing and scoring are related directly to the race teams. Some are wives, some are girlfriends, some are sisters, all connected to individual race teams which they are assigned to score. There is a computer system in place along with transponders in each race vehicle, but these humans are the backup, the cross reference for settling discrepancies.

The ringmaster for timing and scoring for the NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series was a woman named Betsy. Her face was lined with years of sun and tobacco. Her tone was very, very firm and when she said jump, you asked which bridge you should use. On my first day there, I saw her make a race team repaint their truck because she couldn’t read the numbers clearly. It was a nice looking truck from an independent team who had obviously spent some time on the presentation, but she didn’t want any gradient color schemes on the actual numbers. They fussed. She parked them for the first practice session. It was repainted by noon.

The race itself was the typical Craftsman Truck race of the time. A couple of Cup guys, Geoff Bodine (who had the pole), Joe Nemechek and Ken Schrader showed up. In the end, it was a duel between Jack Sprague and Ron Hornaday , who beat and banged their way out of a win on the last lap, with Dave Resendez making his way sideways through the smoke to claim victory.

Wait a minute…. Dave Rezendewho?

Yup, Dave Rezendes. Kinda faded away over the following seasons, but he ran well before the marketing reality caught up with the New Englander. He won like 2 or 3 races that year and that was that. Someone will tell me where he is now.

My lasting memory of that weekend was leaving the track the first day I was there. The garage was closed and a handful of mechanics and track officials were stillaround. There was the wonderful smell of diesel and onions lingering in the air. It was a beautiful Florida sunset making all the sleeping trucks tinged orange. I smiled. I couldn’t wait to be back.

NEXT UP: Tragedy& Triumph