And away we go!

It's that time of year again. I'm counting down the hours until my 2nd track day on Monday, July 13, this time at Road America in Elkhart Lake, WI. I've graciously received a vacation day to do something utterly stupid. Mostly Naked once told me that I would be incredibly wired before track day, and there would be multiple bathroom trips and no sleep. He's also Mostly Right. I didn't have any of those issues before Brainerd last year, though. I attribute it to ignorance and comfort. I knew Brainerd's track layout well enough even though I never rode on it, so I was comfortable and relaxed, and had NO idea what was coming. I walked away from Brainerd, tired and pleased, but I rode at my pace, didn't push myself and frankly, was kinda "meh." I was actually surprised at my reaction as were a couple of others. There was no adrenaline, no abnormal quantity of bathroom breaks, too much sleep.

This year, an entire month before this Monday, as soon as I saw turn 14 at Road America, up a hill to the start/finish, I felt a jello-y quiver in my gut. It got worse a few days after when I clicked the "Submit" button on the website to pay for the opportunity. Now it seems the last couple of weeks, there's nothing else I can think about. I realize most of the thoughts, again, are logistics (don't forget to bring the bike...OR the key), but there's a hyper, spazzy, mildly terrified inner child who's not thinking about anything, except for the riding itself.

Road America is an incredible visual for a track. It's 4 miles long with 14 turns, elevation changes, and long sweeping turns and straights. Brainerd, by comparison is 3.1 miles, 10 turns, flat and tight. Brainerd boasts AMA superbike races and NHRA drag races, but RA not only has AMA superbikes, they also host indy cars as well. In my mind, a race track that can also race open wheel, super-fast, race cars is intimidating indeed.

So I'm a wreck. Anyone who makes the mistake of talking to me these past few days ends up having to hear all about my impending track day, because it's all I can think about. Sometimes more than once (I'm so sorry, "Vern.").

Man, I can't even get this blog out clean. My brains are scrambled.

Last year I wrote up a will and once again, I present my bequests, updated to reflect new friends and new items.

* * *

I reiterate for this year's event:

In the incredibly unlikely (Mom, read that again. Incredibly unlikely.)...I, Kuj, being "all there" at the moment, do hereby blah blah blah.

To my Mother, I bequeath:

• My relaxing "f**k it" attitude. Some things are just not worth the energy. Your only daughter, your sunshine, your favorite child (yeah, I said it) doing a track day, for instance.
  
• Hammick #1, for the purposes of finding the above mentioned attitude.
  
• The three-season porch.
• Your weight in Leinie's Berry Weiss.
• A brand-spanking new Leinie's sweatshirt twice a year.

To my Father, I bequeath:

• An extra sturdy door hinge for the passenger side of the coupe. Because whoever takes my place next to you isn't going to remember to not throw the door open either.
• Two weeks in the Rat Rod mecca out West. Make it a month.
• A toy hauler (see above).
  
• The official title of "Ruffian" (as bestowed upon you by local author, Michael Perry).

To my Brother, I bequeath:

• A job working for Weird Al. He's probably exhausted himself trying to swap out lyrics.
• A bullhorn for your butt. The sound is funny, the smell is not. One hopes the afterlife excludes foul odors.
  
• My bike (again). I'm still picturing that nice end table.

To my cousin Heather, I bequeath:

• The funny.
• Douchebag radar.
• $1400 bucks. NOW can we drive the Ya-ha-ma into a lake?

To my cousin Beefcake, I bequeath:

• The re-gifted Dark Lord. Re-gifted.
• A custom-built Beamish can hat.
• A lifetime supply of grounded shoes.

To my Aunt Joy, I bequeath:

• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Facebook.
• Somebody to read non-fiction to you.

To my best friend Trish, I bequeath:

• My brother. Take him on your next vacation. You can use the amusement.
• Shorter pants for your gorgeous.
• A pair of scissors. Rush the stage at the next Wilco concert. You can do it.

To my dear friend Billy, I bequeath:

• Somebody to say "Dork" to.
• That one t-shirt. Yes, I found it the other day. I still have it.
• My mp3 player.

To my dear friend Art, I bequeath:

• Someone to yell "ART!" across the room to you.
• One-line zingers to use on Ben.
• Dunt-dunt-dahs.

To my dear friend and riding buddy, Turd, I bequeath:

• All 78 Steam entries. Yes, I did say I have a problem.
• Even more appreciation for "beep."
• Lots of "Proud Daddy" moments.
• /fart
  

To my newest dear friend "Vern," I bequeath:

• As requested, my hair. You'll fit right in it...heck, you're already used to the cold wind on the back of your head whenever anyone walks by.
• Also, as requested, my vocabulary. Though the secret is to have a thesaurus handy, I somehow manage to store the good ones away in the brain, however infinitesimal it may be. Anyway, you're no slouch either. "Brother, can you spear a mime?" That kills me...
  
• A pipeline from Jefferson Street in Chippewa Falls to FtC, with a multi-tapper on your end of it, of course. And all the Beamish left in the fridge.
  
• The world's largest book of anagrams...oh never mind. You wrote it.
• Hammick #2. It'll feel great when the yard's done.
• Firefly and Serenity. Alex will stop giving you the crazy look, and you two will have lots to talk about.
• My sweet, sweet beach cruiser. Only if you promise to ride it in costume.
  
• Enough money to fix up the bus. Keep the Boop drapes. (Boop drapes...that made me laugh).
• $5K. Get a motorcycle. Start slow. You'll love it.

To my newest dear friend Jasonopotamus:

• A full-on poster of Gothapotamus.
• A full-on poster of I Am Junk.
• My memory of the 1983 White Sox. LaMar Hoyt, Greg "The Bull" Luzinski, Harold Baines, Tony LaRussa, Carleton Fisk. I'm sorry...that's all I know. Of baseball. In totality. Besides "Where's the beer guy?"
• Someone to punch you in the arm, so you don't have to.
• My M*A*S*H collection. And let that cut under your nose heal. :)

To my still incredibly gracious boss, I bequeath:

• A bottle of Skyy (for honoring me, of course).
• Someone who will entertain you with really stupid things...like printing blank transparencies. That always gets a laugh.
• Steel mesh gloves for handling lifts of paper and opening boxes.
• Your very own censoring bleep. I wish I had bothered to buy one...

To my neighbors across the street, I bequeath:

• A three-season porch on the back of your house.
• A rattle can to cover up those racing stripes (yes, I had neon lights under my car once. Shut up).
  
• A sixer of Milwaukee's Best.

To the Chippewa Valley Sportbike Club, I bequeath:

• It's your fault I got into this mess in the first place. Have my guilt. Have my mom's too. Hers is really good. :)

Remember people: Think Irish funeral!

Freud is Choking on His Big, Fat Hog

Brother only seems to have road rage when there's a car in his way. A few weekends ago, when we were on our way to watch vintage motorcycle races at Road America, a pokey driver finally moved over to the right lane when he was good and ready and my brother grumbled, "Fat lop of....look at him! Smokin' a big, fat hog!" Having not looked up from book two of the Twilight obsession, I burst into laughter and inquired, "WTF is a big, fat hog??" Apparently the man was smoking the biggest cigar Brother had ever seen. Another simply put phrase that had me cracking up and now I must use ad nauseum. Sorry. But the story below does tie in with Freud. You'll see. Though I don't get the whole cigar thing...

* * *

When we of the Kuj Tribe were much younger, there was a time when us siblings engaged in the truly Polish/German sport of bowling. Every Saturday morning, hanging out in a gloomy, smoke-filled bowling alley, participating in the kid's league. I sucked. I considered it a good day if I managed to keep at least one ball out of the gutter. Little did I know that once I was old enough to drink (in pub-lick, anyway), I wouldn't give a crap if I threw the ball behind me, because bowling had become an excellent excuse to spend time with favored friends and co-workers, and for swilling mass quantities of beer.

Of course, Brother was better at bowling than me. He of the plaques, trophies, patches. Naturally, when one of his birthdays approached, the decision was made to have a bowling birthday party. My mom hired a Superman to show up at the party with balloons for the b-day boy and to do party tricks. Oh, how much damage this would do.

This "Superman" was a short, skinny, hirsute guy with a gold chain and a porn/cop mustache. He wore a near-accurate version of Superman's red and blue costume, except that I'm fairly certain the real thing didn't have a padded suit. PADDED. Padded biceps, pecs, thighs. Mental damage enough, you say? Sure. Cheesy? Most heinously. He told jokes, made balloon animals, did a little prestidigitation. I hope that, at the time, he at least entertained my brother and his friends despite the blatant misrepresentation. Otherwise, if I run into him again, I WILL demand he pay my mother all the money she shelled out for his cheese. I figure I just have to stand over him and flex my Pilates-hardened thigh muscles.

* * *

Trish (you remember her....she used to blog too?) has been my best friend for so many years, she deserves some kind of award. Or maybe I do. I think we met in high school marching band, but the specifics escape me. Despite a handful of years apart, we reconnected a few years ago and, again, talk to each other in one format or another nearly every day. Before I moved away and her gorgeous husband stole her from me, WAAAAY back in the mid 90's, Trish had asked me to stand up in her wedding to said gorgeous husband. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm the one who deserves the award. That dress. That's a whole other story.

I was invited along with the other bridesmaids to the requisite bridal shower and bachelorette party. I apparently have a gift for memory recall. I've been incredibly astounded, as proven through Facebook, by my ability to remember bits and pieces of events as far back as high school. Unfortunately, this is one particular event I just can't get rid of. I would've hoped it had disturbed me enough to repress. I'm not so lucky.

After opening her gifts, we were interrupted by a knock on the door and the cry of the hormone, "Ooo! The stripper's here!"

* * *

Male strippers. That has got to be the most disgusting form of entertainment known to woman. Now before you formulate and postulate about my er, orientation, please understand that I'm like any other red-blooded, all-American heterosexual woman. Me likey man. But I'm picky on the visual. Just as any man on the street will pull a Pavlov when a hot woman walks by, I also like to observe male hotness in its most natural state: mowing my lawn. Okay, mowing any lawn. Okay, really, doing anything the Brawny paper towel man would do. But, specifically, manfully. Not outfitted in a bow tie and cuffs, women's thong underpants and...jiggling.

The image of the male reproductive anatomy, in my poor opinion, does not inspire grand, sweeping anthems of brass and bugle. It does not shout out in a growly, "Yeeeesss!" It's more of a "wah, wah." Yes, I realize this could be construed as mean, but the specific equipment is utterly and completely functional. There are far more important parts of the male gender that kick-start the furnace, if you know what I'm saying. I realize the human body is never perfect, but even on the scariest looking human being, there's something of incredible visual quality (my eyes, thanks for asking). Sure, his eyes might be hopelessly smoldering. It might be the small of the back. Maybe it's the ab muscles. It could be the graceful arc of a deltoid. It's possibly the broad muscular span across the scapulas. It's definitely that little indentation between the pelvis and gut muscles. Whew.

This? As Alanis Morrisette (the rotten bitch) once sang, "You are a slice of God on a platter..."

I could stare for days. Is he a deep thinker? I don't care. Does he love puppies? Big whup. I prefer my eye candy still...posed, not doing the electric slide with Grandma on stage. Stand still Chippendales, and I will perv out.

So you see where I stand on the whole stripper thing. If your purpose in life is to entertain women while barely dressed, it's far classier to me to just hand out pictures of yourself, than to parade around on stage with Fabio hair (gech) and s-pulse your meat and two veg at my face.

* * *

Hue and Cry. "The stripper's here!" Ugh. I see through the throng of ladies, a polyester cop uniform. "Hello ladies. I hear there's a bachelorette here who's been naughty..." Ugh again. A flash of a plastic badge (I'm welling up right now at the horror). The crowd of women makes way for the focus of our attention....and it's the FREAKIN SUPERMAN GUY!

I'll pause here for the collective outburst....

Seriously. The very same short, skinny, hairy guy (with the gold chain still). As a stripper cop. I remember wishing I could fart wings and fly. I shrink into my chair hoping against hope that, as he sets down his boom box and "Party All The Time" (who cares what song it was, really) blares from the twin speakers, I can will myself to be one with the powder-coated steel and vinyl.

This probably wouldn't be such a big deal if he was just a craptastical stripper, I understand this. As it was, he really was bad. Easily torn off pants and shirt (which is good, because as skinny as he was, I doubt he'd get through a real button), boxers, bikini, thong (really? Three pairs of underwear isn't overkill?). Climb up on a chair and shake his junk two inches from Trish's face (take that, alleged BEST FRIEND! Put me in this multi-color, poofy, organza-coated dress, will you? Karma! AVENGE ME!).

And yet, he still never got completely naked. The hair suit stayed on for some reason.

One wonders if this is the first thing one should share with a therapist upon first session.