If you have kids — and perhaps even if you don’t — you KNOW that the “dual synchronized phone greeting” is forever doomed to fail. It just is. Too many moving parts — all of which requiring the precision timing of a Swiss-made atomic mega-clock. But we as humans are fascinated with its grand potential for some reason, and so we defiantly march right into its inevitable & awkward PIT OF FAILURE time and time again.
For instance, when my mom’s birthday rolls around, I will line my kids up in front of the speaker phone and give it a go once more, knowing full well that THIS WILL ALL BLOW UP IN MY FACE, probably. No matter. We’ll discuss the particulars beforehand:
When she picks up & I give the signal, say HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA!!! super loud, okay? Got it?
And we’ll rehearse. And we’ll rehearse once more, just for good measure, and everything will go swimmingly. I will make the call and my mom will answer and I will GIVE THE SIGNAL VEHEMENTLY and … nothing. Jesus. Quite peeved, I will whisper-yell their lines threateningly as my mom is all “HELLO!? HELLO!? IS ANYONE THERE? HELLO!?” because old people tend not give up on phone calls without a fight. Still nothing. And then one of my kids will just haphazardly blurt out a “Happy Birth–” before getting cut off by the other kid who quickly follows suit, but not simultaneously — which causes both to stop & stare at each other quizzically. So very, very awkward. I will put an end to this ugly amateurishness as I intervene and explain to my mom what our intention was — but not without harboring deep-seated disappointment in my totally inept kids. (HOW WILL YOU EVER ONE DAY TEAM UP TO RIGHTEOUSLY AVENGE MY DEATH IF YOU CAN’T EVEN PULL OFF THIS SIMPLE TASK?!?)
Point being, when we learned that Kanaan & Helio would be giving the Starting Command Saturday night from inside their cars on the grid, we learned that it was doomed to fail. Because that is God’s way. We knew this. We accepted it, well before it all went queer. And “go queer” it did — in a hurry. In a big, off-sequence fireball of AWKWARD.
And that right there was the Miami race. Not the “fireball of AWKWARD” thing, of course … but rather the predictability of it all. Not in a bad way, though. Not even in a boring way. Quite the opposite. Some things are predictable, for good or ill, and the Cafes de Brasil was one of them.
It was a fine race, frankly, full of trippy sparks & lead-changes & Bob Jenkins saying fascinating things like “Ryan Carpenter-Reay Mears the Fourth,” just as he always does (bless his heart). Plus, Danica and Kanaan again seemed on the verge of PLAYING FOR BLOOD and knife-fighting each other at supersonic speeds, and that is never not fun. Milka crashed, obviously, and Will Power did too and there was a roughly 300-lap caution — ONE CAUTION LAP FOR EVERY SPECTATOR IN ATTENDANCE!!! HOORAY!! (Good riddance, ISC, you spiteful f–ks. I hope your greedy little shitcircus gets hit up on Federal RICO charges & then drowns in a river.) Oh, and the whole race felt non-contrived & entertaining — just as we hoped & knew it would be.
But ultimately, it ended as only it could: with Dario winning the Championship somewhat anticlimactically and Ganassi partying deep into the sultry South Beach night and Kanaan shoving people into the pool at the “W” and is this 2009? No? It might as well be. But never mind all that. It’s not important anymore.
Because Saturday’s race feels like it happened a fortnight ago, and there’s been only 6,000 new developments in sponsorships & empty rides, as well as a worrisome uptick in 7-Eleven’s being angrily vandalized & set ablaze. These are heady days. The season is over, yes, but we have plenty of time to look ahead to next year. Like, eons. Sigh.
So for now, let us begin the process of tying off THIS season. With our yearly Awards Show. Indeed, The Paggies® are upon us, and it is your duty as Americans (and also a few notable Europeans who we accept as Americans around here) to submit your Award Nominations. The best & most unique submissions will be chosen, and for that you’ll win six pounds of gold doubloons — although not really.