|From Weekend photoshooting|
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Cliché's are my forté. Gonzó journalism is not. Try as I might, I can't think of a better way to say it. The Indy 300 is decadent and depraved.
I thought the worst would be in the corporate boxes; skimpy waitresses being chased around by managers and salesmen, all hilariously drunk with bulging eyes and lustrous grins, proclaiming themselves God's gift to not only the women lucky enough to be in attendance, but also probably their sister who had to be at work today. And while the scenario was exactly as I describe it, this wasn't the worst of it.
The worst was the blue collar everyman, wearing his complimentary XXXX Gold t-shirt and maybe a hat if he'd bought four or more drinks at once, sitting under tents sponsored by the same or other beers, servo sunnies reflecting the objects of his desires, whistling and howling like a pack of wolves at the whores that passed by.
By comparison the corporate boxes, which were populated with white collars and shady bourgeoisie characters, were a solemn sight. Despite the surface appearance of lewd debauchery, underneath was a quiet desperation, an obvious striving for oblivion. That a majority of these people had lost vast quantities of assets in the recent stock market crash was strongly indicated. With their fiscal worth plummeting almost as quickly as their morals, the violent verbal molestation of any female within earshot seemed less a war cry and more a desperate plea - a last scream for help before sinking beneath the surface.
Posted by Nico at 9:02 AM