Saturday, February 25, 2006

The confetti makes the trucks fly higher.


It changed a little part of me. All sarcasm aside, I never would have imagined it would be quite so lovely to see 9000 lbs hurling through the air. The night started with a video montage of monster trucks in slow motion edited to Teenaged beautiful my darling, simply glorious, hand me my champagne.

It's a little bit like a rodeo. I mean, it’s a circuit. These drivers are all competing against each other, yet, they travel together for months on end. There is also the romance of pro wrestling involved. Seriously bear with me for a minute. Clearly, they stage as much as they can. The Grave Digger always wins the race. Always. He is the best. The proverbial outlaw of the circuit. The bad guy who we love to hate. He reminds us that Americana has a rugged dark side; he is the cowboy who we've forgotten. Grave Digger wins the races because he personifies the out dated American man to a T. His son has joined the circuit, drives a truck that is set to look like a Tasmanian devil. He is called Taz. Grave Digger is a family man, rebel without a cause who spreads his seed for the entertainment of the world. He is not a showman, so to speak. Rather understated for the monster truck world. He lost the freestyle competition to his son, he jumps but it is an ethical jump. A jump meant to get the job done, leaving the awe out of the picture.

I am assuming that most of the people that go to monster truck rallies haven't really had a lot of training in photography. There were flashes galore. Kind charming just watching people flash in the metrodome, like that tiny little strobe is going to affect the only indoor lighting brighter than the sun. But just about everybody with a camera was using their flash. During the freestyle portion of the evening, my breath was stolen from me over and over and over again. Every time a truck would make a jump over old buicks, and rusty school buses, the metrodome would rain with flashes. It was like at that moment, someone through confetti in the air and it would slowly fall until the next time there was a totally mind-blowing death defying gravity-fucking jump to save all of us from ourselves.

So what I want to know, and I’m sure we have all thought about it. Where do the school busses come from? How do they get so many?

Is the school bus I used to ride on being flown over as I write by a gasoline deity? Is the place where I carved my name into the seat still there? A part of me is still on that bus, my good sir, Grave Digger.

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