Athletes or not, there are the drivers, the clear-eyed heroes, Rushmore-jawed and implacable, giving you the gunfighter squit from the magazine rack at the checkout stand. They glare down from those billboards out on the bypass, stare out at you from the weekly four color insert in your local paper, smile back at you from a thousand boxes of three-for-a-buck mac and cheese on aisle 7. From the 10-foot 12-pack sudsweiser pyramid at the Pump 'n Run to the PS2 on your JVC to the bestseller stacks of your big-box bookstore, they are everywhere.
The cars, too, all that sleek Dee-troit iron, scuplted and sexy and not so vaguely threatenaning, tattooing your candy bars and your condiments, your wateproof grout and your frozen waffles.
And every one of us, from Maine to Mission Beach, is in on it, whether we choose to be or not. You can't opt out, even if you want to, even if you're stuck in neutral, even if you're among that handful of benighted citizens not yet in receipt of the glorious message of NASCAR's commercial and cultural revelations, even if you're one of those people who by God think it's just noxious monotony and hillbilly cliche and hayseed blood sport. Fine by me, brother, but you're still a paying customer. Go to your kitchen cabinets right now, your refrigerator, your medicine chest, your nnightstand, your garage, your cluttered hall closet and kind a dozen dozen products proudly branded and cross-pollinated with that NASCAR stamp.
The cars, too, all that sleek Dee-troit iron, scuplted and sexy and not so vaguely threatenaning, tattooing your candy bars and your condiments, your wateproof grout and your frozen waffles.
And every one of us, from Maine to Mission Beach, is in on it, whether we choose to be or not. You can't opt out, even if you want to, even if you're stuck in neutral, even if you're among that handful of benighted citizens not yet in receipt of the glorious message of NASCAR's commercial and cultural revelations, even if you're one of those people who by God think it's just noxious monotony and hillbilly cliche and hayseed blood sport. Fine by me, brother, but you're still a paying customer. Go to your kitchen cabinets right now, your refrigerator, your medicine chest, your nnightstand, your garage, your cluttered hall closet and kind a dozen dozen products proudly branded and cross-pollinated with that NASCAR stamp.
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