Of all the major automobile manufacturers, no one showcases masculine insecurities with the joie de vivre of Dodge. They could have chosen more testosterone-neutral model names like “Accord”, “Camry”, or even “Malibu”. But let’s face it, those names are for pussies. Now, I’m not a professional psychologist but I did take an Intro to Freudian Psychology class that leaves me believing the entire Marketing department at Dodge had some kind of humiliating experience during potty training. Let’s take a look at some of their model names.

The Avenger – You’ll be screaming for vengeance behind the wheel of this four door family sedan. Dodge’s website describes this vehicle as “Fiercely Confident”. And for those of you who believe that revenge is a dish best served cold, yes, air conditioning is standard.

The Caliber – This is a little crossover SUV that spares you the pusillanimous names like “Forester” or “Escape”. This bad MFer was shot straight out of Dirty Harry’s hand cannon (yet still achieves 29 mpg highway mileage).

The Challenger – The gauntlet has been thrown. Are you going to get some lame mini-van like your wife wants or are you going to prove yourself to be a worthy adversary by purchasing this retro muscle car? This badboy even sports a HEMI V8….and I’m not even sure what that phrase means, other than knowing it induces redneck engorgement.

The Charger – Another four door family sedan with a macho name. You’ll charge into soccer practices and piano recitals and show those Honda Odyssey drivers what’s what. You’re as cool as ice (but not worry, as heated leather seats are standard).

The Nitro – If you’re highly volatile and not-to-be-messed-with, this is the vehicle for you.  Dodge’s website even has the Nitro “Detonator” package, which includes “Parksense® rear park assist” for those madmen who have a little trouble parallel parking.

The Viper – For this model, I imagine the Dodge marketing people sitting around a table and asking, “OK, just how phallic can we get without actually naming the car Huge Penis?”

The Ram – Bend over and assume the position for this sexually suggestive truck. They even have a model, and I kid you not, called the “Laramie Longhorn”.

So forget about the shoddy reliability and safety records. When you buy a Dodge, you are buying something bigger than a means from Point A to Point B. You are buying a validation of your virility, powered by a HEMI V8.

“In a world where ancient Spartans had access to circuit training and Sally Hansen home waxing products….”

It’s too easy to assume that Harlequin’s line of NASCAR-themed romance novels are simply masturbatory fodder for honky tonk women. After all, the tag line for this series of books promises “Steamy Drivers on the Track of Love” and a trip to the company’s website containing information on these high-speed love stories does little to prove my initial impression wrong. The first thing I noticed at this site (http://www.eharlequin.com/store.html;jsessionid=9FFBFADCEFF6C935045091B0D92EEB35?cid=600&cmpid=PSSUPSOUT200907260829&kw=harlequinnascar) is book covers featuring dashing fictional NASCAR drivers and the NASCAR logo (which I’m sure Harlequin paid a hefty amount to use).

From a business perspective, Harlequin’s entrance into the world of NASCAR makes perfect sense. According to Green Flag Marketing, NASCAR boasts 75 million fans coast to coast, 40% of which are female. In addition, NASCAR is third in licensed sales among all major U.S. sports.

But these novels are selling something more than romance or the NASCAR brand. A perusing of the plot summaries reveals certain themes – the self-made, rugged individualist fighting for victory on the track and in the bedroom – the impossible comeback brought to fruition by the love of a good woman – the other-side-of-the-tracks romance that’s just crazy enough to work. These novels are selling an affirmation of the American identity that I will refer to collectively as “American Fantasy”.

From the website, one can read the teasers on the back of the book. Since I do not have the interest or patience to actually read these novels, I will use these blurbs from the back cover to demonstrate how these stories perpetuate the American Fantasy.

From “At Last” by Liz Allison & Wendy Etherington

“Charleston blueblood and Double S racing team owner Gil Sizemore has always been a maverick. And small-town café owner Sheila Trueblood is far from immune to his legendary charms. Gil is doing everything he can to melt her resistance, but she can’t risk trusting him. Because once he discovers her secret nothing will be the same…”

You knew they were going to drop the M word sooner rather than later. Americans love a “maverick” – the unconventional individualist who plays by his own rules has been causing bloomers to drop since the American Revolution. The fact that this maverick also happens to be a “Charleston blueblood” adds to the Antebellum fantasy many southern white women have. After all, few things are sexier than the simpler days when southern belles enjoyed a family fortune made by the toiling hands of slaves.

From “Over the Top” by Pamela Britton

“Geared up to make his triumphant return to racing, NASCAR legend Linc Shepherd can’t afford any mistakes. And Marley Sizemore is trouble with a capital T. No longer the tomboy with a major crush on him, his boss’s baby sister is now an alluring woman. Will their relationship jeopardize Linc’s chances of victory on the track? Or can Marley help him show the world he’s still got what it takes?”

Americans love a comeback story and they’re going to get one in the exploits of Linc Shepherd. That is, if he can resist the feminine wares of Marley Sizemore. If I was a betting man, my money would be on both his successful comeback and the taming of that little minx, Marley. Few things are as American as having your cake and eating it too. You can have it all, Linc. You deserve it all.

From “Talk to Me” by Dorien Kelly

“Veteran NASCAR star Ben Edmonds has one driving goal: to get his career and marriage back on track. He adores his wife, Susie—their family means everything to him. But somehow life has put distance between them. If Susie will cheer him on, anything’s possible. And Ben’s more determined than ever to take back the prize. Because everything’s riding on this one….”

Remember what I said about Americans loving a comeback story? Yeah, well I’m pretty sure this plot is one of the Rocky sequels repackaged in a NASCAR setting.

From “No Ordinary Man” by Abby Gaines

“Race car driver Eli Ward is happiest behind the wheel…when he isn’t being pursued by too many eligible females. But ever since he asked Jennifer Ashby to pose as his girlfriend, the happy-go-lucky racing star has eyes only for her. Except Jen’s no starry-eyed fan. If Eli wants to win this race, he’ll have to show her that their fantasy romance is the real thing…. “

OK, Eli is either a workaholic or on the downlow. Either way, it’s perfectly American to throw yourself into your job and suppress your sexuality. Then along comes Jennifer to serve as his beard. Will they drive happily into the sunset? Or will he come to terms with his desire to massage Ted Haggard?

 From “Winner Takes All” by Dorien Kelly

“Former NASCAR driver Derek Garner wants only to run his youth program for inner-city kids. But impassioned teacher Claire Sablan has her own ideas for her students…and she never mixes business with pleasure. Except this time she’s finding dark and sexy Derek hard to resist. If she’s not careful, she’ll be giving in to all his ideas—including the one about their future together!”

Wait a minute, since when are inner city kids interested in NASCAR? OK, for the sake of American Fantasy, let’s assume they are. The next question is, how do they get access to hotrods and track time? Oh fuck it, it’s all just a set up for Derek to bang Claire. Have at it, Derek.

From “From the Outside” by Barbara Dunlop

“The racing world is Caleb Gentry’s whole life. But when the top tire changer is assigned to help Olivia Eason with a sports study, life off the track gets a lot more exciting. The upper-crust doc may not be his usual type, but Caleb knows there is more to her than meets the eye. Now all Caleb has to do is show her how good life in the fast lane can be….”

This plot is kind of Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” video meets a Penthouse Forum letter. In fact, I’d be willing to bet this story is equally enjoyed by both women who are into grits and the grits who love them. 

I’m not even half way through these titles and I’m noticing the plots are starting to repeat themselves with only the ridiculous character names changing. It’s my belief that people choose their reading material to validate a certain lifestyle to which they already adhere. With that in mind, I could see these novels being very popular at a Tea Party beach retreat weekend.

Last night, my family and I attended Cirque du Soleil’s “Ovo”, their latest installment that has something to do with insects and eggs. Upon taking our seats in the large, dark tent, the first thing I noticed is that the Russian people in front of us smelled like a mix of cigarette smoke and peppermint Tic Tacs. That has nothing to do with anything. I just like talking shit about Russians.

Anyway, the show started and I was absolutely amazed at the acrobatic, athletic prowess of the performers. They were all extremely fit with the exception of the fat ladybug performer, but she had a lot of energy for a big girl.

To my wife’s disdain, I did briefly fall asleep during the first half of the show but that had nothing to do with the quality of the entertainment but rather the fact that I’d missed my afternoon nap. This combined with a dark tent and new age music was a recipe for “siesta”….that’s French for nap.

At the intermission, I exchanged some words with some rude motherfucker in the beer line. It wasn’t until after the show that I realized how funny a brawl at the Cirque du Soleil would have been. I really should have punched that bitch in the throat.

During the second half of the show, there was some scene where a male and female “insect” did some kind of acrobatic mating dance. They were all over each other. It was during that scene that I realized another dimension of body control the male performers exhibit, as there is absolutely zero margin for error when it comes to popping a boner in a lycra bodysuit.

Overall, it was an amazing show. However, if I had to offer one piece of criticism, it would be that the show skewed slightly too “artsy” and not enough “fartsy”.

Wide angle view of the crime scene

In this age of terrorism and various other security threats, one would think it would be nearly impossible to take a shit on a national monument.

Not so.

Yesterday, as my friend Todd and I were strolling to our softball game, we noticed the following photographic evidence of a Mad Smasher somewhere in DC. This time around, the Jefferson Memorial was his target.

Curious about the forensics of this crime, Todd and I set up an impromptu Warren Commission to recreate what happened.

By our estimate, the Mad Smasher hid behind the tree near the top ledge, hung his ass over the side, and proceeded to pinch a loaf. At the final moment before ground impact, Mr. Hankey grabbed a hold of the marble and clung for dear life. Although we theorize this was the work of a lone assman, it’s quite possible he was in cahoots with the CIA, Castro, or the mob.

What sets Stossel apart from other journalists is his burning desire to tell us that things are not so bad. And people eat this shit up. It’s an almost psychotherapeutic approach to journalism in which Stossel assuages our collective guilt to the problems of the day.

Pollution? Health risks? Global Warming? They’re all blown way out of proportion by the rest of the media. John Stossel has flown in from from the set of a 1970s gay porn to tell us everything is going to be OK. And it’s not our fault. Gimme a break.

Let’s take a look at the facts: Mr. Lopart is a single, middle-aged man who lives with his cat named “Fluffy”. His voice makes Charles Nelson Reilly sound like Barry White. And finally, he claims to be the former diving champion of Sheet Rock Hills.

In no way am I criticizing Mr. Lopart’s gayness. I just wish Disney would out him.

For god’s sake, give him a boyfriend so his emotional needs are not all put on the shoulders of a cat. Give him some fun. Maybe Handy Manny could build a gay bar in Sheet Rock Hills. But most of all, give him the self acceptance and self confidence to sashay around Sheet Rock Hills in all his fabulousness.

Mr. Lopart stumbles out of a leather bar.