Track day was great. John, David, Joel, and I went to VIR to watch a few groups race. I hadn’t been there before, but a guy from my local car club was racing a spec-class RX-7. His front left shock absorber was shot but he still made a good showing. It was nice to meet up with somebody who could recommend a good place to sit and spectate, not to mention showing us around his little encampment and showing off his car. We watched the spec-7s, the IT (improved touring) class which included faster sports cars, and the GT-1 classes, in which was the really big iron, the Corvettes and Vipers and NSXs and such. It was great fun, loud, noisy, stinky (if you don’t like the smell of race fuel) but awesome. The guys had a great time too, in between the expensive french fries and not bringing any sunglasses (or shades. Does anyone besides me call them shades?). I’m going to post a full writeup on the
Rented The Crow and Notting Hill tonight after leaving youth group. Donald returned and reinstalled the DVD player. We couldn’t decide which one to watch, so we flipped a coin and went with Notting Hill. It’s a chick flick, yes, but one uniquely configured so that it appeals to the male psyche, since it provides us with a scenario in which our starry-eyed fantasy of marrying that beautiful (and of course perfect in every other way) movie star could occur. Not to mention the fact that I identify somewhat with Hugh Grant (minus the British accent thing); he’s tall, a little gawky, and self-effacing to a fault. I’m not even a huge Julia Roberts fan; I just like the movie–the dialogue is a notch or two above standard fare, and it is replete with moments when the characters say or do the perfect thing in the perfect way. And I knew this would happen. I knew I’d feel this way as soon as I put my finger on the DVD in the store to pull it off the shelf. I told myself it was bad news. As least I’m not obsessed about it, just a little caught up for tonight is all.
Goodnight, everyone.