Smoke But No Fire

Sometimes the old adage isn't true...

Greg Is A Racecar Driver

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Until recently, I’d never driven a high-performance car.

That changed when Chevrolet sent me to the Ron Fellows Performance Driving School at Spring Mountain Resorts. Located about an hour west of Las Vegas, the school offers people like me the chance to learn about car control, shifting and cornering techniques and—ultimately—to experience what it’s like to sit behind the wheel of a sports car and tackle a racetrack.

Now that I’ve done it, now that I’ve harnessed the power of a Corvette, and now that I know how to control it, I look forward to doing it again. And again.

The object of schools like this (Chevy also sponsors the Bondurant Driving School in Phoenix) is to teach you not how to be a racecar driver, but rather how to properly operate a vehicle, be it a Corvette or a Cruze, in high-speed situations.

“We believe the car is the classroom,” says Chief Driving Instructor and Driving School Director Rick Malone. The schools guarantee extensive track time for those who attend them, adopting a philosophy of learning through hands-on experience. It’s a safe, controlled environment available to anyone with a valid driver’s license and the money to cover a $3,000-$4,000 fee (prices vary depending on the level you choose).

It all began with the basics: “Keep your hands at 9 and 3,” said Malone.

Your seating position is also crucial. “Move the seat close enough, so when turning right or left, when your hand gets to the 12 o’clock position, your elbow should have about a 45-degree bend.”

Driving with one hand limits your cornering and swerve potential, said Malone. It also limits your line of sight. Peripheral vision—scanning the horizon for what lies ahead—is elemental in finding proper car control. “Keep your eyes up and looking where you want to go,” he repeated over the course of the day.

It’s like Driver’s Ed all over again, only Malone has 28 years’ experience and the car is a Z06 Corvette with 505 hp that goes from 0-60 in four seconds. It’s a daily commuter car with racecar-like performance. The education I got in such a short amount of time is priceless, and something I can apply in my everyday life.

During an exercise in car control, Malone wet down an asphalt paddock and had me navigate through a figure 8 series of cones. “Remember, always look where you want to go,” he said. If your car gets into a tail slide—be it from rain, snow or loose gravel—you never want to look straight ahead. If you look straight, you’ll go straight, and that usually isn’t a good idea.

Good thing the Corvette employs a feature called active handling. On-board sensors “assist” the driver by adjusting braking, steering and traction, so driving becomes an intuitive experience. After I learned these basics, Malone guided me in a lead car (via a two-way radio) over a track that had sweeping corners, quick S’s and off-camber turns.

On the backstretch, I reached speeds in the triple digits. To say it was exhilarating would be an understatement: This was a life-changing experience. A dream fulfilled.

“You’ll be back,” Malone said with a sly grin. “I can see it in your eyes.” And he’s right. In October, there’s something called Corvettes at Bondurant, where Bondurant offers Corvette owners the thrill of high-performance driving in a controlled environment during a weekend of track time, schooling and hot laps, a simulated racing experience where multiple cars are on the track at once (no passing or contact is allowed). I’ll be driving the new 2014 Corvette Stingray.

A Cautionary Tale on Chocolate City

In the late '80s, I spent a lot of time in DC. Sometimes my friends and I drove into the city, sometimes we rode the rails.

It was a dangerous time. Crack was king and go go was its theme song. But nevertheless, we navigated the bowels of the city from F Street NW to Southeast, from Georgetown to Dupont Circle, but this was all done with an err of caution.

Age was on our side back then. Danger was there for sure, but we were either impervious or felt invincible.

My last few trips to DC have shown me that the city I love has changed.

Drastically.

For better and for worse.

Places that were once "sketchy" have now been gentrified and overrun with entitlement. And this must clearly breed resentment. But that's a tale for another time.

One last thing before I share my story: If you are on the subway, after midnight, alone, and passed-out drunk you increase your chances of being a victim.

***

On Saturday night I went to the Black Cat on 14th Street with my girlfriend because the DJ in the back room was doing an '80s Night. She likes her Erasure, Depeche Mode, Cure, and Tones on Tail. Like is actually an understatement. I confess I love me some '80s tunes too. Yaz? Yessir. The Smiths? Hellz yeah!

14th Street in my day was the domain of pimps and prostitutes. Now it is a haven for twentysomethings to burn off steam after a long week of work. A Metro stop that nobody wanted to get off at is now a stop that everybody gets off at.

The sidewalks? Crowded. The clubs? Lines to get in. The food joints? Busy.

The night waned on.

Hot, sweaty, tired (and broke, the city is expensive!) we left and headed back to catch the train.

While waiting on the platform, a train going in the other direction pulled into the station. There was a commotion. We saw a gaggle of black teens cornering someone. I saw fists flying. I heard voices screaming.

And I reacted.

As the doors opened I ran onto the train. "Chill the fuck out!" I yelled, pushing bodies away. I saw two Latino guys sitting down. A gaggle of black teens throwing punches. One of the teens, a female, is pulling at his ear buds. "I want that fucking phone!" she screamed. "Get the fuck back," I said as I pushed both male and female teens forcefully in the chest. Several of them scattered but two stayed close. One was the girl who wants the phone. The two Latin boys were now on their feet. One of them pulled a knife. The teens, seeing this, scattered to the back of the train.

The door to the train closed. The train lurched forward. Suddenly my good samaritan deed seems like a bad idea. Because now there was no escape. It was me, the victims and the perps all in one car with no one else. Anything could happen. I walked in front of the Latinos. They knew I saved their asses, if only temporarily. I headed towards the crew who were throwing punches. I scanned both sides of the train to see who was sitting on the subway. To see who didn't step up and stop this madness. I got the feeling this whole train is in on this shit. "Don't do anything stupid!" I yelled out to no one in particular.

The door opened at the next stop. I got off and waited to catch the train back to where my girlfriend was waiting on the platform. Several of the punch-throwing group got off at the other end of the train. They eyed me from a distance on the platform. I stared back with a "You want to bring it, bring it," look.

There were no words nor actions on their end.

I caught the next train back and met up with my girlfriend Sonnie, who confessed, "As soon as that door closed on you, I felt sick. I thought I might never see you again."

Ironically, both our cell phones had just about died. Three more minutes or less and we would have been unable to communicate. I had enough juice to text her that I was OK and heading on the next train back.

We hugged.

I started to question my actions. I could have been stabbed, or shot, or beat up. But then I realized if it happened all over again I'd probably do the same thing. In a heartbeat.

What would you do?

The m.o. in the above video is the same, but is not actual footage from my experience. But oh so frightening similar.

Satan's Next Door Neighbor

Illuminate

Crazy Words

In 2011, my apartment was robbed.

And they took my computer.

And with it, almost everything I had written.

I'm not going to lie -- it pretty much destroyed my creative spirit. I had so much on there. I labored on. Continued to "create" by writing assignments here and there. But I had lost so much. I just couldn't entertain the idea of revisiting that world.

Until recently.

Until I read this book. It was a real game changer.

And it hit me: I have tons of material. Let me find it and revisit it. Do something with it.

And that's where I am today. Digging through boxes looking for hard copy print-outs of my work. From the the days before clouds, blogs or external hard drives; from the days before the internet and social media.

I found his gem tonight. Probably one of my favorite poems. Enjoy.

Crazy Words

You bury your nose
in T.S Eliot, Rilke,
and the other Dylan.
Drink latte at the coffee joint
down the street
that used to be a GAP.

Your interest holds
past the classics
and you get turned on
to the common man's poet -
Chuck Bukowski.
The cigarette adds punch to the caffeine.

Suddenly everyone
neglects this beautiful world
'cept the street man
who spits out verse
worthy of press any time for a dime.

Late nights are spent
transcribing tapes of him
to go in a special section of
the 'zine you publish.
Not much left to do
since "alternative" became mainstream.

I mock you when I read.
Get up there loaded;
not original but sincere.
And shout my words to your tired ears.

My chaos
whips you into a frenzy
like mutants at a
GG Allin show:
Strung out and stumbling.

I fight not to lose it.

Maintain control,

Amidst what seems,

Certain and inevitable destruction.

Crazy words drool from
a crazy man.
Going mad in a mad, mad world.

And you say,"That's not poetry."

Do As You Are Told

Jesus Was A No-Show

“Mr. Monaghan,” said Professor Madejczyk from behind the lectern. “Where is your term paper?”

“I don’t have it,” said Bill Monaghan, a freckle faced freshman at Towson University.

“And why, may I ask, do you not have the paper?” queried the pensive professor.

“Jesus was a no-show,” said Monaghan, cupping his face with his hands, obviously distraught.

His classmates snickered much to the ire of the professor.

“Would you care to explain this to me?” he said.

“Well, last night on my way to the library to write the term paper, I was approached by someone from the Campus Christian Ministry. They asked me if I had a few moments to spare to join them in their talk about Christ. I said I was on my way to the library to write a term paper that was due tomorrow and that I had no time to stop.”

“But if you stop, Jesus will come to you. He will help you write your paper,” said the shadowed figure. “So I threw caution to the wind and went to the prayer meeting. I felt great afterwards and everybody kept telling me to go to the library and wait. That Jesus would come. I waited and waited but he never came. I fell asleep waiting and woke up an hour before class,” explained young man.

“So that’s you story Monaghan?” said the professor.

“Yes,” he replied.

“So you lost your term paper because Jesus didn’t show up to write it for you. Is that what you are telling me?”

“I didn’t just lose my term paper,” said a teary-eyed Monaghan.

“I lost my faith.”