As chance would have it, I was driving out I-20 from Birmingham, Alabama last weekend, coinciding with the gargantuan Talladega NASCAR race. Fortunately, we were early enough to avoid any traffic tie-ups as we neared the track, but there to the right, what a sight, as far as the eye could see and then some. Every inch of the Talladega Superspeedway property appeared to be tightly covered with a sea of shuffling fans and their overnight campers, rusty trailers, pup tents, makeshift hovels, barbecue grills, beer coolers, garbage cans, spare lawn furniture, spare beer coolers, ratty flags, handmade signs and misspelled banners, plus a festive array of chain-butt-smoking squalor and colorful crap.
I had never given much thought to all this, but like a religious experience combined with a lightning bolt, I snapped, aglow from inspiration. My life took a new course. I raced home and read "The Grapes of Wrath."
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