At the end of last year, I revised and re-released the book that had no small part in my stepping back (if not entirely away) from NASCAR blogging. With the book revision came a new title, one far less oriented toward wry humor than the original moniker God’s Not Dead (And Neither Are We). The new name was First and Forgotten, which accurately described what the artists in the book were to the musical genre they created, namely Christian alternative rock, and how they arno remembered (more accurately, not remembered) by the industry that without them would not exist. An example of this is something mentioned in the book’s foreword, namely how the average punk rock fan can easily tell you the heritage of their music back to the Sex Pistols and other artists from the ’70s, yet the average Switchfoot or Relient K fan will respond with “who?” should names such as Undercover or the 77s be mentioned.

In a very minute way, I feel that the book’s new title applies to me when it comes to this place. I was one of the first NASCAR bloggers, along with Bram and Marc (rest in peace, brother) carving a path that before was completely unknown. Namely, writing about NASCAR in terms of it being a real sport. Along with applying the rules of blogging, such as they were at the time when the only rules were no rules whatsoever, to our craft. We’d attack, praise or defend when deemed necessary, sparing no one. What did we care? We had no one to whom we needed to answer.

Bram and I have both become too busy with life to do much if any blogging as of late, while sadly Marc is no longer with us. Today’s generation of bloggers is much more circumspect than we were back in the day, more inclined to play nice as it can bring about far greater rewards in terms of being approved by the powers that be. Traditional media hasn’t so much accepted us as co-opted us, something to which one look at the Twitter feed from most any given mainstream media wrier attests.

While I am proud of the role I played as a trailblazer, I am also irritated with myself for having let so much of what I built over the years slip away by inaction or the wrong action. As I’ve mentioned before, while I don’t regret the move to SBN, I did very much stifle myself in an effort to be a “real” sports blogger. After leaving SBN to work on the book, once it was completed for various reasons I didn’t get back into it — financial issues, then family issues draining much of my creativity. Also, I had lost much of my taste for confrontation and sarcasm, upon which much of my pre-SBN writing had been based.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to being Diecast Dude, posting every morning without fail about mostly NASCAR while always reserving the right to disappear down whichever rabbit hole struck my fancy. I’d like to. I rather miss the irascible snarkmaster.

Does anyone else?

Anyway, I’ve been observing from afar the brouhaha over what took place in Daytona. Not on the track, mind you. In the media center, where at the race’s conclusion the sacred seal of silence was broken by the apocalyptic acidity of applause. By some, anyway.

Ever since the sordid, or so it is said by several, incident more gallons of electronic ink have been spilled on the matter than on Trevor Bayne. Speaking of the Knoxville lad, if the hype is beginning to turn you off, don’t let it. The kid is genuinely nice, sincere, and a talented young driver with a tremendous upside. But enough racing talk; back to what really matters — pontificating pundits. (Yes, I am being sarcastic.)

There are two schools of thought as to what happened, reminding one of the old joke about there being two theories on how to argue with women, neither of which work. One side says it was a one-time, spontaneous response to a magic sports moment and therefore no big deal. The other side says, and says and says and says, that it violated the holy oath of impartiality, unacceptably debased the sports journalism brand and highlighted the scurrilous nature of those irresponsible, unprofessional, unethical, uneducated and most likely unwashed cretins from the crass lagoon that is the (ugh!) blogosphere. Oh, and get off my lawn, you meddlesome kids.

Were this a simple case of differing opinions, all would be fine, well and good. Both sides’ argument have merit. Personal example, if I may: last year at Auto Club, during the October Nationwide race I said more than a few words out loud that would have made Richard Pryor blush when James Bueschler took out Danica Patrick. Was I rooting for her? Certainly and unashamedly. Then again, I was also the only reporter in the skybox press center at the time, yet even with that I kept all other comments strictly on the audible only to self volume level. Had I had company, as was the case during the Sprint Cup race the following day, I wouldn’t have said anything. Out loud, anyway. I’m not going to stop being a fan, but subjecting journalists to distractions such as cheering and the like is unprofessional. Besides, I was there to report, not root. Not that it stopped me from rooting; rather, I rooted just as hard as ever on that weekend. Just silently.

Indulge me expanding on this.

To this not-so humble scribe, on those unfortunately rare occasions when I’ve entered the press box and/or media center I have viewed them as a workplace. I’m there to do a job, namely write accurately and fairly about the people, place and event that together make a weekend of racing. I also feel an obligation to be something of a fan advocate, a representative of and for the people who passionately love racing. They will most likely never have the opportunity to work a race as a media member. I have been given that opportunity, and I take seriously the belief that I should use the opportunity to provide insight and put a human face on the faces known to most solely through a television set. I’m not going to stop being a fan because I’m wearing press credentials that weekend.

That all said, when I am attending a race as media I’m working, and the areas set aside for the press are my office. In that weird and occasionally wonderful world known as the day job, I work in an office. Work is what I’m here to do, and while I do take breaks, when I’m working I hate being interrupted by the behavior, or more accurately the lack thereof, of others. This makes for many interesting moments each day, for around my office silence is golden only in that it’s as scarce as gold, or if you prefer a NASCAR illustration scarcer than Kyle Busch t-shirts at a Junior Nation rally. One swiftly learns to ignore that which distracts, or else the prospect of responding in a fashion resulting in you being the lead story on all major network news programs plus CNN doing a live feed looms large. That, to put it mildly, would be overreacting on your part regardless of how justified it may feel. Keep that “overreacting” word in mind; it’ll come into play later.

When I’m at work, no matter how much in vain it may be, my hope is there will be a professional environment. That said, far too often the definition of what is professional is far too limited. (Rather like how for many of us, our definition of God is too small.) Professionalism isn’t strictly a matter of how we conduct ourselves. It’s our interaction with others at the workplace. It’s how management treats employees both publicly and privately. And it’s how we interact with our customers and/or clients. An illustration of these points is how some feel closing the office door is full license for any subsequent behavior, including ranting and yelling. No, all it means is you’ve made it slightly more difficult for everyone else to overhear you being a clueless, classless jerk by ranting and yelling.

Traditional and new media (i.e. bloggers) have had a relationship over the past years veering from open hostility to uneasy acceptance. Generally speaking, bloggers think of themselves as peers to traditional media, with occasional forays into dismissing it as a refuge for bloviating dinosaurs. Meanwhile, traditional media thinks of bloggers as at best enthusiastic amateurs and at worst over-caffeinated self-inflated punks ignorant of proper journalistic practices, such as fairness, neutrality and decorum.

Clichés aside, there are clear differences between the two. A blogger has far more range within which to approach a given subject. They have no prohibition against weaving opinion throughout any discussion of facts. They can say what they like when they like however they like, involving themselves in the story whenever and however they like. It’s gonzo journalism without apology. The trade-off is how for the most part, blogging is limited to drawing on traditional media for source material rather than having direct access to news sources themselves. At least this has been the case.

Today, with growing acceptance by news sources of blogging and bloggers as legitimate conduits of information, we’re seeing direct invitations to bloggers to sit in the same seats as traditional media, covering events directly as they transpire. Taking this into the realm of NASCAR, bloggers — not all, but some — are being granted permission to participate in press conferences and access to areas that were previously strictly traditional media’s realm. With privilege comes responsibility; when so invited, bloggers are expected to conduct themselves professionally. No asking for autographs; no cheering; be polite and respectful to both the people being interviewed and those doing the interviewing. You’re there to write about the people and the competition, not say “look at MEEEEE!”

Fair enough. But playing the Queen of Hearts yelling “off with their heads” about members of new media when there is the slightest misstep on their part is ridiculous. The hysteria and histrionics with which what happened in Daytona has been written about is pathetic; a very poorly disguised unleashing of the fear-fueled contempt with which members of traditional media, simultaneously resentful of perceived amateurs being allowed among their ranks and terrified of how the ever-shrinking traditional media realm could well make them next in the unemployment line, see their world.

Was Tom Bowles wrong to cheer in the Daytona press box? Yes, and his hot mess of a post at Frontstretch defending his actions is thin gruel. But did his actions warrant losing his gig at Sports Illustrated, or even the volume of written tirades about how he committed what to some is the ultimate unforgivable sin? No. A simple, directly delivered “don’t do that” would have sufficed.

Finally, a quote from an earlier post:

While threats against a reporter, or anyone for that matter, over such a trivial matter as perceived bias against a favorite athlete are without excuse, the incident points out the danger all media members face when engaging with their audience via social media. A reporter’s obligation is to be neutral in the face of any story regardless of their beliefs or persuasion. It can be safely argued that regardless of actual intent, anything a reporter says or does publicly factors into the perception of that reporter’s fairness. They do not have the luxury of saying whatever they want whenever they want without it being used against them. In an era of ever-increasing open communication, comments made in jest are ofttimes best not made at all. It’s not fair, but it is reality. 

In short, while it is appropriate for journalists to remind bloggers that when they are in the journalistic environment they should conduct themselves as journalists, it is equally appropriate for bloggers to remind journalists that there is no parallel for when journalists go a-bloggin’. So chill out.

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

Life’s juxtapositions can create quite bizarre scenarios. Such was the case last Thursday morning.

There I was, heading down south to Auto Club Speedway in Fontana, California for my first time as an accredited media member covering NASCAR. Me. Diecast Dude. Accredited. Whodathunk.

Excited? Most definitely. Nervous? You betcha. Determined to do my absolute best? Absolutely. I had dreamt of, prayed for this opportunity. Living the dream? No way to know. Pursuing the dream to see where it may lead? Yes.

Then my brother called.

Our aunt was dead.

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

My brother had taken the lead in tending to our aunt since she had become unable to take care of herself last year. Dementia had set in, robbing her of her dignity even as she was mercifully unaware her mind was going. Now she was gone in body as well.

Throughout, my brother had demonstrated strength by every right he shouldn’t have. Wracked by diabetic neuropathy and the onset of MS, nevertheless he did the work and then some needed. His faith in Christ empowered him. It encouraged me. My brother in every sense of the world; in blood, washed by the Blood, fellow right wing outlaw.

If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

I already had much on my mind heading into the weekend. Now I had even more alongside what had been laid on my heart and soul. Turning back and returning home wasn’t an option. The opportunity laid out before me had to be seized and seized now. I would need to postpone my grief. There were no other options.

I’ve occasionally noted for my own edification that for me, Diecast Dude is more than an oddball pen name. It’s an aspect of my persona. I haven’t been Diecast Dude very often for quite a while. Too busy with other things. Arguably more important ones, such as the book. Still, I rather missed mixing entertainment plus information centered around NASCAR along with sardonic combativeness and digressions into Spirit-desiring sentimentality. Now I needed to be that like never before.

I also needed my right hand to hold up under the ton of typing that awaited as I pounded out blog posts and tweets about the weekends events. Otherwise, I’d be all thumbs. As in writing everything on my iPhone, tapping away with my thumbs since that was the only way to avoid the sharp pains stabbing their way along my fingers. Which is slow going indeed.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

I logged on to Twitter and mentioned my aunt passing away. A few people responded with consolatory messages. To each of you, thank you. To those on Twitter who follow me but missed it because they weren’t logged in at the time, I know you would have said something.

To those on Twitter who follow me but either missed it or ignored it because they were too busy at CPAC…

It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.

Well, it’s on me to forgive you.

It’s also on me to say, “Hey. What are you doing?” There’s nothing that can be done about what happened. Yeah, it hurt, but it’s over and gone.

What about the next time, though? What about the next person who makes public mention of loss? Will you treat that person the same way you treated me, so absorbed in yourself and whatever you’re doing at the moment you can’t take a moment to write a simple ‘I’m sorry’?

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.

I had to put all that aside. Friday morning, there I was at the race track, press credentials and garage pass dangling from my neck in an improvised holder attached to a temporary lanyard. I got a real one at the end of the day. But back where I was: there I was, walking into the media center looking at people who before that moment were merely names on bylines. Now I was one of them.

As the weekend unfolded, while there were moments of pure fanboy fantasy (“Jeff. Gordon. Is. Sitting. Three. Feet. Away. From. Me. JEFF!!! GORDON!!!”) for the most part my time was spent doing what I’d come to do: observe, report, interact with other journalists and online with my fellow fans. Which I did as best I could. The hand pain delayed some writing, but it was all completed.

I met a few journalists, some of whom I’d had different levels of contact with online. They were all polite, some far above. Dustin Long is a true gentleman in every sense of the word. Nicole Manske helped me get in close enough to Jimmie Johnson when he was doing a brief presser behind his trailer in a noisy pit area so I could record the conversation. was gracious and friendly during Sunday’s race when we sat next to each other in the press box. Didn’t do as much one on one with drivers or crew chiefs as I would have liked, but I was able to find Robby Gordon and get a scoop.

Fundamental truth of the matter was even with the turbulence that enveloped me, I was savoring the experience of being where I had longed to be for years and finding it did not disappoint. Moments such as this are scarce commodities for most of us. Now I was in the midst of one. Nothing could steal my joy. The sorrows would be there to be dealt with upon my return. This was a time to celebrate.

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

During the weekend, something that had been percolating since 2008 came to full brew. Racing news for the thinking unimpaired has returned. I’ve teamed up with my main man Bram Hume at Backstretch Motorsports. Our goal? Beside total world domination, it’s to be THE go-to site for racing news, information and opinion. A major task to be sure, and one that will involve much work. But if I want to pursue this dream, there is no option to doing the work. Bring it on.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

The weekend, of course, had to end. After the frenetic fun of Friday’s press conferences, the Nationwide race on Saturday during which I politely informed one and all on Twitter I’d be more than happy to repeat my defense of Danica Patrick in person, and Sunday’s torrent of tweeting during the race it was over. Time to pack up and head home to office demands and deadlines.

And funeral arrangements.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part,

None of us have a complete grasp on what’s going on, or why. We know as best we can the moment we’re in. But even that knowledge is extremely limited. Everything else may as well be lollipop dreams in a cotton candy sky. We are totally, wholly, utterly reliant on God.

Whether we know it or not.

but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.

I don’t know why everything shook out the way it did this past weekend. I don’t know why this was the appointed time for my aunt to go to heaven, which is where I believe she is for she was a believer in Christ. I don’t know why a beloved online acquaintance went to the hospital Friday. I don’t know why the sister of my wife’s best friend, someone we knew, finally finished drinking herself to death Sunday. I don’t know why all this took place even as I was fulfilling a dream and started work toward making it my daily reality. I don’t know why one day I was in Disneyland and the next was at a funeral home.

I don’t know.

I know God knows, though.

That’s good enough.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

In the days of my youth I was a voracious reader, often reading the same book several times over. One of these was The Runaway Robot by Lester Del Rey. In it, the referred to runaway robot recalls a line he either heard or read once: ‘After a taste of freedom, captivity is no longer the same.’ While referring to my day job as captivity is ludicrous melodramatic bunk, now that I’ve sampled being a full-time NASCAR writer… ‘nuff said.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

It’s ironic that what is most feared in life, namely its conclusion, is in fact our greatest liberator. No one in their right mind wishes to hasten their demise. Yet in death not only are we promised eternity with Christ, we are promised the answers we could never know nor understand during our tenure on this planet. What’s more, we are promised the full embrace of Christ’s love for us.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

There was magic and loss this past weekend. I could have done without the latter. The former, though… the former made the latter a little easier to understand.

Yesterday:

The Odd Dovetailing Of Reality And Racing

We’re In The Money… Er, Media Center

I’m At NASCAR, So Let’s Talk IRL

Assorted News From Auto Club

And today:

Danica Patrick vs. The Beast With The Least

More to come! Also, follow me on Twitter here.

Anyway, new post is up over at On Pit Row. Go. Go there. Now. Or I’ll send you the bill for the tire.

Okay, kids, you’re stuck with the rodent.  Deal.

And there was this gem (note the corresponding poll):

Poor widdle Johnny.  Everyone doesn’t read him and wuv him to itsy bitsy pieces!  Oh the humanity.

Anyway, throwing this together on the fly, so bear with.  Richmond is my favorite track among those where the Cupsters run.  Just the right length, just the right amount of banking.  Would that all tracks were like this.

Richmond tends to reward drivers who best combine aggression and control; a/k/a NASCAR’s best drivers.  You know… Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson.  Kyle Busch, not so much.  (Well, that’ll probably guarantees he wins tonight.)

Hopefully the rain will hold off tonight and we’ll get the whole race in.  Hopefully we’ll get a good race, with passing up front and stuff.

Updates during the race.

Green Flag: Boogity Boogity Boogity! Let’s go… um… er… let me get back to you.

Lap 7: Okay, now we’re racing.

Lap 17: And we’re back after Blaney goes bye-bye.  Vickers and J. Gordon run first and second with Shrub moving up.  As we’re being told by FOX.  Repeatedly.

Lap 46: J. Gordon leads nicely.  Happy boy!

Lap 56: All is right with the world: Gordon is leading… and complaining about his car.

Lap 72: Hamlin pressing Gordon hard for the lead.  Good thing TrackPass is actually working, as we’re at commercial.

Lap 75: And as I write that, Hamlin and Kurt Busch scoot past Gordon.

Lap 119: And after some browser issues, we’re back.  Hamlin continues to lead and looks strong.  Then again, we’ve seen this movie here before…

Lap 147: And now it’s Kurt Busch’s turn to lead.

Lap 151: All right, who threw the can of Budweiser on the infield?  Oh… sorry, Kasey…

Lap 169: Enterprise to Duck: set phasers on spin… er, stun.

Lap 192: Well, now Jimmie Johnson’s crew will have time to fix that brake fluid lead.

Lap 176: And we’re back.  Hamlin still in the lead.  Behind him are battling bushes.

Lap 199: And we’re back, as the old man down the road sits third behind Hamlin and Kurt Busch, smiling.

Lap 238: This is getting good.  Newman past Truex for the lead, bumping and banging behind them.

Lap 248: Aw fudge.  Rain is coming.

Lap 271: Hamlin continues to lead… and there’s the yellow.

Lap 276: WHOO-HOO!  Jeff’s up to second after a terrific pit stop behind Newman.  Hamlin had a slip-up on pit road (dropped lugnut) and is back in eighth.

Lap 285: Sliced Bread versus the Biff, with Biffle getting the worst of it.  Caution.

Lap 292: Wild restart.  David Ragan (down a lap) pushes Jeff Gordon nearly into the wall and he loses positions.  Meanwhile, Kevin Harvick gets one of his tires cuts down and hits the wall.  Caution.

Lap 301: Newman and Kyle Busch fighting for the lead with Jeff Gordon right behind.

Lap 307: And Hornish punts Marcos Ambrose.  Thanks, Sam. /sacrasm off

Lap 310: Why on earth did Jeff Gordon stay on track when everyone else pitted? This does not bode well for the 24.

Lap 315: Man, I hate seeing Mark Martin spun.  Still not seeing how Jeff Gordon’s gamble is going to pay off.

Lap 326: Multi-car mess.  Caution.

Lap 332: This race is NASCAR’s answer to the Celtics and Bulls.

Lap 345: Yet another caution.  Kyle Busch now up to fourth.  Difficult to see how anyone’s going to hold him off.

Lap 357: Kyle Busch scoots away.  And yet another caution.  Barring something bizarre happening, Shrub has this in the bag.  Which I pretty much knew would happen since I dismissed him before the race started.

Lap 370: If there’s a caution soon, this could get interesting.  Jeff Burton and Tony Stewart are blasting their way through the field.

Lap 377: Please let there be a caution.  Please.  Please oh please oh please.

Lap 385: Stewart now second.  PLEASE let there be a caution.

Checkered Flag: Okay.  Officially, REALLY sick to death of Kyle Busch and all the slobbering over him.

G’night.

You don’t have to know who Rory Gallagher is to appreciate Bram Hume.  But it helps.

Gallagher wasn’t an Irish blues guitarist.  He was the Irish blues guitarist, a man who lived for and through his music.  He was a master of his instrument, the kind of mastery very, very few obtain.  It’s the gift where one stops being a player and becomes a musician creating pure music that transcends the instrument involved.  Gallagher’s playing wasn’t a string of poses saying look at me.  It was the sound of a man content to be someone whose battered Fender Stratocaster was God’s own voice.  Literally.

Gallagher was a gentle gentleman; someone who had his vices but seemingly never let them have their way.  Sadly, he left too soon; a infection following a 1995 liver transplant necessitated by a combination of extended alcohol abuse and prescription drugs designed to ease his anxiety over flying extracted the ultimate price.  But don’t hold this against him.  Gallagher was an earthly angel, a gift to us whose music will be revered as long as there are those who seek out God’s language expressed with passion and purity.

Rory Gallagher was a man.

I never met Gallagher, but I have been blessed to meet one of his biggest fans.  Bram Hume hails from Scotland.  A blues guitarist in his own right, Bram is also a racer.  He’d driven the fast cars and worked on them; an accomplished and knowledgeable engineer who’s turned wrenches in F1 and NASCAR among other series.  When he speaks about all things auto racing, as I said yesterday you’d damn well better listen if you have the slightest clue about what’s going on or desire to know what’s going on.  Yesterday he spoke up.  And how.

There’s a feeling in motorsports that I haven’t seen in my 30 years around the industry.

Yeah. It’s fear.

Brave faces are being worn, but there’s the smell of implosion in the air.

Atlas, apparently, has shrugged.

And he’s just getting warmed up:

Too many are wanting to play the game of pointing and saying “We don’t like that, it doesn’t suit our vision, our ‘Brave New World’ agenda.”

It’s too American.

Systematic destruction of something loved for so long begins, and the cheers and jeers become decidedly loud and mean as each piece is dismantled.

And finally:

There are those that will say it’s just racing, rednecks going in a circle.

It’s having to be force destroyed by the dismantling of capitalism.

So what do we do? Wait for it to all fall down and wait for to it be reborn like some phoenix from the ashes?

I don’t think the indomitable spirit of those of us that know what, who and why this actually is has been considered here yet.

That’s something that can never be legislated.

In a land where the frustration and anger over what is happening to us at the hands of our political leaders (for they lead in no other sense of the word other than politically) has led to Tea Parties planned for April 15th of a magnitude so great they threaten to overwhelm even the media desperate to keep them at arms length lest they divert attention from their fawning over President Obama, it’s heartening to see a racer stand up to note how the very spirit that created something such as auto racing will overwhelm the forces of political and social correctness that seek its destruction.  You may not care for auto racing.  But if you can’t admire the spirit behind the sport you’re paying far too little attention.

This spirit is at the core of that for which we’re fighting.  It’s a spirit exemplified by people like Bram, someone who tells no lies and for whom regrets and apologies are superfluous for neither are required.  Bram is a man. A Biblical man, the kind who stands up for what he believes and tolerates no nonsense.  The kind who takes charge, works for what he has and doesn’t whine about what isn’t in his possession he feels should be due to entitlement.  The kind who doesn’t demand the spotlight, strike poses to win the favor of others or respond to bootlicking with anything other than the deliverance of a swift strong kick from same.

Bram Hume is a man.

Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for many.

Speaking of men, here’s a tasty sample of Rory Gallagher’s mastery:

[video http://www.diecast-dude.com/gac/rory_gallagher_a_million_miles_away.flv nolink]