Scoringbooth

Put up a Parking Lot, Pennsboro Speedway, a Phoenix Rising.

Nestled in the catacombs of our memories lie tragedy and inevitability.   Pennsboro,  WV,  a sleepy town of almost 1,200 people is stirring, pushing for new life to an old habit.   A secure place with it’s own particular history and a populace not floundering with the future but embracing it.    Not a parking lot or apartment complex but a resounding family affair,  apparent and growing.

Every Autumn has it’s flourish and the long hard and cold Decembers seem so lonely and desperate.   Hedging next year as profoundly more important than past and yet feeling that some person in a high place with a well-kept lawn sees no use.   No reason to deal with the noise (in the middle of nowhere- basically) and for a few votes suppressing a good thing.

The good people of the past feel a particular melancholy,  with the sounds of mechanics tools and a desperate driver preparing for a feature uncertain of it’s end.   Wives and children sit silently as drivers don helmets and safety restraints.    The sound from the PA system alerts drivers to go to the staging area and so it goes.

Not many are paid except maybe feature payouts for a lucky few and the money and time spent getting it right and knowing that if you do not get more sponsors it may be over anyway.

Anyhow,  that is next week’s problem or next year or whatever.   The track is dry or maybe too wet but somehow the job gets done and it is time to race,  inspite of everything.    But in the lonely dell at the edge of the treeline sits people ready for action.    Tomorrow will come by and by.

People who are proud and proud of the flag,  bowing reverently with hand over heart and a prayer for the safety of all.   It is a special night.   Another night celebrating the sacrifce of Veterans and active duty types. That and first responders,  heroes in any regard.

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Like at many tracks pictures and accounts are numerous but when they are not and when older fans and drivers want to think back on those days and the joys they brung then these stories and photos bring that back for awhile.    I will enclose a couple links so that you can see more of this great history of this track and remember sponsors because ultimately these sponsors and investors are needed to keep a track going.

http://free-stock-illustration.com/pennsboro+speedway+photos

http://www.wboy.com/story/28902683/ritchie-county-fairgrounds-pennsboro-speedway-revived

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Rebuilding-Pennsboro-Speedway-And-Ritchie-County-

This facebook account above you can regard as a portal to all things related to Pennsboro Speedway and Fairgrounds.    They will keep you posted on events and initiatives for the track.

Scoringbooth

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I have worked on around 100 radio stations as a broadcaster and Meteorologist and I have seen a few tracks come and go and includes tracks like Hales Corner Speedway,  USA International in Lakeland,  Fairgrounds Speedway (Tampa),  Golden Gate Speedway and a few others and I hate that.   The tracks that remain face issues of rainouts,  selling out to new owners and I can guarantee you this,  that the people of Nazareth dirt and the tri-oval were  back.  There are some things that matter and to the racing community this is literally life and death.     Non-fans and politicians may not see the intrinsic good in a race facility but it is more than a sport.    It is an event and culturally invaluable.

Doctors confirm: Use of flesh-eating opioid drug krokodil is spreading in U.S.

Foghorn The IKonoclast:

Excellent blog. thanks, a beautiful mind as well….

Originally posted on Biken Shrestha:

Doctors confirm: Use of flesh-eating opioid drug krokodil is spreading in U.S. (via Raw Story )

It’s official: Krokodil has reached the United States, and doctors say it’s posing a real threat. The extremely addictive, injectable opioid is made by mixing codeine with some combination of gasoline, paint thinner, iodine, kitchen and bathroom…


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Justin Ward - Hirams

Hirams Lightning Sprints

A picture of Justin Ward’s #8 Sprint car reminded me of someone I know whose color scheme is very close to Ward’s.  This curiosity compelled me to look at the Hirams Lightning Sprint series but also noted they are not microsprints per se but a 1,000cc 4 cylinder division with Japanese motores.

The Hiram Sprints race at five different tracks and the rules for the division are listed on the site,  so please check out the page and websites.    http://www.hiramslightningsprints.org/results—standings.html.

One of the best things about short track racing is that you can find these kinds of programs in most states and these drivers and tracks have sponsors,  so please check them out too and patronize the many businesses  and say, “Thanks” to the drivers and everyone else who make these events possible.

I mentioned earlier the similarity between Justin Ward’s car and my friend who races 410 Sprints in Pittsburgh and nationally at the Sprint Car Hall-of-Fame in Knoxville,  Iowa.    Sprint car racing is sprint car racing and the Hirams series is a quality circuit at quality tracks,  so give it a try.

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The wings may be different sizes and the engines but the spirit and dedication remains the same.

Race Tracks

Cherry Raceway

​8649 E. M113

Fife Lake, MI 49633

Track Info: www.cherryraceway.com | (231) 468-1477

Berlin Raceway

2060 Berlin Fair Dr.

Marne, MI 49435

Track Info: www.berlinraceway.com | (616) 677-5000

Crystal Motor Speedway

8315 Sidney Road

Crystal, MI 48818

Track Info: www.crystalmotorspeedway.com | (989) 235-5200

​​Merritt Speedway

​4430 East Houghton Lake Road
Lake City, MI. 49651

​Track Info: www.merrittspeedwaymi.com  |  231-328-7223

Tri City Raceway

85 W Wheeler Rd.

Auburn, MI 48611

​Track Info: www.tricityracetrack.com | (989) 316-6804

The all Michigan series have their stars put on a very good show and with the popularity of sprints growing it is no wonder judging by the competition here.

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There are also the local shows at each track including Late Models,  Modifieds and Sprints and the ever present regular stocks  —   a fan favorite.

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Depression

Oh Very Young…. We love as we pass.

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Perpetual Autumn leaves must fall,  the inexorable push against the seasons affect us,  one and everyone.   From Terry Cloth to Mr. Clean,  we can fix most things if we really want.   Those memories like the multi-colored leaves of each season have not perished,  they have changed form like the lines on our faces.    We are not vexed by circumstance nor are we really cheated.   Our sentience,  our journeys, with the cascading highs and the lowest of lows,  these are milestones not millstones.   Interrogations of self-awareness,  floating like tinsel in song and in prose.

To my 1974 classmates.   The pretty blonde is older than us.   Be of good cheer! Bless you all!!!

We have traded the wind for flight.  We walk less suredly but we walk none-the-less.   The fingerprints of our lives,   immutable and distinguishable,  yet that is not the totality of our essence.   That is not what makes one unique because we are born constantly,  born in altered states.   We learn to be humane by embracing humanity,  learning the crush of mother nature,  yields to us gems of exquisite taste and discovery.

The laughter of a merry grandparent,  the inexplicable statements uttered from the lips of infants.    The boulder that is a footstool and the wash….  perpetuity of reconciled grace.   Goodness is a stanchion, a rock of it’s own.    Buttressed by the hum of a bee delivering nectar,  a butterfly exhibition or a savant,  relishing  chords before him or her.

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Even our sweat culled in diligence and purged by the vapors before,  the scene clears as we let go of preconceptions.   The delineations between self-aggrandizement and the muck and mire we consider self-gratifying.

The sheer beauty of a waterfall and all around it the greens of sustenance and rapturous good looks.    Fairies are born here and muses gush from Geisers to outerspace.   Indivisible worlds so feint,  yet thriving with the same energy like rippling muscles and gravity waves.

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We are bound to create or at least appreciate the dunder and the spate of good fortune that follows even the least fortunate.    Our awarenesses are platforms which we climb,  and amber a testimony of a moment in time.   We are time and outside of it.   Our brains synaptic marvels beyond the ken of most,  save for the shards of inspiration that are spiritual and sublime.    The Higgs particle in each of us embodies the spectacle of complexity and awesome sighs of a groaning mountain,  suffused with energy,  kissed by providential bursts of warmth.

In a soup kitchen lies the answers,  and beauty misinterpreted.    The old server with a smile on her face and the broken hand accepting a penance.   NOT a handout per se,  but charity upon charity,  hope balancing out inequity.

A time of cleansing, a spiritual parthenon way upon a hill.   The caste system stemming from a dandelion and the blowing tumbleweed that seems to have no function.   It is the burst of creation without cognizance and steel forged by the very same benevolence.   Be benevolent.

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Mary Pratt and all that.

Mary Pratt was a fine lass

who had all the accoutrements

one could desire.

To  a colt the dressage was a bit much,

the bows and pretense too.

But as the sands began to filter through

the aperture narrowed and began to coalesce.

It was time to reassess this whole emotional mess.

Now the clock struck ten P.M. far too soon

and clearing throats resounded,

this adventure to another day

another time.

Old Mary now still waits,

hurry horse,  no time yet to imagine.

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Grandfather Time…. We didn’t start the fire!!

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The VA is a place of healing but a healing that is part transcendence and part acquiescence.   A kind of home to the many homeless and/or hurting.    Like an old military training film,  the memories of soldiers are rekindled,  with the ebbing of the time and tide and the constant changes that slowly and almost imperceptibly evolve.

Sitting in chairs lined up like eggs the shiny floors and a plethora of young people with a whole lot more than you in their lives talk loud and authoritatively.   Nurse Cratchett with her Ben Casey cap mulls over the scene keeping it as quiet as she can with a prescription in hand and whispering where to go next.  There is order here,  and signs telling you what you should do as and where you should do them.   Part suggestion and part demand….  you comply.

What I see is a bunch of old, white men/women constantly berating the President. Don’t believe me…check out Fox News’ viewing demographics….You guys seem to fit right in their target demo. Face the fact that your generation is dying off and being replaced with multiracial, non-religious, informed citizens that don’t buy the corporate bull shit anymore. Thank you all for your service, but it’s time to give up on your 50s “Leave it to Beaver” dream world and accept that America is changing.

(And this was from a military site and a part of my point in this blog)

Shuffling past the new partitions and faded drapes you humbly canter onward to a room to wait some more.  Then the eager young doctor rolls into the room, inquiring about what brought you there that day.   Like he doesn’t already know.  His intentions are generally good and his allocation of time is ten words and a prescription(s).     Back in your chair you wait.   The minutes tick laboriously on with black and white clocks making their rounds in your head.    And you feel like a bursting dam full of still water.     The coldness of put-out caregivers with dissembling glances stare obtusely at you.

You are whisked away in rubber chariots with the air-conditioner breaking the disturbing silence that has long been established.      Only so many retold stories can they bear and what they show to their friends is markedly different than what you experience.   The tar on the road causes a clicking and thudding as tires roll and roll and roll and you fall fast asleep.

At home there there are no cupboards,   just a chair,  a bed and perhaps a TV.    The walls are yellow and gray brick,  the mortar hardened like the souls of man.   The ceiling fan in steed of a dream whirring and whirling and the tick,  tick,  tick of an electric chain.   Bound to reflection you start to complain but feel the potential sting or words,   those silent statues in an antiquated museum.   Their only destiny an auction or the city dump.

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The plain yellow curtains burp and rustle against the warm walls as the A/C is clicked on and you fall asleep and you faintly hear the sound of doors and the rustling of tires on hot gravel.    Magical cupboards are laden with product,  generic brands of what you used to consume and settle on mashed potatoes and country cream corn,   as much due to chewing as it is to satiation.

Pretty soon your cat or cats or maybe a dog gather up with you,  finding a place to call their own and that is the closest you had that day to affection,  non-contrived and totally about you!   Yet the emotional give and take is the soft mortar which has not nor will ever harden until the by and by.