Forzathon Memorial Day Malaise
Welcome to Memorial Day weekend in the good ol' U.S. of Assholes. — that special time of year when we honor our fallen by battling each other for the last pack of discounted hot dogs at the grocery store (after all, two for $16 is just about the best deal on refrigerated meat you can find these days). White-knuckling carts to the registers in hopes of a break in traffic, complaining about the prices while completely ignoring the fascist, authoritarian, rights-stripping nightmare unfolding around us. But hey, at least some of us get a Monday off from work, right? 21st century priorities.
Speaking of inescapable realities, this long weekend has once again placed my own mortality into sharp, terrifying focus. Certainly you caught the news about Kyle Busch. Forty-one. Battled a general illness for a week, passed out in a racing simulator on Wednesday, gone from pneumonia and sepsis by Thursday. Just like that. The guy survived literal decades of high-speed car accidents, only to get taken out by a sinus cold that went rogue. I’m out here worried about turning 50 in my dumb VEVOR sim-racing chair-thing, and folks younger than me are just dropping off life's track right and right. It's a sobering reminder that we're all just fragile meat sacks hurtling toward the inevitable wall, unbuckling the seat belt, about to enjoy a flash of light before it all goes black.
Aside from a few hundred miles in the VEVOR, my main ride this weekend is the living room couch. On one screen: the Coca-Cola 600, which will certainly be a LOL-fest being the first Cup race following Kyle's passing. On the other screen: AEW Double or Nothing, where I continue to foster childhood vices. Chortle is you must, but it's actually pretty neat being a lifelong consumer of the art. Especially as you grow older, wiser. Read, study, watch. Then you can be irresistible like me, identifying spots in advance, calling moves before/as they happen, criticism of the broadcast when they make basic mistakes. Real hot guy shit.
I should clarify; I do not watch the Fed. I know it's picking one billionaire over another (when there shouldn't be ANY), but at least the AEW billionaire isn't a coprophiliac, serial rapist.
But don't think I'm just passively consuming content this weekend. Oh no, I'm actively destroying my own body as per usual. My commitment to Forza Horizon 5 has reached dangerous new levels. I've been wrestling this Logitech G29 wheel so hard trying to shave milliseconds off my lap times that I'm genuinely concerned I'm developing a repetitive stress injury. Is "sim-racing elbow" a thing? Because I think I have it. Kyle Busch pushed through Watkins Glen two weeks ago (we were there!), then two races last weekend at Dover (winning one) with a developing condition that would ultimately lead to his death. Meanwhile, I'm powering through the pain of... ugh, sore gaming elbow. The digital podium demands sacrifice, and I'm the lil bitch for the job.
So, here’s to the long weekend. May your meat be perfectly grilled if you're. grilling, your streams be buffer-free, and your bouts of existential dread be brief. Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have my left arm and must race for the dog.