The Paddock Pulse: August 17 Edition

Paddock Pulse Splash

It seems lately that I am bound and determined to take the very rickety bridges I have built with folks within the sport of IndyCar racing and not just set fire to them, but then subsequently defecate on the ashes while dancing an avant-garde waltz wearing only a strategically-positioned codpiece lined with duck feathers.

You'd think maybe I'd be a bit more cautious about cultivating my relationships with IndyCar, but I realized after the MoveThatBlock.com 225 that IndyCar would not reciprocating the favor. Being blatantly lied to to your face really sets one to thinking, you know what I mean?

I won't say that IndyCar hasn't done the blogging world an enormous favor, however, by creating IndyCar Rule 1.1C(2). IndyCar Rule 1.1C(2) is the most stupendous combination of deus ex machina and extended-middle-finger ever conceived in modern motorsports, and I'll be honest - it inspired me.

Thus, this week's Paddock Pulse will embrace wholeheartedly the concept of Rule 1.1C(2), and in place of the normal snarky comments on our blogosphere roundup, I will instead include choice quotes from Wim Wenders' 1987 arthouse classic, Der Himmel über Berlin.

Why? I could make up all sorts of excuses, like wanting to introduce you to a really exceptional piece of German cinema or making you want to curdle your own intestines in a pot of boiling water, but really it's because I can, bitches.

Enjoy.

  • Q/A With Dan Wheldon [16th And Georgetown]
    What a dear face! Interesting. What a nostril. A dramatic nostril. These people are extras. Extra people. Extras are so patient. They just sit. Extras. These humans are extras. Extra humans.

  • RVM… The Black Eye Edition [anotherindycarblog]
    Yellow star means death. Why did they pick yellow...? Sunflowers. Van Gogh killed himself...

  • A street race in Seattle? It could happen [Indy Racing Revolution]
    Look. My eyes. They are the picture of necessity, of the future of everyone in the place. Last night I dreamt of a stranger... of my man. Only with him could I be alone, open up to him, wholly open, wholly for him. Welcome him wholly into me. Surround him with the labyrinth of shared happiness. I know... it's you.

  • IndyCar Driver Popularity: Changes In The Air? [IndyCar Advocate]
    Now it's serious. At last it's becoming serious. So I've grown older. Was I the only one who wasn't serious? Is it our times that are not serious? I was never lonely neither when I was alone, nor with others. But I would have liked to be alone at last. Loneliness means I'm finally whole. Now I can say it as tonight, I'm at last alone. I must put an end to coincidence. The new moon of decision.

  • Thank you, Will Power [is it May yet?]
    Tell me of the men, women, and children who will look for me - me, their storyteller, their bard, their choirmaster - because they need me more than anything in the world. We have embarked.

  • Pippa Mann's blog: Less than zero [Racer.com]
    When the child was a child, it walked with its arms swinging. It wanted the stream to be a river, the river a torrent, and this puddle to be the sea. When the child was a child, it didn't know it was a child. Everything was full of life, and all life was one. When the child was a child, it had no opinion about anything, no habits. It often sat cross-legged, took off running, had a cowlick in its hair, and didn't make faces when photographed.

  • Reading between the lines [More Front Wing]
    First, I'll have a bath. Then I'll be shaved by a Turkish barber who will massage me down to the fingertips. Then I'll buy a newspaper and read it from headlines to horoscope. On the first day, I'll be waited upon... For requests, ask the neighbor. If someone stumbles over my legs, he'll have to apologize. I'll be pushed around, and I'll push back. In the crowded bar, the bartender will find me a table.

  • The Owners Won, After All [Oilpressure]
    Where are my heroes? Where are you, my children? Where are my own, the curious ones, the first, the original ones? Name me, muse, the immortal singer who, abandoned by those who listened to him, lost his voice. He who, from the angel of poetry that he was, became a poet, ignored or mocked outside on the threshold of no-man's land.

  • Will Power, flips out, and flips off, Barnhart jumps over shark infested waters [Open Paddock]
    The Far East. The Great North. The Wild West. The Great Bear Lake. Tristan da Cunha. The Mississippi Delta. Stromboli. The old houses of Charlottenburg. Albert Camus. The morning light. The child's eyes. The swim in the waterfall. The spots of the first drops of rain. The sun. The bread and wine. Hopping.

  • I’m Embarrassed. [Open Wheel America]
    As I came up the mountain, out of the misty valley into the sun. The fire on the cattle range, the potatoes in the ashes, the boathouse floating in the lake. The Southern Cross.

  • Notes Taken During the 2011 IndyCar Race at New Hampshire [pressdog.com]
    I'm an old man with a broken voice, but the tale still rises from the depths, and the mouth, slightly opened, repeats it as clearly, as powerfully. A liturgy for which no one needs to be initiated to the meaning of words and sentences.

  • INDYCAR: Loudon Rewind [SPEED/Pruett]
    Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there? When did time begin, and where does space end? Isn't life under the sun just a dream? Isn't what I see, hear, and smell just the mirage of a world before the world? Does evil actually exist, and are there people who are really evil? How can it be that I, who am I, wasn't before I was, and that sometime I, the one I am, no longer will be the one I am?

  • Weekend in Review: Cluster F*** Edition [Triple League Racing]
    Every time we participated, it was a pretense. Wrestling with one, allowing a hip to be put out in pretense, catching a fish in pretense, in pretense sitting at tables, drinking and eating in pretense. Having lambs roasted and wine served in the tents out there in the desert, only in pretense. No, I don't have to beget a child or plant a tree but it would be rather nice coming home after a long day to feed the cat, like Philip Marlowe, to have a fever and blackended fingers from the newspaper, to be excited not only by the mind but, at last, by a meal, by the line of a neck by an ear.

Driver Tweet of the Week

 Az4yd_medium

Last But Not Least

Stay alone! Let things happen! Keep serious! We can only be savages in as much as we keep serious. Do no more than look! Assemble, testify, preserve! Remain spirit! Keep your distance. Keep your word.

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