Braised Lambchop
a nurse trying to work while suffering with chronic pain - she rambles a bit

This is wonderful and well said. This woman's son is so fortunate to have her as his mother. Although neither of my children are gay, I wish I could have written this letter myself.

I'm so sick of the 'Christian' loudmouths and their hate-filled pontifications of which this writer speaks. They go to church on Sunday and get filled with 'love' and 'forgiveness' and 'righteousness,' and then they shake the preacher's hand and go out and do whatever they damn well please, and then go get more 'forgiveness' the next Sunday. Why can't people just let other people live their lives?

Hypocrites.

I wonder who's going to be on Tuesday night .

Dave has always championed nurses, especially cardiac nurses like me, and I couldn't be happier for him. Well done!!

The start of the Indianapolis 500 is delayed until about 1230 due to rain. On the Sunday before Memorial Day, my family knows not to bother me, because I'm occupied. I don't miss this race.

I've been to the Indianapolis 500 twice. The first and more memorable time was 1987, the fourth and last time Al Unser Sr. (Big Al) won. That was the wildest time I've ever had. We went with some friends of John's who lived in Indianapolis. There's a lot across from one of the Speedway entrances where people camp out starting the Friday before the race. It's a party, except at this party there are 150,000 of your closest, drunkest, horniest friends whose sole interest is seeing your breasts and telling you as loudly as possible that they want to see your breasts, except they use somewhat coarser language. It was a little frightening at times; John told me to stay inside during one particularly wild episode, and I took his advice. He took pictures which we have yet to show our kids.

On Race Day, the gates open to the infield (general admission) at 0500. At 0400, the now hungover close friends of yours and their jalopies (no nice cars here, as you'll see shortly) start gathering near the entrance. Then, when the gates open, it's a real-life demolition derby. Cars pushing, speeding, swerving, cutting in and out to be the ones to get in first and get a spot on the fence. I don't know how our recon guy got in ahead of most people, but he did, and we got one of the best spots in the infield, right on the apex of Turn 4, which is the last turn before the front straight and the pagoda.

From then until the parade, there's nothing to do but walk around Gasoline Alley. You can get right up and touch the cars, which are surprisingly small, about the length of your sofa. We saw Bobby Rahal bicycling around before the race, I guess to relax. About 90 minutes before the command, there's a long parade with marching bands, and famous people, and of course, veterans. It seems to last forever, because the whole point is the race and everyone is itching for the command, but remember, this is a Memorial Day race and they do not let you forget that fact.

Finally, at about 1030, they start moving things along, and Jim Nabors sings, and the command is given, and the cars start around the track. The first time they come around, the crowd noise is tremendous, but the engine noise drowns them. They're moving about 100 mph and it looks like they're cruising Main Street. After two parade laps, the pace car speeds them up to about 160 mph, and the noise grows, and the pace car leaves, and they start.

Now, no spectator at the Speedway can see the entire racetrack. The thing is 2.5 miles long, the straights are half a mile long, the short chutes are 1/4 miles in length, and the most any one person can see is the tenth of a mile right in front of them unless you have the best seats in the house. You have to depend on the radio and the track announcer, a man named Tom Carnegie who has been the track announcer forever, to tell you what's happening, because the action is most likely taking place a mile from your seat. When the cars come around the first time at full speed, you can't believe it. You could get a neck injury from whipping your head right to left - that's what you have to do if you want to see a car. Our spot was right across from an ABC camera position. That poor cameraman had to have muscles on his muscles, because every time I had to move my head, he had to move the camera just as quickly so the television audience could actually see the cars instead of a blur. And the noise is indescribable. Television doesn't do justice to the speed or the noise.

If there are no weather delays - if it rains, it takes a little over an hour to dry the track - and few yellows, it takes about four hours to run the race. Today, they think the rain will hold off, after the track is dry, to get the 500 miles in. That's about what happened in 1987. Before the cars got so incredibly fast, the race would take six or eight hours, or even longer. It's hot, and crowded, and loud, and uncomfortable, and when it's over you're glad to get a shower, but you're ready to go again as soon as it's over.

I know there are legions of NASCAR fans now, but open wheel racing is the fastest and most entertaining to me. Everyone should go to Indianapolis at least once. We couldn't go this year and we have a conflict for the next two years as well, but I hope we can go in 2007. There's a reason half a million people show up every year. If you get the opportunity, don't miss it. It's one of those lifetime experiences.

This is the first of a series of articles the Times is doing this week on Las Vegas.

John's sister lives in Las Vegas with her husband, who is the air boss at Nellis AFB, and their three children. They've lived there since last fall, and recently traded their base housing for an unbelievable deal - an interest-only mortgage, with the down payment paid by the Air Force, or your tax dollars, whichever you prefer - on a huge house off-base. In three years, when Todd moves on, they will most likely sell that house for double the purchase price.

I don't begrudge them the big house. They lived in a shack in Tokyo for a year, and they deserve everything the military can give them. Todd is a fighter pilot; we have a VHS tape from the bomb cameras on his F-16 from the Gulf War. He's been gone from Sheila for months at a time, and a lot of the R&R stuff the Air Force provides to pilots is only for the pilots, and not for their families. Sheila's been through a lot with the experience, so if she gets a big house, I'm thrilled for her.

Getting back to the article: The last time I was in Vegas was about 18 months ago. At the time, the place was growing exponentially, and it's only become worse. Many people come to the desert like the Joads left here to go to California - seeking a home, or a better job, or just a fresh start - and end up in the Budget Suites living hand to mouth.

Oh, and on a side note - it's an insult to call those of us in Oklahoma by the name "Okie." The Okies are the ones who couldn't take it and left to go to California during the Dust Bowl. My grandparents and great-grandparents stayed here and toughed it out. My uncle James, my Granddad's brother, told me that my great-grandma would go every day from their small farm into Shawnee to try to sell cabbage. On a good day, she sold two heads of cabbage for five cents. But she never gave up. And she certainly didn't pack up and move to Paradise. My blood boils when someone calls me an Okie.

As a fifth-generation Oklahoman, I'm not sure what it would take to make me leave my home here and move to Nevada, or anywhere else, because times got tough. Whatever moved these people to move themselves, I hope they find it. Personally, I agree with Dorothy Gale; when I want adventure, I don't need to go farther than my own backyard. Or maybe to Tulsa.