Construction Derby

During my 3 week stay in Texas, I decided to a raging hick-on and travel out to Nacogdoches, a 3 hour drive east of Dallas, in order to see a destruction derby.
My host had informed my that contrary to my expectations, Nacogdoches was a fairly large and liberal town, a fact helped by the local university. Nevertheless when I reached the convention centre, I was stuck in a queue made up full-blown hicks, country gals and folks in full cowboy get-up, and stood directly behind a man with a swastika tattooed on the back of his red, red neck.
The centre itself was a rodeo pit with college football style raised benches on two sides, and slowly filled up to what must have been a 2000 head capacity.
Before the event started I had been wondering what sort of person it would attract, and I was interested to see groups of men, families with children and even couples on dates making up the audience.


The event finally got underway with all 24 competing cars lining the outside ring of the arena, each driver then climbing out to stand on their cars, ranging from unrecognisably scratched chassis to immaculately painted show vehicles. The cars then emptied from the pit, save for the last 8, which began circling the actual arena, 'Nascar style', before a whistle blew and they immediately turned on each other.

The strategy appeared to be to reverse into your opponents, and keep yourself and particularly your engine out of the paths of any opponent able to get up enough momentum to do any damage.

The process of watching a car line up and then accelerate towards someone never failed to catch the crowd's attention, their volume rising as the vehicles neared one another and then exploding when they collided or letting a big 'aww' if they missed.
The match ended when only 4 cars were still in a position to move, the others having either been totalled or pushed far enough into the sand bank to be immobilized, and then everyone (even the loosers) was given time to make as many repairs to their car as possible before the next round.

The crowd didnt appear to have any loyalty to any one car, cheering no matter who rammed who, though my personal favourite was this little beauty:



As you can just about see, both of his rear wheels have come off, which on any rear wheel drive car might have caused a problem, but this guy just kept on going, managing not only survive the round, but take out another vehicle whilst severely crippled.
Meanwhile, the half time show consisted of hicks racing round on tricycles.



I'm probably taking most of the fun out the sport by explaining it in great detail, so I'll just leave up a videos and photos that help sum up the evening.

Doin' The Cockroach

My publication of choice whilst in the States has been a magazine, which can best be described as a weekly doomsday prophecy wiki, known as 'The Sun'. On top of foretelling our impending annihilation, it occasionally asks some of life's big questions, like 'What if someone snuck an iPhone into heaven?' and 'Why did the Australian navy travel to the future?'.
I'm going to write a full article about the magazine itself soon, but for now I'm going to dwell on a wonderful little museum in Texas that I found with the help of 'The Sun', called 'The Cockroach Hall of Fame'.


The museum itself is located in the back of a pest extermination shop in Plano, Texas, where I was greeted by an elderly man, who perked up immediately when it was evident I wanted more than just a can of Raid.

The man sprung up from his chair, and donned a wide brimmed hat lined with dead roaches.

"While I have this hat on, you may call me Cockroach Dundee."

He went on to tell me he had been 'collecting' since the 70s, and had once been interview by Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show as a result.

I was then shown a pair of glass cabinets, in which a couple dozen dead roaches were dressed and positioned like celebrities in creepy little dioramas.

There was Marilyn Monroach, tiny skirt blowing up in the air, Mark Twain roach, adrift on Huck Finn's raft, and most spectacularly, Liberoachy, complete with glittery costume and grand piano.


There was even a roach Bates' Motel located between Norman Roachwell's easel and Roachy O'Donnel's couch.
The tour climaxed with the handling of a giant roach, over two inches in length, which hissed repeatedly to display it's disapproval of being touched.
I left the museum with a T shirt, these photos and a strong desire to wash my hands.

Just Busted

Back home, my parents subscribe to a local paper called Confidential, which to the best of my knowledge, keeps them up to date on whoever locally has found themselves in court for petty debt or other small misdemeanors.
I found the concept of this somewhat repulsive, so you can imagine my reaction when I found a paper called 'Just Busted', which prints every mugshot taken by the police in the last week.
I bought the Tennessee edition for a dollar in a gas station, and despite it's sensationalist attitude, the paper graciously points out that "all pictured are presumed innocent until proven guilty" in it's small print.
The same goes for the "Sex Offenders Near Schools" section, where they briefly mention that not all the pictured offenders are in fact peadophiles, just sexual deviants, which is fortunate, given one man's sole crime is 'Sodomy'.
I could write a small essay on each of these people's faces, but instead I'll just post my favourite mugs and let you savour them. That said, I should point out that my absolute favourites are Mr Richard Palmer, Mr Royal Delbert Hall, and the exceedingly happy Justin, who appears to have been accused of Regiphilia.



P.S. I really don't get the bit about Phil Spector's wig.