My downstairs neighbor, a new immigrant from North Carolina, spent the afternoon watching the Daytona 500. I know this because I asked, and because I could hear the drone of modified engines and the muffled accent of one Darrell or another as the race was being analyzed for all of the people who really want to know the intricacies of driving in a circle for five hundred miles. I have no idea what the appeal of this "sport" is. Despite being a Southerner--and by all rights, this is our pastime--I haven't the least interest in watching even if I were guaranteed a spectacular wreck every two laps. My dad naps to NASCAR on Sundays and can tell you most of the drivers and what model car they drive, but thankfully, he hasn't stickered his car with his favorite's number. Nor does he have the one with the cartoon character peeing on the Chevy symbol. My dad just likes to nap and in his Sunday slumbers the process of osmosis has planted these names and stats, and perhaps the accent of a Darrell or two, into his brain.
He long ago gave up discussing NASCAR with me. I guess you can see why.