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Sunday, March 18, 2007

Formula One is back on the telly. The Australian Gran Prix is happening, and I know (sort of) a person in attendance.

"The cars are making a pleasing noise," Adam says. It's true. The quiet hum of engines spinning up to 19,000 rpm is having the usual soporific effect: my eyes are drooping even though it's barely ten. The "mmmmmmmMMMMMMMMVRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOMPPPPHMmmmmm" of a Maclaren is enough to put me right out, and we reminisce about a couple of memorable naps had on the Indianapolis Speedway viewing mounds.

The driver ranking graphic pops up, and Adam giggles. "I'm sorry, but whenever I see 'L. Hamilton,' I'm thinking Linda, not Louis."

"You think Scott Speed went up to him and was all, 'I loved you in Terminator?'"

"Most likely. And when he did it, he was sporting the Brad Pitt, Jr. look of closed-cropped hair, aviator shades and a pimp coat worn over tighty-whities."

"And Linda was like, 'the wha?'"

"And for the rest of the season, he will be referred to as Linda."

"Nah. DC will call him 'newbie,' ala Cox, and Webber will simply refer to him as 'Girl's Name.'"

" 'Hey! Girl's Name! Congratulations on that first podium.' "

" 'But my name is Louis. Louis!' "

"And then, just to fuck with him, Speed will start calling him 'Louise' sometime after Monaco."

" 'Welcome to the F1, bitch.' "

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