If the thought of fawning over grown men in flame-retardant onesies fills you with the same kind of indigestion it does me, know this: some folks eat that stuff up. Take Weaver. He was so stoked to go to racin’, he offered to cover the entire Daytona 500 with nothing more than an Etch-A-Sketch and half a box of Twizzlers. Then he stabbed a guy in the throat for suggesting open-wheel racing was a superior form of motorsport. Since none of his fellow photogs would cough up the cash for an intervention, we did what anyone does with a troubled relative: we hit him with a lawn dart dipped in barbecue sauce and shipped his carcass to Florida. Now he’s embedded with the rest of the Nascaratti as they search for subtext amid the roundy-rounds. It’s a twisted, overly lit world where they dress in logos and use weird terms like ‘drafting’ ‘restrictor plates’ and ‘Clint Bowyer’. Don’t ask me to explain it; I fall asleep after Lap 3. (EARNHARDT!) As for Weaver, we figure after two weeks of hobnobbing with stock car royalty, he’ll be ready to drop a few names back here at home. Until then, know that he’s content to crank out twenty seven hours of race track analysis a day, provided he’s got a clear shot of the straightaway the day the flag finally drops. So don’t feel sorry for him, after all…

He’s in a better place.