World's Largest Rubber Band Ball - Trixine

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The setting of this spectacular occasion is the Cecil County Drag Strip in Maryland, just 25 minutes south of Newark, Delaware. The event, the National Hot Road Association's (NHRA) segment of a national tour that sponsors everything from souped up muscle cars to jet propelled funny cars to guys blowing themselves up just for the hell of it, and oh yeah, for the money. I periodically head down to the strip with the guys for Friday's amateur night (eight bucks for spectators, 10 for racers - everyone signs a waiver), but we found ourselves crashing a big- Next up were the muscle cars. This is pure Cecil County, folks, nothing but Mustangs, Novas, Camaros and every other major American muscle car you can imagine dating back to the late 60s. The thing is, these cars must run mostly stock, with all their original components and minor modifications. And it's not necessarily about who has the fasted car, in bracket racing, it's about which car has the most consistent racing performance. What the racers try to do is predict how fast their car will run, whether it be a 9 second Dodge Neon or 16.5 second Olds Cutlass. The winner is whoever can match or come closest to their dial-in time. But the burnouts alone are enough to keep you coming back for more. The grand finale of the evening was presented by none other than Benny the Bomb, who was previously featured on the Tonight Show for blowing up a Johnny-on-the-Spot, with him still inside. This time, it was a 1987 Pontiac Bonneville, and Benny was wrapped in nothing more than a stars-an-stripes pattern fire suit and a tarp. I was able to gain the rare opportunity to interview the vibrating Benny, immediately after running out of film photographing the explosion, but I was grant- “To Sarh Best Wishes Benny the Bomb” Jet-propelled funny cars Hey, Where’s Benny? A typical rail So just remember, if your looking for some good, clean, southern fun in this here fine U S of A, make sure to check the Cecil County Drag Strip or local events sponsored by the NHRA. Screw the movies and the bar this weekend, get your cousin with the supercharged 350 Chevy to sign the waiver and race that mofo as you and your buddies chug down Miller High Life and dip some Copenhagen, cheering the boy on. After all, submerging yourself in the subculture is half the fun. See ya at the track! Are you attracted to bright, shiny objects? Do you find yourself intrigued by ridiculously fast moving vehicles, the possibility of mass explosions and by people risking their lives purely for the sake of entertainment? Are you thinking that's there's just nothing left to do in this county? If so, search no further because a world filled with wild hot-rods, jet propelled funny cars, life threatening entertainment, and a 1987 Pontiac Bonneville is just around the corner. Oh yeah, and there's also more hot southern belles strutting around in cut off shorts than your girlfriend could stand! Just don't forget you earplugs, folks, 'cause it's a loud party. Words & Photos by Sarah Tweddle We arrived around 9 p.m., adrenaline pumped and alcohol fueled, prepared to be thrilled for the next two hours. First up were the top-fueled (supercharged nitro-methane or alcohol fueled) rails, vehicles approximately 30 feet in length and shoulder width, accompanied by giant racing tires called slicks, a wing to provide down force and a parachute which deploys immediately after completing the quarter mile in order to slow the speeding rail. These awesome vehicles reach speeds of near 300mph and can travel the quarter mile in under 5.5 seconds. Then we saw the jet funny cars, basically a fiberglass shell wrapped around a jet engine. After gaining entry to the pit to snap some shots, I returned to the stands, sweating, with a huge grin on my face. I was only about 15 feet from their fire-breathing tails, which was absolutely amazing, yet deafening. Even my boys in the stands couldn’t hear the next day. Witnessing these funny cars fire up their jet engines that can produce up to 20 feet of flames and make the ground shake like the Batmobile on speed is just plain awesome. The best time we saw, a record for the track, was 5.40 seconds @ 291.82mph. All I can say to that is YEE-HAW! Since this was a special ordeal, no amateurs were permitted on the track, to our dismay. Of course, there was plenty of amateur play in the parking lot, but nothing obnoxious enough to outdo what was on the track. We will be back on one of these Fridays for amateur night, and expect to see you there. Hey, you can even run your own car, tricked-out or not, to see how fast the baby can go. All you have to do is sign your life away at the entrance (a waiver stating that the track facilitators are not responsible for your death or dismemberment) and get in line to race. Just don't embarrass yourself. they're each other's idols. 69 Camaro doin’ a burnout Ahh, the track... ger party than expected. It was fifteen bucks to get in for this special event, but well worth it. ed a few words with the entertainer. He was slightly shaken after the detonation, hence the vibrating, but having survived the fiery death trap, he was still up for autographs. Apparently, he performs over 20 self-inflicted dynamite powered explosions a year internationally, including events in Aruba and Puerto Rico. He said he lost count over five years ago, but by then, he had already survived over 1,000 death-defying acts. He also happens to be boys with David Copperfield -
TWILIGHT REMEMBRANCES I have never seen the shores of France so peaceful. Yes, there are tourists now, but they all want to be here. Not like before; not like us. The waves of the English Channel lap gently against the shore as they always have. The anger, hatred and fear of our time are gone. Or at least thinly disguised. Forgotten. What happened on these shores is only remembered by those of us who survived. Oh so few of us. "It is time to go, Mr. Lubinski." Karl, my nurse/driver, has come to take me back to the hotel, but I have not yet had my fill of this evil place. "A few more moments, Karl. Please?" I can hear the pleading in my voice. It shames me. Karl checks the brakes on my wheelchair and retreats up the beach a respectful distance. He will never understand. I do not understand and I lived through it. I see a piece of driftwood near me. I cannot reach it. I do not try. Was it once part of the Ardennes as so much of the wood here was or just a stray piece of flotsam and jetsam, the history I attribute to it. I feel the tears well up in me as I stare at that damned piece of wood. Now is no longer now. Now is . . . "Mama, Why must we leave?' I am packing my valise, preparing for a trip in the middle of the night. I want to take my toy soldiers. Mama says we can only take clothes. I fold, kiss and place my Sabot Yarmulke on top and wait for Mama's inspection. "Because it is our turn to go. We will ride the train far from here. We will go to a place we are welcome." Mama is scared but tries not to show me. She bends down and makes sure my armband is secure then kisses me on the forehead. She closes my suitcase and locks it. She picks me up and sets me on the bed with my valise. She says "You rest a while, My Sweet, we will leave soon." She goes to her room to finish packing. Soon I hear her carrying her bag to the front door. I cannot rest. I am too excited about leaving. I hear a knock at the door and slide down off the bed. I hold on to the bed to steady myself. My leg braces keep me upright and I try to drag my valise off the bed but it is too heavy. Mama comes into the room and picks up my valise. She clucks at me for trying to help. She takes my hand and slowly we walk to the front door. The knocking becomes more insistent. I hear as we approach the bottom of the stairs. "Fraulein, you will open the door now." Mama motions me to stay where I am and rushes to open the door. She reaches the door as something slams hard into it, echoing hollowly in the entranceway. Mama opens the door to reveal a soldier ready to slam his shoulder against it. He stands aside to let an officer enter our home. "It is time to go, Fraulein. You will go now." He says in broken Polish. The words sound foul in his mouth. I stay where Mama tells me, on the stairs, my braces and the banister keep me upright. I want only to run and hide from these men, these monsters. Even the children of Poland have learned to hate the Germans. Especially Jewish children. Mama tells them I cannot walk and the Officer motions to one of his men. He walks to the stairs and he easily takes me in his arms. He smiles at me, an attempt to reassure me. I hate him. He carries me easily through the door and into the empty streets. (short WWII fiction) BY: GREG SCHAUER We begin to walk toward the train station. Mama struggles with our bags, no help from the soldiers. As we approach, we see other groups of people and soldiers. All are struggling under the weight of their possessions. The soldiers greet each other as they meet and then fall silent. When he catches my eye, the soldier carrying me smiles. I only want to cry trapped in his arms. Soon we are in line to board the only train in the station. Different soldiers take our bags from us. The soldier carrying me smiles one last time and sets me down next to Mama. I am glad to be out of his arms and away from him. Mama holds my hands as I lean against her. When the line moves I would stand on her feet and step with her. The line moves slowly. Mama chats with the other women. The few men traveling with us are sick or crippled. Soon we are on the train. The cars are rough cattle cars. They still smell of cows and men. Men like I have only smelled in old outhouses and chamber pots. We ride on the train for many days. The rumor is we are being taken to the town of Lusene on the coast of France. No one had ever heard of such a town but we believe their lies. The cattle car is uncomfortable. We sit huddled together on beds of straw. Every few hours the train stops to take on fuel and water. Sometimes the train jolts unexpectedly as new cars are added. Once a day, bread is thrown into us. Never enough, never enough. Mama scrambles for our share, usually just a crust, day old or moldy. Mama tries to hide it, but she gives me the larger pieces to me. Even with her kindness I have never been so hungry. I know Mama is hungrier still. Water, we have even less. The soldiers pass jars through the slats in the car. More often than not, they shove the jars through and let them drop. Each time a jar breaks we get less water the next time. We have no water at all for the last few days of our journey. Some of the elders die on the train. At first, we mourn, then as the bodies pile up at the end of the car, we no longer have anything left in us to grieve. We have no Rabbi or place to bury them. No honors for the dead do they leave us, only their memory and cold bodies. When the train finally stops, we sit in the cattle car for another full day, forgotten. Outside we hear movement. When we look we see only soldiers. Finally the doors open. The soldiers yell "Roust!", expecting us to move immediately. They reach inside and roughly pull the closest out of the car. Mama helps me to rise; my legs are stiff from sitting too long. I cannot stand and Mama looks tired. When we are outside, the soldiers take a few of the stronger women and keep them to one side. We stand there waiting not knowing where to go. Again the soldiers shout "Roust" and point down the street. We walk slowly, as fast as we can. There is no help from the soldiers. Two soldiers follow us talking in German, strolling casually as we struggle. At the edge of town the others from the train wait under guard. We wait as the rest of the train is unloaded. I curl up next to Mama and sleep. ****************************************************** The sun is beginning to set over the ocean. The clouds are turning red as the sand once was. Such a waste, but others had it worse. At least we had a chance, slim as it was. At least we had a chance. ****************************************************** >>>>> please turn page for continuation of story >>>>>
Page 1: ☺ World’s Largest Rubber Band B
Page 5 and 6: It holds the Guinness Book of World
Page 7 and 8: Local Bits! Fraz “The Funk Finale
Page 9 and 10: On the One and Two. Maginboo (Drum
Page 11 and 12: Hey Delaware Hipsters! New! Local S
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Page 17 and 18: The Microphones “The Glow Pt. 2
Page 19 and 20: The Ivory Coast “Clouds” I thin
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Page 23: Welcome to Monster Mix, the hip-hop
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Page 29 and 30: The Hatch by: Dan Buck As Alfred pi
Page 31: SON OF RIGGINS. The Last Man, part

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