How to help Florida after Hurricane Ian
How to help Florida after Hurricane Ian
Plus: a story of random weirdness at Talladega Superspeedway
Welcome to Flashlight & A Biscuit, my Southern sports/culture/food offshoot of my work at Yahoo Sports. Thanks for reading, and if you’re new around here, why not subscribe? It’s free and all.
Well, after the last two goofy-ass weeks of Waffle House fights and video games, I was planning to get a little more serious around here this weekend …. and then a goddamn hurricane hit and did what hurricanes do, blew everything sideways. It didn’t seem right to just skip over one of the most devastating storms to hit the South in a generation, so I’m hoping this could help those of us who weren’t affected by it can help those who were.
It’s a testament to how much I love Florida that even with all the jelly-spined, soulless, divisive politicians and amoral, destructive, greedy developers that infest the state, it’s still one of my favorite places on earth. The sheer glorious chaos of the place is what makes it so endlessly fascinating, beauty that will stir your soul combined with idiocy that makes you wonder how we managed to even survive this long as a species. The snow-white sands of the Gulf Coast, the cerulean blue of the waters off the Keys, the flat wide beaches of the Atlantic Coast, the winding river of grass that is the Okefenokee … it’s paradise with a hefty cover charge. Cash only.
Remember, where other places have spooky, mysterious haunts that maybe one or two drunken teenagers might have stumbled across over several decades, Florida has Florida Man, who is both 1. absolutely real and 2. so pervasive that literally every day on the calendar has a Florida Man story. (Seriously. Search on your birthday and “Florida Man” and see what comes up. I guarantee it’ll be a winner.)
So it’s heartbreaking to see how much has been lost so quickly. You’ve seen the reports of the devastation left in Ian’s wake, bridges destroyed, buildings shattered, entire towns blasted all the way down to the sand. The people of Florida will need help, and lots of it, so if you can donate, I encourage you to do so with one of these charities:
Florida Disaster Fund: The state’s official disaster relief organization. You always wonder how much of your donation is going into a charity’s pockets, but FDF says it’s waiving all donation fees so that 100 percent of the donation goes to Ian relief efforts. Donate here.
Feeding Florida: A branch of the national nonprofit Feeding America, coordinating with food banks around Florida to get food to hurricane victims. Donate here.
Dream Defenders: Collecting food and supplies to be distributed around the state. Operated through Community Emergency Operation Center and organized by Dream Defenders, a nonprofit dedicated to helping Black and Brown youth in the state. Donate here.
Volunteer Florida: Opportunities to volunteer both in-person and virtually. Sign up here.
Farm Share: A Florida-based nonprofit that collects leftover fruits and vegetables from Florida farms and gets them in the hands of the hungry. Donate here.
(I have not vetted any of these charities, so you might want to look into your donation recipient of choice, either those above or any others, before sending anything. This is Florida, after all, where grifting and preying on the helpless is a recognized occupation.)
This is by no means a comprehensive list, and I’m sure there will be much more need in the coming weeks and months — everything from cleanup to medical care to hunger to mental health — so if you know of anywhere else I should add, contact me. We’ll add to this list as needed, and hopefully (as I write this) the Carolinas and coastal Georgia won’t suffer as badly. Piss off already, Ian.
Thanks for reading and helping where you can, my friends. Now, to send us off on a little brighter note:
Talladega is hosting its fall NASCAR race, so in honor of that, here’s another look at a Flashlight & A Biscuit story from way back in June 2020, a tale that goes by the poetic name of …
'Who's that [expletive] in the pace car?'
It’s not much to look at, honestly. The 1960s girders-and-sheet-metal aesthetic can’t compare to Fenway Park or Wrigley Field. The nubby hills nearby don’t even approach the majesty of the San Gabriel Mountains just outside the Rose Bowl. The broad, flat, featureless plain has none of the natural majesty of Augusta National.
But if you’re making a list of iconic American sports venues and you don’t have Talladega Superspeedway right near the top, my friend, you need to rethink your list.
Nestled in a cradle of small hills in north-central Alabama — the state’s tallest point, 2,497-foot Mount Cheaha, is off in the distance past Turn 3 — Talladega, which hosts a race this weekend, is one of my favorite sports destinations on the planet.
You come up over the hill on Interstate 20 early on a Sunday-morning race day and you see the enormous flags fluttering and smell the low haze of campfire smoke, and it’s as holy as anything you’ll find in church. The largest track on the NASCAR circuit, it’s a monument to speed and courage and insanity.
It’s also as weird as anything you’ll read in Faulkner or, for that matter, Poe. Drivers have died here, drivers have heard ghosts here. This is a terrifying place to race, not just for the people behind the wheel — speeds can get well over 200 mph on the 2.66-mile track — but for the people in the stands, as well. Cars have gotten airborne here, and only fences and miracles have kept them from raking through full grandstands:
But let’s not talk of tragedy or near-tragedy. Today, let’s discuss one of the stranger moments in Talladega history: the time a drunk fan stole the pace car right in front of 125,000 people.
The year was 1986, and this was the NASCAR era of Dale Earnhardt, Darrell Waltrip and other legends. Then as now, the moments prior to the race were absolute chaos: hundreds, maybe thousands of people milling around the cars on pit road as they prepared to roll out onto the track. As always, they would follow a pace car — usually the newest model of one of the sport’s auto manufacturers, often driven by a local celebrity or retired driver.
On this day, just minutes before the green flag, the pace car, a gleaming red Pontiac Trans Am, rolled off pit road as normal. There was just one problem: nobody had any idea who was driving it.
That morning, a 20-year-old Birmingham resident named Darren had gotten up, taken a motorcycle for a test drive, gotten caught in race-day traffic, bought a ticket, and snuck onto pit road. By that point, like Cal Naughton Jr. at the eagle-winged-Jesus-fronted Lynyrd Skynyrd concert, he was hammered drunk.
At that moment, ol’ Darren saw the greatest temptation of his life — a Trans Am, already running, with the high banks of Talladega dead ahead — and brother, he wrapped up that temptation with both hands. Seriously, who among us could hold out in the face of that?
A NASCAR official spotted the passing car, didn’t recognize the driver, and keyed the radio, calling out, “Who’s that fucker in the pace car?”
That fucker proceeded to hit triple digits on the back stretch, and came back around to an entire blockade waiting for him. Here’s video:
The crews, who by now had realized what was happening, began cheering Darren. The fans picked up on it too, particularly when the blockade rolled out. The Trans Am rolled to a stop, and as the track’s then-PR director, Jim Freeman, told Vice in 2015, more hilarity ensued:
"They started playing a deal of lock the doors, unlock the doors. They apparently had another set of keys. They would unlock the doors with the key, and he would lock them back. Lock, unlock. Lock, unlock. Finally they managed to grab the door handle before he could lock it back one time. They dragged him out of the car. Well, he didn't have a shirt on. They got a big fist full of his hair. One of these long-haired hippie guys. They grabbed a big fist full of his hair and pulled him out of the car. The crowd starts booing. Police brutality and all that sort of stuff. But they had nothing to grab onto except his hair."
Alas, they don’t leave pace cars running unattended any more. Trust me. I check.
(Sources: New York Times, Vice. Photo of Junior’s last ride at Talladega by me, 2017.)
Take care of yourselves and your loved ones this weekend, folks, and we’ll be back with more next Saturday. Catch you then—
—Jay
This is issue #75 of Flashlight & A Biscuit. Check out all the past issues right here. Feel free to email me with your thoughts, tips and advice. If you’re new around here, check out some of our recent hits:
We need a good Southern video game
Could you survive a Waffle House brawl?
On Willie Nelson and his magnificent old guitar
Thoughts on the first cool day of autumn
What does “Flashlight & A Biscuit” mean, anyway?
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Great article. Thanks for the info on donations!