In which I decide to open a Chick-fil-A

Not really, since I might have the teensiest bit of trouble scrounging up the investment necessary to begin such an endeavor. Then there's the whole "Work all the time (except for Sundays)" part, too. But if I could overcome both those obstacles, I'd open a Chick-fil-A. Because if the one Jacob, Mama Dunn, and I visited today is indicative of the earnings potential, every franchise owner in the country can look the specter of recession square in the eye, pop the band on another stack of hundreds, and order up some more Bentley wax. Place was hopping like a hyperactive kangaroo treatment facility when we were there.

That's especially noteworthy, considering that the -A's offerings are mostly priced on the pricey side of the fast food spectrum. There's no dollar menu to be found. What you will find is, infallibly, a chipper, helpful staff and some fine chicken and waffle fries. (For any readers not living near an -A, my condolences. Please make arrangements to move, immediately. A year or so ago, when I read that James Lileks had just then had the chance to try a slice of poultry heaven on a buttery bun, I wept. The government really should do something about the gulf between the Chick-fil-A haves and havenots. You cannot consume an original grilled sandwich from there and remain an atheist.)

As I said, the place was packed, and Jacob loves him some people-watching. We fed him some chicken and fries, but that really wasn't necessary. He'd have been just as happy sitting in that high chair, taking in the excitement. His head was on a swivel, and his grin couldn't have been wider if we'd have installed a mouth-stretcher. And this is while he's too young to experience the playground. He'll be an addict once he reaches legal ball crawl age.

On the way there, we passed the median where the city of Pelham puts crosses and flags every Memorial Day. Try as I might, I can't think of anything to say about that that doesn't sound forced and trite. It's just extremely touching to be whizzing along in your car, relatively free from concern, breathing air-conditioned air, listening to an MP3 player playing over the car stereo, BlackBerry on your hip, and look over and see names of men and women who won't ever get the chance to do any of that. God bless the departed.

This weekend, it's a racing bacchanalia for the gearheads among us. Sunday morning, it's the Grand Prix of Monaco, which is pretty much the only F1 race I'll watch. (More passing, please.) Then there's the Indianapolis 500, which is pretty much the only IndyCar race I'll watch. (More, um, something, please. I'll have to get back with you with some specificity later.) I'm old enough to remember when the 500 was shown on ABC on a tape delay Sunday night, so you had to stay away from TV and radio if you didn't want to know the outcome. That was back in the Dark Ages, before the Intarwebtubules.

And then there's the Coca-Cola 600, which is the glute-numbingest sports event imaginable. I know there are 24-hour races, but nobody really watches all 24 hours. Right? If you do, my apologies.

Here's an interesting fact to keep in mind while watching the 600. A few years ago, I interviewed Jimmy Kitchens, who's from the Birmingham suburb of Hueytown. He was serving as Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s spotter, which meant that he watched races with 42 other spotters from high above the asphalt, on the roof of the pressbox or other structure. Spotters are most necessary when there's a wreck or when their driver is making a move in traffic (with the helmets and restraints NASCAR requires, it's darn hard to see out of a stocker, hence the added eyes), but they're also used during caution laps. They count down the driver as he nears his pits, they advise the driver and crew if there's any damage on the car, or they can go huddle with another spotter or two for some dealing as far as restarts or drafting or some such. So there's not really a slack time for spotters. And, since roofs aren't known for bathroom facilities, there's no chance to avail yourself of facilities. Just to be sure, I asked Jimmy if the spotters all stayed up there, all race, without taking a pit stop of their own. He assured me they did.

So, if you're looking for something different to do this weekend, watch the 600 from your couch without getting up and breaking the seal on your bladder.

I'm taking Monday off, so until Tuesday, y'all be safe, and remember why it's called Memorial Day.