Danica Patrick has a backpack full of fun
Posted on April 7th, 2008 – 11:36 AMBy Michael Rand
Many of you probably know that Danica Patrick is from Wisconsin. But instead of just listing her hometown (Beloit) on her bio, we think it should be mandatory that from now they just use this quote (sent by Fasolamatt, via the always entertaining NY Post):
NEW York women may pride themselves on being the world’s biggest party animals, but Indy racecar sensation Danica Patrick says Midwest girls know how to get wild and crazy, too. “That’s because we grew up with a back yard, a bonfire, a backpack of beer, and nothing else to do,” the Wisconsin-born cutie tells this month’s Complex. “There isn’t much culture in little old towns, so we learn to party.”
Proprietor note: That quote also covers an upbringing in 70 percent of Minnesota and 95 percent of the Dakotas. If you’ve never gone streaking around a 24-hour Perkins, you’ve never been us.
17 Responses to "Danica Patrick has a backpack full of fun"
After growing up in the dixie of Minnesota, Stearns County, there is nothing like a bonfire at the gravel pit. It’s always fun until some (redacted) throws a tire into the fire.
Sample conversation:
“Why do you smell like burnt tire? Were you at the pit?”
“No”
We didn’t have fancy gravel pits where I grew up; just gravel roads.
While she speaks the truth, can I please say that I’ve heard her interviewed and, as a former midwest girl, I don’t want this woman speaking for me?
I just don’t get it:
From small-town-Wisconsin, admits having no social life outside of her back yard when growing up, completely full of herself, and has yet to win a race. Maybe she’s mixing the 2 which according to this might be a bad idea…and yes, that first sentence does say 7TH OFFENSE
http://www.dot.wisconsin.gov/opencms/export/nr/modules/news/news_0648.html_786229440.html
And it’s like I’m supposed to be all happy ’cause she’s wearing a backpack.
They had backpacks? All we had was paper sacks, and we were happy to get them! We didn’t have fire either, so we had to drink bathtub gin around a flashlight, and even then, we were happy.
Then the cops would show up, but they wouldn’t chase us - we’d have to chase each other through the fields while the cops shot at us with a pellet gun. I had a yellow onion on my belt, which was the style at the time…
The difference between Sconnies and ‘Sotans? They have to learn to party in Wisconsin. In Minnesota it is just an instinct from birth.
Now us South Dakotans…
After the two main gravel pits north of Hector, MN, got busted by the popo one too many times, the youth of the city looked high and low for another place to consume illegal beverages. It was determined that a crossroads of two seldom-travelled gravel roads about seven miles north and east of the city would be the new gathering place. It was called “The Crossroads.” (Crop yields, not imagination, being Hector’s strong suit).
Unfortunately, whenever the initial group got there, there was no way of knowing if the next car coming was a fellow partygoer or the town cop. (This was before the advent of cellular telephone technology.) So, the gathered souls would try to determine if it was a cop car by its headlights. As you can imagine, once the determination of “Cops!” was made, the gathered vehicles scattered immediately. Since it invariably was never a cop, the vehicles would return, the crappy Busch Light Draft would be consumed, another car would approach, and the cycle started all over again.
And whenever anyone asks me what growing up in outstate Minnesota is like, this is the story I tell them.
…streak the 24 hour Perkins clockwise, while NoDakers streak the 24 hour Perkins counterclockwise.
If you’ve never gone streaking around a 24-hour Perkins, you’ve never been us.
It’s nice to see that people don’t always have to have the “traditional” honeymoon of a cruise or Hawaii.
For those interested in visiting The Crossroads, here’s the satellite view on Google Maps.
Stu, Did all the Buffalo Lake kids come there to party too, or was it just a Hector spot?
We always had a few crossover Albany kids, which is like having a Busch Lite with Al-Queda.
LQ: there was some intermingling, especially after the schools joined up, but the BL kids had an abandoned farmhouse south of town going towards Stewart that they favored. I was there once, and it was the single most terrifying building I’ve ever been in, and I’ve been to an Iron Range strip club.
It’s official: Roughkat for President, or at least COW.
The next RandBall outing needs to be a rural Minnesota-style shindig. All we need is a cornfield, a gravel road, a bonfire, and a few cases of incredibly cheap beer. (Also helpful: a hill and a giant tractor tire to roll down said hill in. Just trust me on this one.)
Although born in Beloit, Patrick was raised in Roscoe, Illinois–just south of the border, west of I-90, and north of Rockford.
(Also helpful: a hill and a giant tractor tire to roll down said hill in. Just trust me on this one.)
What happens in Big Stone Lake stays in Big Stone Lake. Unless one of those blabbermouths from Chokio shows up.
In August, the saying is, “What happens in Big Stone Lake, is covered in weeds and lake scum.”
