Schrodinger's Formula One piece.

It's there, but when you look for it, it's not.

One of my fave newsletters, Jonathon V Last’s The Triad, pointed me at this very unexpected piece of neo-gonzo reportage at Road and Track magazine’s website. They commissioned an honest-to-goddamn commie, Kate Wagner, to give them her honest-to-goddamned take on an F1 meet. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t last long. Just a few hours after publication it was gone. A pity. I’d pay to read it, just because of the way it makes your head go boing. It reminds me of Hunter S. Thompson’s Kentucky Derby piece in that way.

What is surprising, is just how comprehensively Road and Track’s editorial team made it go away. JVL included a link to the Internet Archive so you could read it there. But it’s also gone now.

Billionaires. Is there anything they can’t do!?

Most of us have the distinct pleasure of going throughout our lives bereft of the physical presence of those who rule over us. Were we peasants instead of spreadsheet jockeys, warehouse workers, and baristas, we would toil in our fields in the shadow of some overbearing castle from which the lord or his steward would ride down on his thunderous charger demanding our fealty and our tithes. Now, though, the real high end of the income inequality curve—the 0.01 percenters—remains elusive. To their great advantage, they can buy their way out of public life. However, if you want to catch a glimpse of them, all you need to do is attend a single day of Formula 1 racing. . . .

I think if you wanted to turn someone into a socialist you could do it in about an hour by taking them for a spin around the paddock of a Formula 1 race. No need for corny art singing tribute to the worker or even for the Manifesto. Never before had I seen so many wealthy people gathered all in one place. If a tornado came through and wiped the whole thing out, the stock market would plummet and the net worth of a country the size of Slovenia would vanish from the ledgers in a day. I used to live in Baltimore and remembered the kind of people who would go to the Preakness in their stupid hats and Sunday best while the whole swath of the city it was situated in starved and languished for lack of funds. This was like that, but without the hats. I saw $30,000 Birkin bags and $10,000 Off-White Nikes. I saw people with the kind of Rolexes that make strangers cry on Antiques Roadshow. I saw Ozempic-riddled influencers and fleshy, T-shirt-clad tech bros and people who still talked with Great Gatsby accents as they sweated profusely in Yves Saint Laurent under the unforgiving Texas sun. The kind of money I saw will haunt me forever. People clinked glasses of free champagne in outfits worth more than the market price of all the organs in my body. I stood there among them in a thrift-store blouse and shorts from Target.