It runs in my family.

My brother, Jack, was living in Raleigh and came by my house on the way to the race at Talladega. He was in his Wrangler with the top off and every inch of that jeep had beer in it. There were coolers of all sizes, everywhere. Where coolers wouldn't fit, there were six packs. Where six packs wouldn't fit, there were singles. The pockets of the door had single beers stuffed in them.

I said, "Dude, where's your suitcase?"

He flipped down his visor and a pair of boxers and a toothbrush fell down.

Rock. On. Jack.