There's something fairly unexpected about the experience of yelling, pumping fists in the air, and clapping wildly -- and then realizing, "I'm cheering for a turtle. And I kind of like it."

The turtle racing was the perfect way to kick off our rededication to drinking. A bar in LA called Brennan's has apparently been racing turtles for more than twenty years (not to be confused with the Brennan's in New Orleans, which actually serves turtle meat in its entrees). I'd love to have been there the day the publicity hungry bar owner sat up straight in his chair and gasped, "TURTLES. That's where the money is!"

The thing is, he's right. The early heat wasn't uncomfortably jammed, but still full of spectators, and the crowd was thickening as we left shortly before the second. Everyone drank liberally. A 16-ounce Bud comes for $2.50 in a clear plastic cup, for people who enjoy recalling the experience of high-school keggers. The only thing missing was the presence of a campfire and my friend Leigh's minivan, in the back of which I would have hooked up with my ex-boyfriend Ben, promptly denied it, and then passed out. But I digress.

Here's how it happens. There are seven or so heats, ranging from midget turtles to the monsters. Turtle wranglers -- who, as far as I know, are Some Guys Named Pete And Skippy Who Don't Mind Putting The Turtles In Tupperware And Driving Them Over In Their F-150, but they certainly do well chasing down the critters when the times comes -- sit next to big tubs of the creatures, all but one of which are opened so the turtles can get a taste of fresh air before the races. If you want to race a turtle, you bring the wranglers $3 and they write down your name. The money goes to charity. Not, as we expected, to the Brennan's Bar Owner Foundation, but to Little League of America. Very clever. It's almost un-American not to rent a turtle.

You are invited to supply your own turtle, if you've got one in racing form. Don't think we won't be training one shortly.

The track is a giant green circle in the middle of their patio-turned-halfassed-amphitheater. In the middle is a white circle covered by a clear plastic lid; around the outer edge is a white line. The turtles get dropped in the middle, and when the lid is lifted, the turtles theoretically begin to move; first one to the white line wins, and the "jockey" gets to reach into a grab bag of prizes that, last night, included underwear from the 99-Cent Store and a home enema kit.

There are rules. No pointing, for one. Actually, that's the main rule, because it apparently freaks out the racers. If anyone's caught pointing, they stop the race and fine you five dollars. The second time you're caught, it's twenty bucks, and the third time, it's fifty bones and a drink for everyone in the bar. One of the girls we were with had seen someone get nabbed twice, but never three times. I wanted to goad someone into this foul, but refrained. Being an asshole on purpose is another no-no that gets you a $40 fine and an ejection.

Watching turtles scamper, or amble in some cases, is surprisingly entertaining. The little ones are blazing fast, but the mid-sized ones can also move when they want to, and usually they do. Of course, the best was the one whose head retreated firmly into his shell as soon as the lid came up. He wasn't having it. He was like, "The Summer Of What? My ASS. I'm taking a nap."

The box turtles were the most fun. They, for whatever reason, are slower, and aren't shown the light of� night� until their race begins. Naturally, Dr. No and I had pre-named them -- Lisa Turtle, obviously, and then to keep up with the Saved By The Bell theme, the other was Shelly Kapowski. Had there been two others we'd have had Mr. Shellding and A.C. Snapper, but alas, only two racers were present in this heat. Our dream will have to live another week.

Lisa took off to the middle of the track and then stopped moving altogether, while Shelly Kapowski just didn't bother moving in the first place. She always was the one who didn't have to do any work. Sigh. Every time Lisa took a fresh step, the crowd would roar, prompting her to look up and yawn and stop, and ponder what to do next. Ultimately, she chose to turn around and walk a crooked line to the other side of the track. People were yelling, "NOOOO!" As if their lives somehow depended on Lisa knowing what the hell she was doing. Shelly chose that moment to begin her little strut; Lisa opted for walking in a circle for a little while before heading for freedom.

Then they stopped again. For a long time.

"If anyone points right now, I will kill them," said the emcee.

It is amazingly hard not to point. You would think this wouldn't be a huge deal, but you'd be woefully mistaken, because all you want to do is go, "Look at that one, he's running backward!" Or my case, "I think we just saw penetration!" By the time one of them crossed the line, everyone's hands were firmly wedged in their pocket, or anything else restrictive they could find.

Shelly won, incidentally. Because Lisa Turtle always loses.

The other odd thing is how frisky the turtles get when they're inside the transparent plastic starting gate. At one point, seven mid-sized turtles were in there at once, running roughshod over each other. One of them stood up completely on its hind legs -- do turtles have hinds? -- while a five-turtle pileup happened right next to it. We were completely convinced that two of them were going to mate and spawn a turtle baby that would end up winning the whole thing.

All in all, an absurd experience. But it was so much fun. Cheering for turtles isn't something I expected to find myself doing on a Thursday night, but it's really easy to get into it -- dare I say, emotionally invested in it.

No, I don't dare. It wasn't a religious experience. It was just a fun night with cold beer and good company.

Inappropriate Behavior: None, unless you count Dr. No planting one on Jessica. "I can't believe I don't remember kissing you on your birthday!" she lamented. "Here," he said, leaning in for the kill. "You'll remember this one." But, unfortunately, that all felt oddly appropriate. As did Jessica grabbing me and kissing me in the street, as she recalls it, for reasons I can't recall. I think she gets a half-point each for those. My reference to turtle sex might not have been tasteful, but it wasn't inappropriate, as one turtle had indeed flipped onto its back and was being mounted by one of its cohorts.

Excessive Drinking: One point for me for pounding three Budweisers, which I didn't need to do. But I wasn't drunk by the time we had to go home, so I think I lose half a point for that. I think our campaign manager will be keeping full statistics on all of us.

Someone got here by searching for: Pat sajak star las Vegas three Reading: Steve Rushin's fantastic Sports Illustrated column about what LeBron James should do with his $90 million Nike windfall. It's incredibly funny and cleverly written. Turtle power! Yup. Heroes in a half-shell.