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Sometimes it's instructive to find some perspective in the Age of Social Media.

Not everyone is on Twitter. There are even a few cave dwellers, igloo inhabitants and proud owners of thatched-roof huts who aren't on Facebook.

Some NASCAR fans just switch on the TV to watch the race. As much as I like to think they all hang on every word in this column, most of them don't. They crack open a can of mixed nuts, pop open a beer, lean back in the recliner and flip on the TV. Mike Joy, Darrell Waltrip, Jeff Gordon, Larry McReynolds and the Goodyear Blimp take it from there.

I don't know, but I've heard that some fans aren't gadflies on the mane of the Internet.

For those fans, the Sprint All-Star Race made no more sense than if it had been the annual State of the Brutal Dictatorship speech of Kim Jung Un.

And that's in Korean.

When the rain stopped, and the Air Titans regained the track they had lost, too many fans lost the race in a jumble of mandatory green-flag pit stops, cars mysteriously on and off the lead lap, and Fox announcers whose average comment was some variation of "beats me."

Some fans went bald from scratching their heads.

Joey Logano won it. I remember that much. The racing was exceptional. It looked like Charlotte in the 1980s and '90s, and I can't offer much bigger a compliment than that.

The only way the Coca-Cola 600 could be any more different than the Sprint All-Star Race would be if it were run at another track. It's simpler. It's longer. Way longer. Long enough for one, solitary fan to consume an entire pot of coffee in order to be sleepless afterward.

No more of these conversations with the TV:

What? How'd Stewart get a lap down?

Oh, good. They're talking to Stewart now.

Tony doesn't know how he got a lap down, either. Says it's stupid.

Oh, good. Now I feel better. He doesn't know what's happening in the race, and he's in it.

Yes, people wrote about the format beforehand. Yes, they tweeted. On Twitter was there a lively exchange. I'm on Twitter. I even tweet. I halfway knew what was going on.

But a man ought to have the right to enjoy the dadgum stock car race without having to fiddle with that infernal phone.

Women, too. They'll never put the phone down, though. How else would we know how much the cat is enjoying the race on TV?