I'm feeling a real fifties vibe this week so I present this classic blast from the past. Also, I like the cut of her jib, and by jib I mean her see-through outfit and decorative floral-designed apron.
I also think I see a tongue sticking out of the soap dish.
No, not another sordid tale of splitting headaches, wobbly hole shots and operating under the influence, but a few hours in the shop working on the eternally unfinished bike. These used to be called sissy bars, but I suppose in the thought-control, nanny-state world we live in that would be politically incorrect. So I bent up a "gender-confused safety device."
Either way I think it's a bit too tall, or too short, and I'll probably scrap 'em. Subconsciously I'm trying to save as much work as possible for next winter.
OK, I'll admit it, I've pretty much run out of badasses.
There has been a decreasing number of badasses in Amërïkä beginning in the 1950's when the government mandated that fluoride be added to our drinking water and it became culturally acceptable to withhold breast milk from the Nation's infants.
We talked of old times and drank crappy, domestic beer as the local town fuzz made his presence known by eyeballing us suspiciously as he drove by in the fading July light. With no turn signals and way over the legal limit, I made my exit after he made a pass and tiptoed out of town back on the State Highway. I blasted home under the cover of darkness, shirtsleeves and bare headed, comfortable in the heavy night air. My headlights picked up some deer lurking on the side of the road, but I feared not, as a man under the influence, I knew I could cut a deer in half without the slightest wobble of my terrible front-end cycle- sickle.
F^@k you Grim Reaper, not this time.
Woke up Saturday with a terrible headache, bleary and dehydrated. Coors Light is poorly- processed, watered down piss-water, it is the evil brew of demons and unfit for human consumption. Never again.
I plan to do a comprehensive series of essays and reports on the small agricultural communities which dot the fertile landscape around The Compound. It will be much like Garrison Keillor’s tales of the fictional town of Lake Wobegon, only stupider. In this series I plan to explore the hometown charm and quaint Midwestern lifestyle of Jerkwater Junction, Indiana. The lovely shaded streets, the idyllic town square with its historic buildings, the domestic violence, chronic obesity, alcoholism and thriving, trailer park meth labs. I will include photos, taken surreptitiously, of the actual people, places and lifestyle exemplified in Small Town Amërïkä.
I also planned to eat better, exercise more and quit drinking, but none of these things have happened. So this may be the first and last in this series.
Took this pic at the weekend car show.
Love the Model TT. It was an inexpensive everyman's truck. I currently own two Ford Rangers I use for work. One is the base model, an '01 with all vinyl, and the little four cylinder. It's inexpensive, economical and underpowered, but will run forever on a tank of gas and bulletproof. It was the modern version of Henry Ford's Tin Lizzy pickup.
Sadly, Ford discontinued the whole Ranger line in the US a few years ago. The base Ranger sold for around $13,500 brand new. Now Ford buyers, interested in a small economical truck will have to buy the F-150. Nice truck, but will cost at least $21,000.
I've been driving Fords for twenty-five years, but sadly when I need to replace my smaller trucks, I may be forced to buy a Toyota. Or maybe I'll just retire, move to Key west where I'll fish all morning and sell T-shirts in the afternoon.
Grandpa Walton used to drive a Model TT when he hauled a load of freshly milled lumber down to Ike Godsey's General Store. If Grandpa Walton was a pimp he'd probably driven the red model, lowered with twenty inch chrome spinners. I always suspected Grandpa Walton was a closet Gangsta' Rapper and was secretly banging the Baldwin Sisters.
Work has finally caught up to the point where I can spend a little time on the rigid project. The fender mount wasn't working with the high profile tire so I had to cut it off and shave about a half inch to allow for some chain adjustment. Looks like it will work now. Seat installation will require similar cutting and grinding. I came to a conclusion while working out there in the 90 degree heat and 80% humidity. I need more beer and one of those big ass shop fans in the worst way.
With the proper amount of deceit and trickery I may be able to wrest some time away for another bike trip. I need to hit the road again, should be snow and ice free this time.
The Compound is ten miles from the nearest grocery store. There is however, a small airstrip located just a few cornfields away which hosts an annual Fly-in, Drive-in Car and Air Show. So Saturday, when I noticed the stunt planes flying overhead, I decided to forego my cloistered existence and scoot over under gorgeous, sunny skies.
An immaculate Model T, the car that changed the world and Henry Ford's crown jewel.
Love these radial engines. It's like five HD twins running in perfect orbital synchronicity.
M151A2 Jeep. I drove the piss out of these as an MP in the service of our Dear Country in the seventies. I managed to wrap about a hundred feet of steel cable around a rear axle once, while f@#kin' around driving in tall weeds at an abandoned air base in The Canal Zone. I used the front drive wheels and skidded the rears all the way back to the motor pool.
Fun times. Took a cutting torch to remove it.
Plywood fire wall. Kind of like using a napkin for a condom.
No bikes in the show, just a bunch of baggers in the motorcycle parking area, and this hideous softail with an extended springer. Only redeeming feature was a re-bar fender strut.
Snapping turtles are the scourge of the open waters, and by open waters I mean mosquito infested brackish ponds, and prey upon ducklings and full grown ducks alike.
If you see a one-legged duck or goose, it is most likely the work of a snapping turtle.
When I noticed my resident ducks were fearful of going into the pond I suspected a snapper had them spooked. Sure enough, I caught the culprit making his way across dry land one morning, and with lightning quickness and agility, was able to capture it for removal. Of course my son and I had to harass him with a length of PVC pipe after I got it into the bed of the truck and caused me to reflect upon this behavior, and ponder its causation.
What is it about a snapping turtle that brings out the imbecilic twelve-year-old in all men, regardless of age?
For it is true, that when caught, a snapper must be prodded, poked, harassed and humiliated. It is instinctual and crosses all economic, societal and cultural boundaries.
I believe it is the hissing, lumbering prehistoric nature of a snapping turtle that excites a primeval instinct in all men and boys to prove their mettle by fucking with something that, no matter how remote the chance, might hurt them.
In fact, Greek mythology tells the tale of Orion, God of Turtle Prodding, being placed by Zuess among the stars as a constellation.
Deep down we're all just imbecilic twelve year olds.
If I had a truck like this I'd be the Mack Daddy of Jerkwater Junction, Indiana. I'd head into town, pick up the hotties and take them to the Dairy Queen for all-you-can-eat chili dogs and banana splits. We'd get all fucked up on cheap whiskey and Xanax and I'd show them the scars from my bone marrow transplant then impress them with stimulating conversation and tales of my misspent youth.
Most of the chicks in town are on public assistance and meth, so they can stay up much later than I can, 'cause I have to work in the morning. I'd fall asleep and they'd rifle through my pockets for cash and prizes.
But, It's all good. I'd stumble out of the trailer in the morning, fire up the dually and head to work hung over and broke, but none the worse for wear.
But alas, I haven't got a cool ride like the one pictured above, so it'll be another dull and uneventful Friday night.
Reading some of Larry's recent posts has me fired up to start tinkering with the rigid project again. Scraped up some money and ordered some parts. And the magic UPS truck rolled in and delivered. I'm especially excited about the rotten bananas.
Managed to wrestle the motor up on the bench and the frame back on the "stand." Huge progress. (Ha, ha)
Shop Cat VIII is always right in the way.
The life of a shop cat is difficult at best. I provide food, water and shelter but it's up to them to avoid trucks, tractors, coyotes and antifreeze. The Compound is located about five miles from an impoverished, sleepy, meth-lab of a town. The resident rednecks like to dump their cats on the road in front and some end up making their way to the shop. This one showed up about three weeks ago and seems friendly and pretty smart, but lazy as hell.
Summertime, and the living's easy. A foggy morning, and the ducks are plump. Indecipherable scribbling on a misty spider's web can only be interpreted by mystics and minor prophets.
Or, maybe E.B. White.
Meanwhile, ample rains and favorable weather has the early sweet corn almost ready to harvest.
Or maybe he just enjoys the intimacy of a wet and docile bull against his thighs as he bathes them in the warm, swirling waters of the River Ganges....... And who could blame him?
Lady Liberty, symbol of a once-great nation, hikes up her robe, bends over, and shits a vile stream of excrement into the mud-brown New York Harbor. Once-free people have been incrementally stripped of freedom and turned into complacent sheep by Mega-Million Dollar Corporations and Big Government Totalitarians. NSA Big Brothers monitor phone calls as IRS Gestapo agents (soon to be increased by 18,000 thugs in the name of “health care”) intimidate those who dare question authority. The “News” is reported by obedient lap dogs who make excuses with child-like loyalty to Big Government Bureaucrats who wield power with money they print like junk mail flyers . Meanwhile the bloated elephant in the room, soaring to twenty trillion dollars, is artfully hidden in plain sight.
Bailed-out Wall Street Bankers and slick Politicians embrace like giggling schoolgirls while the legs are knocked out from under the dwindling middle class, as they are of no use to the Collectivist Oligarchy. Fat Cat Bankers slap each others backs, wipe Obama's lip gloss off their dicks and go out for another round of golf, while the working man's house is foreclosed upon. The ever-growing number (nearly 50%) of dependent-class useful idiots are warehoused in trailer parks and government tenements, placated with food stamps, and coaxed out at election time to insure the status quo.
Politicians exploit isolated acts of evil scumbags and tell us they need to remove law-abiding citizen’s means of defense, “for our own good,” because, like Hitler, they know it’s hard to load people into box cars when they’re armed with AR-15’s.
Independence Day 1776 wasn’t about drunks with sparklers and diabetic slobs stuffing their faces with hot dogs on Coney Island. It was about revolution, ridding the land of power hungry, meglomaniacal tyrants.
I’m among those who will keep my weapons. The Fascists may kill us, but at least they won’t be loading us into boxcars!
"Is life so dear or peace so sweet, as to be purchased by the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me Liberty or give me death!"
“England swings like the pendulum do…” and Beverly’s delightful boobies swing like a cup of Jell-O do, jiggling merrily along the cobblestone streets of Jolly Olde London, circa 1965. A free spirit, and mother of two, Beverly often went sans top on the rare sunny days as she motored to her job as a registered wet nurse on her unidentified little (Honda?) scooter. (Larry?)
Alfred is in no way amused, however. His scowling face reveals the disdain he has for such wanton disregard for proper British decency. But later, as he spends another day confined in dignified drudgery as a certified accountant in the Financial District, he secretly recalls the faint tan lines and supple curves of Beverly's provocative profile and lusts after the lactating, wide-spaced, free-wheeling dairy products Beverly proudly exhibited during the morning commute.
"The story you are about to see is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent."
Sergeant Joe Friday was the ultimate, stiff-armed, monotone TV Cop badass of the sixties. He was Robocop before Robocop was cool. Ridiculed by hippies and loved by saintly grandmothers, Friday never wavered in his relentless fight to rid the Los Angeles streets of dope , goofballs, pep pills and the evils of marijuana. He was the king of long-winded, condescending speeches. Hyperbole and pleasant conversation just wasn't his bag, Joe Friday was interested only in the facts. Arrogant hippy chicks with bad attitudes and funky glasses just pissed him off.
