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Friends don't let friends build drunk.

But, maybe they should.

Suburban Housewives of the Fifties

Post-war Amërïkä was a time of wide-eyed optimism, crew cuts and large powerful automobiles, designed not by computers, but by men with an eye towards Art Nouveau craftsmanship and quarter mile drag racing. Idyllic scenes like this were commonplace in the ever-expanding suburbs.

Naugahyde and cat litter were exciting new developments as were fabric softener and training wheels.
Vacuum cleaners were still hand actuated and washing machines were powered by large, coal-fired boilers located deep within the dark industrial underbelly, far below the hustle and bustle of city streets.

A man could still buy a cup of coffee and a large pickle for thirty cents. The coffee was imported from Columbia by handsome, well-groomed pack mules and was always freshly ground. And the pickles, O the pickles! They were plump and tasty, fished out of a giant wooden barrel with a pair of stainless steel tongs by the friendly, neighborhood grocer.

Sadly, the once-thought impenetrable armor started to develop chinks, which went largely unnoticed, as venom began leaking out of Amërïkän universities and institutes of higher learning. Mr. Green Jeans and The Lone Ranger began filling the daytime television airways with hypnotic dogma and cardboard.

There were no dysfunctional families in suburbia because moms would routinely gather in well-groomed backyards for a topless coffee klatch where they would exchange recipes and furtive glances. When the coffee ran low and an awkward lull in conversation occurred, they'd tickle each other with dandelions and playfully shove freshly mowed grass clippings down each others panties.

Fly-in Car and Air Show

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.

 

 

 

 

Good old Detroit muscle. 

My First Hot Rod and Aunt Jeanne's '60 Impala

Yesterday's El Camino post reminded me of a pic I had in an old album. This is me in 1961 with my Aunt's '60 Impala Ragtop in the background. I remember it well, fire engine red with a white interior.

Don't know what Aunt Jeanne had under the hood, but mine had pedals and wasn't worth a shit on grass.

With my awesome sled and that bitchin' hat I was scoring big time with the neighborhood chicks in '61.