![]() 11/23/2015 at 11:42 • Filed to: dress racing shoes, mercedes 6x6, plymouth volare, v12-swapped fox body mustang | ![]() | ![]() |
Somehow I had become the new editor in chief of Hot Rod. The vagaries of the magazine business swirled like shadows around me and then reached out, made their choice. It was time to set editorial standards and seek out new writers. I told my assistant I was going to be out for the day, conducting interviews for feature writers. Then I headed to the magazine garage, a janitor’s keyring full of invitations to spend the rest of the night in the back of a police car in my hand.
When I was a kid, I got caught in an earthquake in one of those old school Los Angeles concrete buildings. I could see the roof ripple like a wave pool on seniors-swim-free day. A sinusoidal, infinitely undulating matrix of putatively solid building materials, given thrust by the sheer power of nature. Something like that was happening now; I had momentary flashbacks that probably weren’t driven by the blotter acid stuck in my fatty tissues, a high school DARE cop’s false warning given light by pop-culture irony.
I turned the key without a moment of hesitation. An enormous V8 roared to life inches from my fingertips. I let the idle soak into my bones for awhile, felt the water in my body jiggle near-imperceptibly as the big cam worked me over like a Swedish masseuse with a drill press.
When they told me to seek out the best of the best writers, I knew there was only one place I could go. Before long, the Volare rattled its pushrods as it took an obscene gulp of air, heavy with perfect jewels of aspirated fuel, and punched out a nine second quarter mile.
Back in the paddock, my quarry got out of his Jaguar V12-swapped fox body Mustang and looked me in the eye.
“Nice run,” he said. I spun the janitor’s keyring around on my finger. “I guess you got my resume after all.”
“You can have these keys if you can give me four adjectives for a Mercedes 6x6,” I replied, smoothing out a ridge in my sportjacket with the other hand and looking down at my mirror-polished imitation-wingtip Piloti driving shoes.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 12:10 |
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The only reason I own a computer is to log in and read these. Bravo.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 12:27 |
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You’ll probably like tomorrow’s. It’s a true story.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 12:28 |
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Don’t you dare lie to me you magnificent bastard.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 13:22 |
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I read your passages quietly out loud so I can fully enjoy them.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 13:41 |
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I take no responsibility for the police raid that inevitably follows.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 13:42 |
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![]() 11/23/2015 at 15:55 |
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Now I want to V12 swap a fox body and then turn it into a track car.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 16:15 |
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The only thing stopping you is yourself.
Probably also the bounds of good taste and societal acceptance but I feel like my posts move the Overton window for acceptable social behaviour enough that you could probably bend back part of the frame and get a slim jim in.
![]() 11/23/2015 at 16:18 |
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And a few other things stopping me. Like money, time, place to work on it etc...
![]() 11/24/2015 at 11:36 |
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I shared your stuff with an author friend of mine:
- I’ve been enjoying this guy’s stuff. [link]
— It’s certainly unlike anything else I’ve ever read.
- Clearly it’s bent toward a car-loving reader, but I love the descriptiveness and detail of the language he uses and how well he sets the scene. Makes me feel there, in it, in just a paragraph.
— Dude, it’s bent toward the car-loving reader to the point where I don’t always know what he’s saying.
—-
I told him that I’d be happy to translate - ha!
![]() 11/24/2015 at 11:52 |
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Love this post. If I could give you 5 extra stars for Overton Window, I would.