I’m fairly sure this is the best photo I’ve ever taken. If you get a chance to catch the Primitive Idols in Portland, I strongly suggest you do so…
Here in Portland sunshine is a little hard to come by. We’ve now had two whole days (in a row!) of clear skies, so I gassed up the car ($4 gas be damned!) and went out pickin signs. It seems my camera is always tilted in the same direction. I’ll have to work on that… Enjoy!
No Tomorrow Boys
Saturday night brought me to the East End – a small dive bar close to downtown Portland – to see a local throwback rock and roll band called the No Tomorrow Boys. I wasn’t altogether sure what to expect, but I was pleasantly surprised. Because of the incredibly intimate setting (I was practically on top of the band; the stage is barely elevated at one end of the bar) this turned out to be an excellent venue for live action stage photography. I was able to get every band-mate from just about any angle (lucky for us because these boys were mind-numbingly photogenic) and I only got almost-crushed once!
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Couch Potato Mash
It’s pouring buckets out there. I feel guilty about spending so much of my time on the couch, but I must admit, it’s tough being a hot rod photographer in wintertime if you’re not in AZ. Hence, I have developed a crippling Craigslist addiction which will hopefully sideline my guilt complex. That should get me through the winter, at least.
So long… (sniff)
I sold my pride and joy today, and although I have a pocket full of cash I still feel as if I’m missing something. Could it be that my possessions define me as a person? Now I’m even MORE depressed. I know she went to a good home and the new owner will do right by her. And perhaps if I play my cards right she will be passed back to me years down the road (love you Uncle Pat!). For now I will have to be secure in the knowledge that she is in good hands. There are other fish in the sea, but I don’t think this one can ever fully be replaced.
The proceeds from said sale will enable us to proclaim our independence and finally become established citizens in this beautiful city. Some circumstances in this transition have not been terribly kind to us, so this is a big step forward. Not exactly what I had envisioned for us when I had a good paying stable job and a car payment to match, but I think sometimes you need to take a step back and re-evaluate. Downsizing can be a good thing, and it seems that living simply is the order of the day. And if some day I call to help us move, you won’t even need a truck. Just a wrench to help us put the wheels on the house.
Not-abilly
I saw a post on craigslist today recruiting for members of a rockabilly band. The example given was the Cramps. Now, has this person ever even HEARD rockabilly? I’m as big a fan of the Cramps as anyone, but rockabilly they are not. That’s Phoenix for you, folks. We have no culture of our own, no subculture to speak of, our politics are for shit, the ‘historic’ districts are comprised of mid-century houses, and a 70s punk band is considered rockabilly. So to you, dear wannabe-rock-and-roller, please don’t tread where the greats have gone before you. Even if by some miracle you got it, you still wouldn’t get it.
(hint: rockabilly music originated in the 1950s, try again)
Cruise on Central
I decided to suck it up and push/drive my janky-ass Buick down to the cruise. I figured the worst thing that could happen was I would break down in the midst of hundreds of car guys cruising the street. I’m sure at least one of them would have been willing to help me push it out of harm’s way. As it happens, cruising is just about the only thing that car does, and pretty well at that. The transmission only operates in low gear so 25 mph was my top speed. Good enough.
The day before, I limped her up to the gas station on lesser used side streets. While I was there I discovered that I had no brake-lights. It was still daylight so I was able to get it home safely by turning on my running lights every time I came to a stop (don’t pretend you’ve never been there). We went through the entire car, pushing the brake pedal at intervals hoping we had inadvertently acquired a self-healing Buick – and though we found multiple switches of mystery located on and under the dash, we decided that we didn’t even have the correct tools for a proper diagnosis. A quick side trip to Auto Zone and the neighborhood diner fixed that. Actual tools led to the discovery that we had a bad brake switch. We looked it up online and apparently the only place in Phoenix that carries parts for 50-year-old cars is Napa. In South Phoenix. Which was closed on good Friday. Good deal.
After an early morning run to South Phoenix for a $9 part (woohoo!), I was in business. Brake lights and turn signals! This was my day. I peeled off the packing tape that was holding the windows up and lowered the glass carefully into the tracks hoping it wouldn’t just fall into the door with a crash and a tinkle. Luck was with me. Even luckier, I was finally able to rattle the stereo around enough to dislodge the cd that was stuck in there. I plugged in the fuel pump (hooked directly to the battery for optimum performance) and pushed the car out of the car-port (no reverse). Once I was pointed more or less in the right direction, I was off!
Eventually I made the 16 blocks to a friend’s house which was the designated starting point for the day’s adventures. The trip further disclosed no working gauges, sloppy steering, and a distinct lack of braking ability. Closer inspection has since revealed that the vacuum for the brake booster is disconnected. Sweet!
So we all oohed and aaahed over each other’s rides, had some burgers, hung out. The time finally arrived and we commenced to disembark on this, my maiden voyage. I fired her up, let it idle for a minute or two, threw it in drive… sputtered, and died. No biggie, it’s a little warm, I thought. Fired it up again, kept my foot on the gas, died. Son of a bitch! I looked up and saw all the cars turning the corner heading out to the cruise. I got out attempting to flag someone down for a ride. Much to my chagrin, hot rods don’t really have room for three. Good thing I wore my chucks because I thought I was walking. My savior pulled up next to me and asked what happened. “I can’t keep it running. What do I do now?” “Did you plug in your fuel pump?” “Holy crap that’s it!!” I jumped up and down a couple times and ran to the front of the car. I am so glad I let it slip in an earlier conversation what a piece of crap this car really was. All plugged in and ready to go, I jumped in and threw her into gear. Success!
I slowly made the next 16 blocks to Central. I was there! And even though the transmission sucked and nothing worked (except the cd-eating stereo), the car cruises like a dream, as long as you don’t have to shift into a higher gear. And I wasn’t the only one. Some friends of mine threw a belt. Another friend overheated twice. It comes down to loving what we do and knowing that they are all works-in-progress. It will all eventually be re-built, but for now we can be secure in the knowledge that we are just that hard-core.
Click photos to enlarge
She made it! Parked on an incline so I could coast out backwards (no reverse)
~Up next~
The Cruise on Central is Saturday and I’m sad because my Buick isn’t ready. I have a lot of friends that will be there with their cars so I can ride with someone I’m sure, but in the immortal words of Arnie Cunningham, “There is just nothing finer than being behind the wheel of your own car. Except maybe for pussy.”
I miss my Caddy even though it was a money pit and a pain in my butt. At least it ran and drove… most of the time. I miss my old Pontiac because it hauled balls even though it weighed 3500 lbs. I miss my Falcon maybe the most; it was little and red and could smoke the tires for two blocks. And though I usually have something in the works, for some reason I always feel like I’m left waiting on the sidelines because my shit it never. quite. finished.
My most recent acquisition is a 1956 Buick Special. It’s straight as an arrow and even has the original hubcaps. And it’s pink. People keep telling me I should keep it that color, but my last car was a pink 1960 Cadillac. There’s just no comparison. It aint no Caddy. Besides, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but apparently pink is the new black – especially in the car scene. While there is still a barrage of flat black cars with red rims, pink cars (not all Cadillacs, either) for some reason are all the rage. In what remains of the Phoenix ‘rockabilly scene’ you have one of three things: a 60-65 Cadillac (most of which are pink), a 50-64 farm truck (any make) or a 27-32 coupe/roadster/sedan. Almost no one is running fat fenders, off brands, or actual 50s cars. I think I can count them all on one hand. This lack of variety in our particular ‘scene’ makes our club shows excruciatingly boring, which is the precise reason I decided to obtain an off-brand, mid-fifties car. Not pink.
Unfortunately, said off-brand has a fluid drive transmission which are notoriously shitty and, other than making a good conversation piece, completely useless**. Much to my chagrin, adapters for more reliable transmissions compatible with a nailhead cost more than my meager restitution will allow at this juncture. So in the driveway she sits.
I have fantastic connections and I am working on the solution, it’s just taking longer than I would like. Being cataclysmically impatient doesn’t help. So once again I find myself waiting idly by on the sidelines hoping for a ride, but it’s not all bad. I make lots of new friends with all the people that drive by wanting to know if it’s for sale. I get plenty of exercise riding my bike around town. Our dog has a place to stay dry on those rare occasions when it rains.
I will be at the cruise this Saturday, sans car, but you can bet that next year I’ll be cruising in style. But until that day comes, can I get a ride?
**Some people really like fluid drive tranny’s and preserving the integrity of the original car and all that, but the two that I have had so far have been crap. This particular transmission, while not the spokesmodel for all fluid drives, is most decidedly a piece of shit and needs to be set on fire.
From the pod next to mine…
“I didn’t know you were a liberal – I thought you were a Christian!”
Life is..
like a box of chocolates. Full of nuts.
