Chillicothe, 1940

The new Buicks are being delivered.

Saturday.

Plans have been made.

The date is set.

I feel like a kid waiting for X-mas.

Gonna go look at some Fink funk.

You gotta hold it...

Did you hear?
Life on the space station has gotten a bit less Jetson-esque.
The crapper is backed up. Well, not literally - it seems that space toilets aren't like our terrestrial commodes.

"While using the toilet system in the Service Module, the crew heard a loud noise and the fan stopped working. After some troubleshooting the crew reported that the air/water separator was not working.”

It is good to know that when everyday things break in space it is still accompanied by a loud noise. It does seem that rocket-scientist types could be more descriptive in describing the failure.

They tried to fix the thing, but like broken toilets here on Earth sometimes it takes more than jiggling the handle.

NASA spokesman Josh Byerly confirmed that the toilet was still balky.

“Over the weekend the crew experienced more trouble with space station toilet, they had thought they had corrected it but the same fault returned, and they fixed it again.” The final report “It failed again this morning,”

There is a back up system (since the toilet in the Soviet capsule only stores a few days worth of space poop) - icky sticky plastic bag things.

Sometimes, being an astronaut is less than cool.

How much do you suppose a plastic space crap sack costs?

I should just stop, now...

Superfly

It used to be that when your ride got "pimped" it ended up looking something like this.

This is a pimp ride. A pimp ride can not be based on any imported car, only fine automobiles from Cadillac or Lincoln may be used as the foundation for a true pimp ride.

After thoughtful inclusion of various chrome design elements, running lights, custom paint over tasteful body modifications and perhaps the addition of neat little flags one can develop the pimp-mobile.







I will include this musical interlude, to accompany the moments you spend pondering that pimptacular ride.

t shirts

there was a time when there was no irony with t shirts, only iron on


Bill, didja know these guys?
are we going to see the Roth show, or what?

Wall of Death

I have seen guys do the wall of death thing in person. Pretty cool, ride the motorcycle up the wall, do tricks, some stunts...

What I saw seems pretty tame compared to these guys. Adding a car into the routine for thrills.

At some point that wasn't enough daring do.

So they added a lion in a sidecar.

Melvins

Purity of Form

Look at that thing.
See, this is the whole reason I get into trouble when I put bikes together.
The purity of form factor.

You can see that right here is a machine to be used in anger.
A machine that will convey ones repressed emotions unto an unsuspecting bit of tarmac.

Soak it in. Imagine your world when perched on it's back. Engine fired and warm, melting you into it, crying for you to be a part of it.

The sun is setting and the air is cool. Your crotch is heated by that unpolished oil bag between your legs more than it would be by some high school lovefest. Unburnt 110 octane from the exhaust fills your lungs.

The controls are tense at your extremities, brake and clutch levers vibrating on the tips of your fingers. The handlebars shaking all common sense from you mind, like the fillings in your teeth

Opening the thirsty throat of the carb, hearing it suck the dusk into the engine. Your foot notching down through cogs, fanning the fires in each jug to an inferno and bringing the breeze up to a roar in your ears. Deafening all sound, all thoughts beyond the base instinct of survival.

The cool air pushing on your chest, pushing you up, as you lift your chin off the tank to take in the point where you will apex the coming turn, like some fighter pilot planning the moment where you kill.
Searching for the next target as you descend.

Your torso lifted against the breeze, arms fighting to hold on to some semblance of control, with your toe lifting that reversed shifter arm. It sends the straight cut gears screaming against the downshift, like your own scream against clenched teeth. The shoes of the front brake lay into the drum like a tired man falls into bed, adding to the shake that goes through your shoulders and down your spine.

The compression barks to those behind you to back off, give some room for the business about to transpire. The rear end slips, fighting for purchase on the grit of the road.

You twitch down on the throttle to bring the revs of the motor up, so that the wheel speed might match that of the asphalt peeling rubber from the sidewall of the rear tire. The engine torque unweighting the front suspension enough, your ass slipping against the bare fiberglass seatpan enough, to slip all of your momentum into an opposite lean, ready to gasp through the next corner.

Your mass now pressing into the gas tank as you find your way through the DOT applied yellow and white stripes of an S, eyes locked ahead. Staring down pebbles and puddles as if they were demons and death - and they are. Tuck in your elbows and roll on the throttle. Vibrations coming up to you as you notch into the next gear, and again.

Head down as you look half ahead, half at the ground beneath you blurring into a solid gray, only the yellow line pointing the way. Your thighs press into the recess of the gas tank. The goggles press into your face as you strain a grin of gritted teeth. The wind pushes fear back down your throat. Gas, oil and blood pumping. Clenched into a fetal ball of pure speed.

Living...

Maybe we should destroy them?

I don't know. There is something funny going on with these guys...

First off, the are Scandinavian and they sing in English, which is wierd.
Additionally, I think they are wearing a blush, kind of gay.
The singer is not wearing leather American flag chaps, which isn't right.

We should destroy them.
Before they rock again.

Because Turbonegro fucking rocks.

Low Res Pics

For those of you who have asked, some hard to see phone pics of the T project.
For everybody else, they look just like the other pics.
Trust me, in that there is progress.
Stuff you can't see...

There are some sweet trans cooler lines that are run very artfully. There is a shefter linkage. There are some guage senders you can't see. There is an alternator mount that works with the damned thing where it is. There are some header flanges, which the Crazy German is going to do something with.

Trust me.
Things have happened since the last pics, which looked exactly like these pics.

Left is the shit-list of everything else a car needs to run and drive.