You got to shake things up. Funk up your funk. Or de-funk your funk. New experiences are food for growth.
Tuesday night I went to one of those classic car shows, with my close friend Alan. He's one of the magic five. Met him somewhere around 1988 or 1989 when I was in one of my lost periods, working as a temp accounting clerk at a manufacturer of major logging equipment. My first day there I'm sitting in the windowless cafeteria eating my pathetic lunch, alone, and Alan walks up and introduces himself, asks if I want to get the hell out of there, go for a ride. Is that cool or what? I was a pasty faced accounting clerk, he was a real man doing real work and he offers me a shot at friendship. Amazing.
Eventually it developed into supreme insanity. We had half an hour for lunch. We'd bolt out the door, drive to a nearby lake, eat our sandwiches and split a six pack of beer while listening to the radio LOUD. I Won't Back Down, and Free Falling by Tom Petty are the songs permanently attached to that memory. On the way back we'd pop into a little convenience store and each buy a sixteen ounce beer and pound it on the way up the road. That's three 12 oz. beers and 1 16 oz. beer IN HALF AN HOUR. I spent many sleepy afternoons at HMC. Our friendship went much deeper than that and it survives to this day, strong, loving, respectful and appreciated.
Beautiful night for the car show. I appreciate the beauty of these vehicles, Alan has actual knowledge - he understands the engines, the history, the work that goes into them and the value. It made the night more interesting for me. I have been to one or two of these before but it is not something I seek out.
I was blown away. I am attracted to the old gangster style cars with running boards and to the sleek, fast and sexy Vettes and other racing type cars. But they were all so goddamn gorgeous. I got there early, before Alan, so I got to watch these cars roll in. It's another world, baby. These people are fanatics. It costs money and it takes a lot of time to restore and maintain these machines and there is a lot of pride in that parking lot. As with any unique group, there is weirdness. One hell of a lot of beer bellies, and I'm talking major how the hell does that guy stand up beer bellies. Weird senses of humor, inside jokes, that to me were not funny. More amusing and entertaining. People sitting in portable chairs behind their cars, they all knew each other, talking their mutual passion and digging the warm sunshine.I dug it. Of course my head is off a bubble, so my predominant reaction was why the hell can't I own one of these babies? Pissed me off. Will I ever be able to own one? That would make the shortness of summer more bearable. To cruise the streets in a vintage black Vette, to scream up the highway when Carol is not around, to sit inside mechanical beauty and feel indescribable power. To rob a bank in a genuine gangster car and retire to Jamaica. That's living, baby. Of course I am not a car guy, and I would have to buy it already restored and ready to rock, but there is no shame in that. Just owning a car like that commands respect.
I was surprised by my reaction. I really got into it, and experiencing it with Alan made it even better. I want more. I want to hit a couple more shows before winter imprisons us in the house. Picked up a trade magazine there and that also wet my whistle. Got me a little more exposure to that culture.
I also convinced myself that owning one of these babies is not outside my reality. You can laugh all you want to, but this is the 2011 version of me, the positive thinker, the believer wrapped around the dreamer. I'm heading somewhere, and wouldn't it be cool if one part of my destination was the driver's seat of a sleek, beautiful and oh so fast car, or a stylishly tasteful and mind blowing gangster car?
A kid pulled in with a truck that looked to me like a piece of shit. Early sixties, he had just acquired it and was just beginning to restore it. Rust, chipped paint, banged up, primer. When he parked it, the body settled pneumatically down towards the tires. Cool effect. Many of the car owners walked over and admired the truck, checking it out, standing in a group, looking into the engine. I thought, man, that is all about hope and commitment and pride and understanding. I'm sure every admirer had his own educated vision of what that truck will eventually look like. And the kid was beaming with pride. I KNOW he knows exactly what that truck will look like when he is done.
Passion, baby, it's all about passion. Passion is rocket fuel to life.
I funked up my funk Tuesday night. New experience that I really dug. With one of the coolest guys I know.
Not a bad way to spend one night.
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