Sunday, August 7, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
1999 Kenosha County Fair Demolition Derby
It was around ten o'clock on a Sunday morning and the wind was burning my eyes. The smell of the exhaust from the 258 engine coming through the hole in the hood was turning my stomach. I was cruising along at about seventy miles-per-hour on Highway C, about halfway out to the county fairgrounds, located just outside of Wilmot, Wisconsin. The car I was driving had no windshield, no exhaust, no running lights, nor a radio. The hood, roof, and trunk lid had holes cut into them; the car resembled something out of "The Road Warrior." I hoped to high hell that I wouldn't encounter a cop, especially one of those county boys because there was no possible explanation that would save me if I was caught; I was a fucking criminal. But maybe, just maybe, the fact that I was driving a demolition derby car would save me from sitting in the county jail.
I was lucky enough to remember and borrow a five-gallon gas can and fill it. The two-gallon marine tank strapped in the backseat, which served as the car's fuel source, had went dry on me. I steered the car to the side of the road and coasted to a stop. I climbed into the back seat and filled the tank and replaced the cap and hose. I hopped back up front, lit the joint I had in my pocket, cracked open a beer and I was back off. I figured if I'm going to get caught, I may as well have some fun.
I was about a mile outside of Wilmot, which pretty much consists of a gas station, two bars, and a church. I saw another race car on a trailer in front of me. It looked to be a mid-eighties station wagon, painted white with black lettering. I waited for an opening and passed the rig running about 110. The driver gave me a thumbs-up sign. I had been getting a lot of that since I had left the garage. People love a good car wreck and it was obvious that I was going to be involved in several very soon. Either that, or people just gave me looks of disbelief, shaking their heads and looking away. Some people just don;t possess a sense of adventure, I guess.
The county boy directing traffic into the parking areas from the highway definitely did not have a sense of adventure. He did a double take when he saw me, and then his face turned from a beet red to a shiny purple.
"YOU CAN'T DRIVE THAT CAR ON THE ROAD! IT DOESN'T HAVE ANY REGISTRATION! YOU'RE NOT PLANNING ON DRIVING THAT CAR HOME, ARE YOU? NEXT YEAR BRING THE GOD DAMN THING ON A TRAILER! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?"
I just waited for my turn to enter the fairgrounds, looking at him shrugging, my hands in the air as if to say, "Why are you yelling at me?"
No registration? Hell, the car would break twenty different safety codes, not to mention the flagrant disrespect for the registration laws that he mentioned. Drive the car home? I doubted it, as I was, after all, driving the winning entry for the 1999 Kenosha County Fair Demolition Derby, a hastily modified 1976 AMC Matador.
The cop waved me through, shaking his head and muttering something to himself. I considered giving him a couple of bucks for a tip, but I still had to pay the registration fees for the race. I eased the car through the parking lot towards the pits. The gate-keeper waved me off to the side and I parked. I shut down the motor, hoping to hell that it would start again. As I climbed out through the window, a small group of people began to surround the car, racers and race enthusiasts alike.
"Yer sick, buddy..... that car was a classic..."
"Dude, how could you? I would have given you a grand for this car!"
"Nice ride, man, you'll win for sure...."
I walked up to an official-looking guy satnding by the entrance gate to the track. He was listening to a stock car race on a small transistor radio.
"Where's your pass?" he asked. I shrugged and he pointed me towards the registration booth. With no line in sight, I signed right in. It cost twenty bucks to enter the race and another ten for a pit pass. The lady asked to see my drivers license and made me sign a release form that stated that I was on my own if I got injured. Not once, at any point, did she ask to see a title for the car, which means, for all intent purposes, that I could have stolen the car and put it in the race. I pondered this as I made my way back to my car.
As I walked closer, I could see the work that was still to be done in order to qualify for the race, but I wasn't worried. I had made it past registration without any hassle, of the police nature or otherwise, and I had a few hours until the first heat. Plenty of time.
I climbed into the car and held my breath as i turned the key.
(to be continued)
I was lucky enough to remember and borrow a five-gallon gas can and fill it. The two-gallon marine tank strapped in the backseat, which served as the car's fuel source, had went dry on me. I steered the car to the side of the road and coasted to a stop. I climbed into the back seat and filled the tank and replaced the cap and hose. I hopped back up front, lit the joint I had in my pocket, cracked open a beer and I was back off. I figured if I'm going to get caught, I may as well have some fun.
I was about a mile outside of Wilmot, which pretty much consists of a gas station, two bars, and a church. I saw another race car on a trailer in front of me. It looked to be a mid-eighties station wagon, painted white with black lettering. I waited for an opening and passed the rig running about 110. The driver gave me a thumbs-up sign. I had been getting a lot of that since I had left the garage. People love a good car wreck and it was obvious that I was going to be involved in several very soon. Either that, or people just gave me looks of disbelief, shaking their heads and looking away. Some people just don;t possess a sense of adventure, I guess.
The county boy directing traffic into the parking areas from the highway definitely did not have a sense of adventure. He did a double take when he saw me, and then his face turned from a beet red to a shiny purple.
"YOU CAN'T DRIVE THAT CAR ON THE ROAD! IT DOESN'T HAVE ANY REGISTRATION! YOU'RE NOT PLANNING ON DRIVING THAT CAR HOME, ARE YOU? NEXT YEAR BRING THE GOD DAMN THING ON A TRAILER! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?"
I just waited for my turn to enter the fairgrounds, looking at him shrugging, my hands in the air as if to say, "Why are you yelling at me?"
No registration? Hell, the car would break twenty different safety codes, not to mention the flagrant disrespect for the registration laws that he mentioned. Drive the car home? I doubted it, as I was, after all, driving the winning entry for the 1999 Kenosha County Fair Demolition Derby, a hastily modified 1976 AMC Matador.
The cop waved me through, shaking his head and muttering something to himself. I considered giving him a couple of bucks for a tip, but I still had to pay the registration fees for the race. I eased the car through the parking lot towards the pits. The gate-keeper waved me off to the side and I parked. I shut down the motor, hoping to hell that it would start again. As I climbed out through the window, a small group of people began to surround the car, racers and race enthusiasts alike.
"Yer sick, buddy..... that car was a classic..."
"Dude, how could you? I would have given you a grand for this car!"
"Nice ride, man, you'll win for sure...."
I walked up to an official-looking guy satnding by the entrance gate to the track. He was listening to a stock car race on a small transistor radio.
"Where's your pass?" he asked. I shrugged and he pointed me towards the registration booth. With no line in sight, I signed right in. It cost twenty bucks to enter the race and another ten for a pit pass. The lady asked to see my drivers license and made me sign a release form that stated that I was on my own if I got injured. Not once, at any point, did she ask to see a title for the car, which means, for all intent purposes, that I could have stolen the car and put it in the race. I pondered this as I made my way back to my car.
As I walked closer, I could see the work that was still to be done in order to qualify for the race, but I wasn't worried. I had made it past registration without any hassle, of the police nature or otherwise, and I had a few hours until the first heat. Plenty of time.
I climbed into the car and held my breath as i turned the key.
(to be continued)
1999
It was around ten o'clock on a Sunday morning and the wind was burning my eyes. The smell of the exhaust from the 258 engine coming through the hole in the hood was turning my stomach. I was cruising along at about seventy miles-per-hour, about halfway out to the county fairgrounds, located just outside of Wilmot, Wisconsin. The car I was driving had no windshield, no exhaust, no running lights, nor a radio. The hood, roof, and trunk lid had holes cut into them; the car resembled something out of "The Road Warrior." I hoped to high hell that I wouldn't encounter a cop, ecspecially one of those county boys because there was no possible explanation that would save me if I was caught; I was a criminal. But maybe, just maybe, the fact that I was driving a demolition derby car would save me from sitting in the county jail.
I was lucky enough to remember and borrow a five-gallon gas can and fill it. The two-gallon marine tank strapped in the backseat, which served as the car's fuel source, went dry on me. I steered the car to the side of the road and coasted to a stop. I climbed into the back seat and filled the tank and replaced the cap and hose. I hopped back up front, lit the joint I had in my pocket, cracked open a beer and I was back off. I figured if I'm going to get caught, I may as well have some fun.
I was about a mile outside of Wilmot, which pretty much consists of a gas station, two bars, and a church. I saw another race car on a trailer in front of me. It looked to be a mid-eighties station wagon, painted white with black lettering. I waited for an opening and passed the rig at about one-hundred miles-per-hour. The driver gave me a thumbs-up sign. I had been getting a lot of that since I had left the garage. People love a good car wreck and it was obvious that I was going to be involved in several very soon. Either that, or people just gave me looks of disbelief, shaking their heads and looking away. Some people just don;t possess a sense of adventure, I guess.
The county boy directing traffic into the parking areas from the highway definitely did not have a sense of adventure. He did a double take when he saw me, and then his face turned from a beet red to a shiny purple.\
"YOU CAN'T DRIVE THAT CAR ON THE ROAD! IT DOESN'T HAVE ANY REGISTRATION! YOU'RE NOT PLANNING ON DRIVING THAT CAR HOME, ARE YOU? NEXT YEAR BRING THE GOD DAMN THING ON A TRAILER! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?"
I just waited for my turn to enter the fairgrounds, looking at him shrugging, my hands in the air as if to say, "Why are you yelling at me?"
No registration? Hell, the car would break twenty different safety codes, not to mention the flagrant disrespect for the registration laws that he mentioned. Drive the car home? I doubted it, as I was, after all, driving the winning entry for the 1999 Kenosha County Fair Demolition Derby...
The cop waved me through, shaking his head and muttering something to himself. I considered giving him a couple of bucks for a tip, but I still had to pay the registration fees for the race. I eased the car through the parking lot towards the pits. The gate-keeper waved me off to the side and I parked. I shut down the motor, hoping to hell that it would start again. As I climbed out through the window, a small group of people began to surround the car, racers and race enthusiasts alike.
"Yer sick, buddy..... that car was a classic..."
"Dude, how could you? I would have given you a grand for this car!"
"Nice ride, man, you'll win for sure...."
I walked up to an official-looking guy satnding by the entrance gate to the track. He was listening to a stock car race on a small transistor radio.
"Where's your pass?" he asked. I shrugged and he pointed me towards the registration booth. With no line in sight, I signed right in. It cost twenty bucks to enter the race and another ten for a pit pass. The lady asked to see my drivers license and made me sign a release form that stated that I was on my own if I got injured. Not once, at any point, did she ask to see a title for the car, which means, for all intent purposes, that I could have stolen the car and put it in the race. I pondered this as I made my way back to my car.
As I walked closer, i could see the work that was still to be done in order to qualify for the race, but I wasn't worried. I had made it past registration without any hassle, of the police nature or otherwise, and I had a few hours until the first heat. Plenty of time.
I climbed into the car and held my breath as i turned the key.
I was lucky enough to remember and borrow a five-gallon gas can and fill it. The two-gallon marine tank strapped in the backseat, which served as the car's fuel source, went dry on me. I steered the car to the side of the road and coasted to a stop. I climbed into the back seat and filled the tank and replaced the cap and hose. I hopped back up front, lit the joint I had in my pocket, cracked open a beer and I was back off. I figured if I'm going to get caught, I may as well have some fun.
I was about a mile outside of Wilmot, which pretty much consists of a gas station, two bars, and a church. I saw another race car on a trailer in front of me. It looked to be a mid-eighties station wagon, painted white with black lettering. I waited for an opening and passed the rig at about one-hundred miles-per-hour. The driver gave me a thumbs-up sign. I had been getting a lot of that since I had left the garage. People love a good car wreck and it was obvious that I was going to be involved in several very soon. Either that, or people just gave me looks of disbelief, shaking their heads and looking away. Some people just don;t possess a sense of adventure, I guess.
The county boy directing traffic into the parking areas from the highway definitely did not have a sense of adventure. He did a double take when he saw me, and then his face turned from a beet red to a shiny purple.\
"YOU CAN'T DRIVE THAT CAR ON THE ROAD! IT DOESN'T HAVE ANY REGISTRATION! YOU'RE NOT PLANNING ON DRIVING THAT CAR HOME, ARE YOU? NEXT YEAR BRING THE GOD DAMN THING ON A TRAILER! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?"
I just waited for my turn to enter the fairgrounds, looking at him shrugging, my hands in the air as if to say, "Why are you yelling at me?"
No registration? Hell, the car would break twenty different safety codes, not to mention the flagrant disrespect for the registration laws that he mentioned. Drive the car home? I doubted it, as I was, after all, driving the winning entry for the 1999 Kenosha County Fair Demolition Derby...
The cop waved me through, shaking his head and muttering something to himself. I considered giving him a couple of bucks for a tip, but I still had to pay the registration fees for the race. I eased the car through the parking lot towards the pits. The gate-keeper waved me off to the side and I parked. I shut down the motor, hoping to hell that it would start again. As I climbed out through the window, a small group of people began to surround the car, racers and race enthusiasts alike.
"Yer sick, buddy..... that car was a classic..."
"Dude, how could you? I would have given you a grand for this car!"
"Nice ride, man, you'll win for sure...."
I walked up to an official-looking guy satnding by the entrance gate to the track. He was listening to a stock car race on a small transistor radio.
"Where's your pass?" he asked. I shrugged and he pointed me towards the registration booth. With no line in sight, I signed right in. It cost twenty bucks to enter the race and another ten for a pit pass. The lady asked to see my drivers license and made me sign a release form that stated that I was on my own if I got injured. Not once, at any point, did she ask to see a title for the car, which means, for all intent purposes, that I could have stolen the car and put it in the race. I pondered this as I made my way back to my car.
As I walked closer, i could see the work that was still to be done in order to qualify for the race, but I wasn't worried. I had made it past registration without any hassle, of the police nature or otherwise, and I had a few hours until the first heat. Plenty of time.
I climbed into the car and held my breath as i turned the key.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Aerosmith?
People still laugh at me when I tell them that at one time, Aerosmith was actually the baddest band in the land, albeit briefly. But they were, briefly in the early 70's while the Dolls and Iggy and Lou Reed we strung out, Pink Floyd had discovered soap, and Bowie was getting away with murder.
Back In The Saddle
Lord Of The Thighs
Come Together
I Ain't Got You
Mother Popcorn
Back In The Saddle
Lord Of The Thighs
Come Together
I Ain't Got You
Mother Popcorn
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The Black Flag logo in popular culture
Okay, just about every punk I know has the Black Flag bars tattooed on them (it was among my first, indeed). Just how far has the band's logo permeated into popular culture? Below is some compelling evidence that it is perhaps the most widely-recognized band logo EVER.
My Bacon
Bacon Flag
More Bacon Flag
Bacon Flag (still life)
Hot Dog Flag
Hot Dog Flag (detailed)
Atlanta Flag
Zack Flag
Balearic Flag
Pac Flag
Black Sabbath Flag
Seinfeld Flag
Pabst Flag
Loko Flag
Gaga Flag
Fries Above
Dr. Flag
Cat Flag
Black Out
Beach Flag
Cheese Flag
Beiber Flag
Snack Flag
Yak Flag
Brak Flag
Pack Flag
My Bacon
Bacon Flag
More Bacon Flag
Bacon Flag (still life)
Hot Dog Flag
Hot Dog Flag (detailed)
Atlanta Flag
Zack Flag
Balearic Flag
Pac Flag
Black Sabbath Flag
Seinfeld Flag
Pabst Flag
Loko Flag
Gaga Flag
Fries Above
Dr. Flag
Cat Flag
Black Out
Beach Flag
Cheese Flag
Beiber Flag
Snack Flag
Yak Flag
Brak Flag
Pack Flag
Friday, April 23, 2010
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