Happy President's Day

It's President's Day. So, Happy President's Day. I'll be off this week working on some stuff for you, but I'll be back next week. Till then, dig on it...

EL BRIZ, SR.

Andy Brizio is one of the greats of the early days of hotrodding who's still with us, God bless him. If you ever make it to the great San Francisco Bay Area somewhere between Thanksgiving and Christmas, let a brother know –– I'll make sure you get an invite to Andy's Annual. You won't find a better guy and a better hot rod family than Andy and his brood.

After all, you think a C-Cab and a racing stripe jacket could ever be pulled off this well by just a mere mortal? I think not.

IT'S T-SHIRT TIME!

Back to some new vintage speed shop t-shirt designs. I think you're gonna dig what's coming. In the meantime, step into the HofL store over to the right, there, and take a look at the shirts I've got up for grabs. But, on the other hand, sometimes t-shirt time isn't as nice as no-t-shirt time...

OH, C'MON...

...if you can't see the direct, heavenly connection between this shot and the bootyclap girls of today's lowrider and tuner shows, I can't help you, kid.

HOMEGIRLS AS UNICORNS

Look, I ain't the first one to be completely smitten by harcore cholas. The penciled-in eyebrows, the black cherry lip liner, the small fineline black/grey tattoo on her shoulder, the Alberto VO5 in her hair, the barrio accent...it's just too much, sometimes.

If it wasn't for those cholas of the Seventies, there'd be no Lowrider magazine--really, I mean that shit. These women--the real homegirls--are like unicorns: rare and when you come across one, you wanna keep her never forget that moment when you saw her in her natural habitat. But the problem is, you can't do that. You can't go out with her. You can't talk to her. You can't even let her know you're taking a pic of her with your hipstamatic. Or you'll ruin the whole thing. Just commit her to memory and play back the moment you saw her on the street in slow-motion in your head. Play some Zap as the soundtrack. Whatever. Just don't mess it up.

Remember Mercury?

I sure do. Damn shame what happened to that brand. Nobody should have to go out like that...

JUST CAN'T BRING BACK OLD DRAGSTRIPS

Been alot of talk lately about re-opening the glorious old dragstrips that we've all got these bitchin' scanned photos of on our laptops (I think this might be the old U.S. 30 Drag-O-Way?). Got a whole folder of this shit. And it's all awesome.

But here's the thing: we can't bring back the Glory Days by just cleaning up the pavement on these old strips and wheelin' out the old guys and misting up over beers and stories about what happened fifty years ago. What made those old tracks so great was that it was the Wild West every weekend, son. Anything went and it usually did. Hell yes, it was dangerous. Talk to any of the guys who were racing in the Sixties, like I have, and they'll tell you more guys died right before their eyes than they'd care to remember. But GOD did they do some unbelievable things and change the world and build some beautiful machines.

Look, I get it. The NHRA can't do what they do without all the safety stuff and the teams can't run without the corporate sponsors and we live in an overly-litigious society that allows a shithead to own a guy's Pro Stock just because he tripped over a wrench in the pits. And covering a quarter mile in under 4 seconds is impressive. A testament to ingenuity and the spirit of hotrodders, really. But this "Nostalgia Drag Racing" circuit that the NHRA and Good Guys have tried to cop as a real "throwback" to the Good Ol' Days just because the butt-ugly rails are running motors in front of the driver is some bullshit. The only nostalgia at those races is between the ears of the oldest guy on the crew. It's like laying down the cash to go to ye olde renaissance faire and finding that the fat chicks in costume and speaking the king's english just won't fully commit to the nostalgia because they just need to show off their shitty pagan tattoos and they have to wear their prescription glasses and they're not about to give up their Tivas under their burlap dresses. Gimme a fucking break. Like the dirt track guys' girlfriends' tube tops say: "Go Big Or Go Home."

To truly bring this stuff back –– and I do think it could be and should be –– is to somehow get a group of racers together who have the right attitude. That'll lead everything else. That outlaw spirit and fearlessness will ensure the right motors being built, the right paint to be taped out, repopped 'smoker' tires to be made once again, era-correct track surface to be laid down, the right push cars to be built, the right trailers to be made. Hell, there was real style back then that just doesn't exist anymore and I just know there's at least a small group of souls who 'get it.' And that's all we need.

BRING IT. Keep the modern stuff, but build a small, insanely dedicated circuit of lunatics who love the old stuff enough to figure out how to hide a modern fire extinguisher creatively. It'll be the "Mad Men" of drag racing. And that's all good.

OH...SHIRLEY!

You know what's even hotter than the chick at the bar who's all natural and smells good and doesn't have really shitty tattoos and can do hair-flips and drinks good liquor? A chick who drives 3200hp dragsters on top of all that.

THE TIE THAT BINDS

Doesn't really matter what you nerd-out on, custom cars and hot rods are just cool. And it's been that way ever since cars and Americans crashed into each other.

It's always the same, every time: I meet someone who asks what I do and when they say, "Aw, I ain't into cars...don't really know what you're talking about," a few questions and five minutes later they're talking about their first car or a trip they took or the time they got laid in the backseat or when they saw the captain of a starship leaning up against a neat dune buggy out in front of their house...

FIRST THING IN THE MORNING

I tend to do my best thinking as soon as I wake up in the morning. Well, maybe it's more accurate to say 'most clear' instead of best. But I'm working on some new shirts and other stuff, so stay tuned. I'll lose this train of thought as soon as the coffee pot is empty, though...

THE PRE-BANANA ERA

Arlen Ness's shop in the SF East Bay looooooong before banana-yellow '57 Chevy theme bikes and the scourge of the fat-tire nonsense. Good thing is, chopper culture is rediscovering what kind of bad-ass Arlen was back when the bobber style was fresh. Thanks to Chopper Dave for the shot.