Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
The State of Motoring

I would like to declare right now, on the internet, that the state of the Motorist is dying.  There aren't many of us around any more.  The ones that will enjoy a car in the raw, without the air conditioning, the non-leaking roof, traction control, anti-lock brakes, TPMS sensors, and all the things that the government has mandated to be on new cars and trucks that take the fun out of the powerslide or hitting a tree and charoming off the dashboard.  Instead, when we stab at the brakes of a new Nissan, we are left picking teeth out of the steering wheel because modulation is just impossible now.

People used to talk about how the oil smelled after it got hot, and how they fixed the screeching fan belt, or re-tapped the frame to hold the suspention in place because the bolt rusted and broke.  They used to be able to fix thier own damn cars.  Now we have mechanics to do that, 24-7 wrecker services to rescue us.

On that note, everybody needs to own a car that will kill them.  I don't mean owning it and getting rid of it, but keeping a deathtrap in their name all the time.  Cars that if they cook the brakes on a winding downhill mountain road will kill them, flywheels, that if over-revved will explode and cut through flesh.  Engines about ready to catch fire, wiring that exposed and bare, and rusty sharp metal that will give them tetanus.  Rat Rods are one way to go, and the way I probably will to, and then there's the sexier, classier way of Alfa Romeos.

My car may be broken, but I'll be laughing more than you,

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
The Go-To Guy

We all have that one person in our lives, the one that can do, will do nearly everything to make your life easier, usually at some sort of expence to thiers.  I've always kind of been this way, service before self, so that others may live, others first, above all kind of shit.  I will take time out of my meal, my swallow of ice cold milk, to help you on your journey.

I got selfish for a while, hoarded my time and wasted it here, in front of the LCD screen, listening to music on Windows Media Player, and got little out of it.  Certainly not anything I could remotely call a "life."  I think that's part of the reason I'm a mechanic now, fixing people's cars, not worried about making the commission, living off the hourly wage, more concerned with getting the job done right, and have the customer leave with a happy smile.

I'm back in that regard, helping others, annoyed by them all the same, but helping them.  People outside of work ask me for advice, help with their brakes, or their ball-joints, or electrical systems, or fueling issues.  People will ask me for advice on what car to get.  This has led to my very opinionated rants and raves about certain cars and engines and engineers and the dumb shit they sometimes produce.

I'm a Go-To guy again for automobiles.  After seeing the servicing needs, the general state of aging, and watching what becomes a fine Single-Malt versus Kentucky mouthwash.  People are asking for my thoughts on the subject.

I'm steadfastadely unsure about my newly assumed old position in life,

Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Trav:
New Car, And School Is Done!

So quick update from Williamsburg visiting the grandparents on my day off work. School was done a month ago, and Dad offered to get me a new car, so I'm getting that after work Friday. Will post pictures later, as well as what the car is, guess away the twelve of you who appearently read this(YAY readers :) ). Regular updates should resume as well.

Trav

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Skinhead, no boots

The electric shears took my hair down to less than a sixteenth of an inch today.  All the dead skin, shampoo build up, and plain ol' dirt fell off in chunks I'd rather not describe.  After nearly three inchs of hair growth, I'm a Skinhead again.

But I have no boots.  The Wal-mart brand I bought as a stand-by have given up, worn through in six months.  I miss them, boots.  The smells of the leather and ranky foot odor, the Dr. Sholls inserts, laces fifteen miles long, a tedious but loving process to fit them snug and happy to the feet and ankles and calves.  A good eight inch boot, with a steel toe.  Black leather, Combat boots.

So I walk around in my Guinness brand flippy flop thongers, and Converse All-Stars knock-offs, black, with formerly white trim.  These have holes too.  I don't roll my legs like I used too.

I'm still a skinhead, like I'm still a punk, like I'm still a child.

I've just been distilled to a mental rebellion of apathy,

Johnny Rumble