Pimp my Ride?

Americans today are perhaps (no, they are) the most envied people on the face of the earth. Every society wants to emulate us for our clothes, our movies , and our cars. Our whole society is built around the mystique of the automobile , and we as a country spend more on cars than on any other big ticket item other than our homes, and sometimes our automobiles even exceed our dwellings. Just go to Casey County if you don't believe that. A new Tahoe costs a good deal more than a worn -out trailer. In my youth we always stood back in awe as Leroy Wilson cruised around town in his pale yellow Coupe Deville, and who can forget Lewis Coleman's 58 Chevrolet Impala , lowered 2 inches above the black top, lake pipes half opened and that 348 roaring with the threat of bad things for anyone bold enough to test him over on Short Pike. Uncle Johnny started out with an old 50 Chevy that met a tragic end when it ran into the back of a rusty , smelly manure spreader. Who would guess that only a few short years later he would be cruising around Jerrys in Bad assed Corvettes, looking up at the world from down in that leather cockpit, secure that Mr. General Motors had given him 375 horsepower spitting out its disdain through factory sidepipes . Nevermind that those sidepipes burned your date's legs with 3rd degree burns everytime she crawled up from the well where Corvette riders rode. Lord it was worth following the Vette just to see those girls get out. Couple a Vette, a pretty girl ,and a 1968 mini skirt and you had a lethal combination. Put Creedance Clearwater on the 8 track and John Fogerty took care of business. Proud Mary and 105 octane spelled the end of innocence for a lot of boys and girls. There was always the conflict of the Ford Boys against the General Motors Crowd, and then Mopar snuck in the scene. Cudas, Chargers , and Super Bees slinked in the parking lots , hemis roaring, and that old whiny Chrysler starter drawing laughs of disdain from Boss 302 drivers. Every once in a while fresh blood would roll in from out of town and cruise around the joints, maybe a Cobra, or maybe a Z-28 with Hooker headers nearly dragging the ground. They would always have a sex goddess riding shotgun, but she was just window dressing. That Cobra driver would consider her as just part of the package. Girls were plentiful, but Mickey Thompson series 50 tires were hard to come by. Most of the time differences were settled out on a quarter mile straight stretch. I saw victories and I witnessed defeats, as over-revved hot cammed engines would hurl flywheels and pressure plates up through the center consoles at super sonic speeds. All too often the racing shrapnel would maim or kill before Uncle Sam's killing machine in Southeast Asia . It was a simpler time,but it was a time of dread and anticipation as the Draft lay over the horizon for everyone. I'd come home from college on the weekends and stop down at my mentor, Danny Coffman as he ran a garage catering to just about any mechanical device. I would listen to George Jones as he whined out of Jack Mcwhorters 64 Galaxy's am radio. Even then I was wanting to listen to Steppenwulf and that Magic Carpet Ride but that was not to happen at Danny's place. Bugs King would cruise by in a big old Oldsmobile with white walls and chrome curbfeelers, Conway Twitty speaking of Little Darlin out of the audiovox 8 track. I was caught in country music hell. The haircuts were whitewalls with Vitalis. The boys wanted to know what college was like. It was difficult to tell them . My hair was growing longer every visit home, and our worlds grew further apart . Danny would ask me if I was smokin that old LSMFT, and I truthfully said no. Every once in a while I'd hear that 375 horsepower 67 Stingray rumbling down the road and I knew redemption was at hand . Uncle Johnny (he's my same age) would pull in, fillup with 105 octane and I'd jump in , both of us on our way to Danville and miniskirted damsels smelling like coconut butter.We'd wave goodbye to Danny and depart with the burnout and roar that only a brutal 375 fuel injected Stingray could produce, most of the time with Wake Up Maggie drifting out the windows , loud enough to compete with the burning rubber. The Vette opened the doors of even the most reluctant maidens ,and it truly was unfair the advantage the car had over the lads driving Dad's Buick. The only other thing that was a certainty was that if wev picked up new girls that were just visiting , then my name was Danny Coffman and Johnny was usually Charley Coleman. Strangely enough certain songs or perfume smells will evoke long forgotten deeds and times. If I hear American Woman I always remember how badly Danny Coffman acted one night with that nurse in her new pale yellow beetle, and who can forget the night Charley Coleman cursed the girl down at Somerset who jumped wetly in the Vette after the Midnight skinny dip in Cumberland Lake. I hope Danny and Charley had as good their surrogates.