Scotty Gosson Exposed!

Monday, June 24, 2013

SUMMER SOLSTICE SIGNS

An actual spring chicken, photographed during a coffee break at James Drive ~~Studio~~ Farm.

New England Dragway, last Thursday. Already sold out, this was the calm before the calamity. It rained, the track was narrow and bumpy, pits were overcrowded, there wasn't enough seating, and both port-a-potty and food/drink vendors ran low on supplies. More of this, please!
(Photo courtesy of Brian Lohnes)

June 21st marked the Summer Solstice. Action figures are now officially in season. Overcammed exhaust notes and protesting tire chirps are echoing through the downtown area every night. Creaky racetrack gates have swung open, nationwide. In fact, last weekend, I even got a rare opportunity to watch the NHRA Big Show on TV. Despite the producers' best efforts, I glimpsed vast sections of vacant grandstands in the background. I sighed and switched over to Facebook, where I read a notice that Brian Lohnes (see his interview on this blog) would be the track announcer at the inaugural New England Nationals this weekend in Epping, New Hampshire. From the opening day of qualifying, reports began trickling in of a different kind of national event - this one had teeth. Rabid New England drag fans made a statement of gratitude by supporting the event in a big way. The buzz was highly contagious and by Thursday night, the freeway clogged to a halt. From Friday through Sunday, fans covered surrounding hills and reports of indigenous railbirds displaced to trees and even phone poles were multiplying. The fever was not lost on the racers, who responded in kind with outstanding performances in every class. It was the most compelling Big Show I'd seen in many years, complete with an inspired and spirited race! I hope someone at NHRA was paying attention.

Mike Welch and Holly Felsen Welch, torture testing the 2013 Chevy Whatzit on the I-5 corridor. "The dash looks like it was stolen from the space shuttle. But the V-6 has some gow". So far, so good.

On Thursday, I got a call from Holly Felsen Welch (see her interview on this blog). Holly and husband Mike had flown from their Iowa home to Portland, Oregon for a wedding, but were willing to drive their rental car down to Roseburg (our halfway point) to meet me for lunch! I Honda'd up to Roseburg and finally met them in person for the first time. What a great pair of humans! This is another of the amazing connections that have been gifted to me, tax free. Holly's dad Henry and I began a correspondence in 1985 by pen and typewriter, and he encouraged my writing until his death in 1995. Fourteen years after that, Holly made her surprise appearance in my life. We now routinely compare notes on publishing, writing, and the finer points of building early Ford roadsters (Holly has a beautiful black '32 highboy). We caught up on each other's highs and lows over a leisure lunch, then Holly and Mike blasted off for the Oregon coast, in search of whales. And I floated back to the SGE complex on a warm pink cloud of gratitude for the relationships I've staggered into.

Holly took this photo of dad Henry Gregor Felsen pondering his next move in tuning the 216" 6-cylinder in his '50 Chevy. He souped the engine (dual carbs!) and repainted the body (gold metallic), as research for his Boy Gets Car book, which he dedicated to Holly. (Photo courtesy of Holly Felsen Welch)

Cutting through southern Oregon via I-5 in my first "reasonable car", a 1998 Honda Civic. That can't be right. What's happening to me?

Back at the luxurious SGE offices, I reflected on this spring's events. Thanks to the input of a plethora of very loving and inspiring people, several projects are now approaching closure. The first Gosson Bros Racing Library book ("Racing to America") is finished and ready to print (just need to finance printing); The first GBRL music CD is also finished and ready to mass produce (just need to finance burning copies and printing covers); Hot Rod Deluxe magazine coverage of this summer's events is now decided on and locked in (just need to finance travel costs); Meanwhile, three more GBRL books are finished and patiently waiting their turn to print, while new projects continue to roll in. Several outside contributors (all familiar names) have approached GBRL with promising projects of their own, for consideration. The budget crunch is the only negative in the mix, but has prompted me to consider major changes to my business and personal life in the immediate future. Stay tuned. The silver platter is heaped with promise and could tip either way at this point...

Alas, all was not unicorns and rainbows on the 21st. Summer Solstice is a dark day for blingsters, as the indoor car show season expired. But don't despair - help has arrived in the form of America's Wildest Show Rods, now on the shelf at your favorite bookstore and at Amazon.com! More on this momentous occasion, next week. Until then, memorize this cover image and ask for it at the checkout counter. It's a once-in-a-lifetime car show that will last until the paper disintegrates. (Photo courtesy of CarTech Inc.)

This guy has probably been interviewed on this blog. I just can't keep track anymore. (Photo courtesy of Rooster Cogburn)

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

CRUISIN USA - NOT REALLY

From 1977 to 1996, I made my home in Omaha, Nebraska - a surreal story in itself, which will wait for another day. I had come of age via seven-night-a-week cruising in small Oregon towns from The Dalles to Redmond to Medford. But Omaha boasted over 100,000 citizens when I arrived and adjusting to the scene there was akin to swinging from little league to the majors. My Omaha peer group would meet at a greasy little neighborhood burger joint, then make our way across town to the dense action on Dodge Street. During the '80s, Omaha brothers Mark and Scott Grimes were snagging national ink with their Pro Street cars and whispers of magazine types lurking around town were commonplace. And so it came to pass that an anonymous rumor monger planted an ad in the Sunday classifieds (our gearhead community lifeline at the time) touting a Car Craft magazine visit for their Cruisin' USA series. The Want Ad notice was totally unauthorized by Car Craft, and considered bogus by most locals, but that didn't stop a seething horde from creating a massive traffic nightmare, "just in case". The police were not amused and somehow managed to locate Car Craft editor Jeff Smith, who was actually there, embedded among the cast of thousands. The cops demanded Smith make an announcement (via police bullhorn) to disperse the crowd, but Jeff opted for a jail cell, instead. Journalistic integrity and the people's will were both served that night, and what an evening of hot rod mayhem it was - an exclamation point to the final days of free form automotive expressionism. Street racers performed for perhaps their largest audience in history, and at least one civilian vehicle was literally run over (luckily sustaining no personal injuries). We immediately paid for our sins with a firmly enforced cruising ban, which may still be in effect, for all I know. End of era. Due to statute of limitations guidelines, the details of the preceding story must wait until the passing of Jeff Smith or Source Interlink Media - whichever comes first.

By the time I arrived back home in Oregon in '96, my hometown of Medford had joined hundreds of other communities in the cycle of banning cruising, then later offering a one-night "cruise" in an effort to draw consumers back to their dying downtown districts. The fact that these so-called cruises were no more than parade routes didn't seem to faze anyone. Baffled, I entered the '96 Medford edition out of curiosity. I found the experience to be better-than-nothing at first, but ultimately hollow, but for a lingering depression. I drove my hot rod to a couple more of these, parked it at the far edge of the event, watched for a while, and drove it home. Then I quit going, altogether.

The participants in these events pay good money to be exploited and seem to have a great time. I'm happy for them. The community also seems to enjoy the show, and it does bring some much needed revenue into town. Today, I have accepted the fact that cruising as I knew it is long gone, period. We've all moved on. Today, garage crawls and caravanning to races are still honest grassroots car activities, and we enjoy several non-lawnchair car gatherings, many featuring driving events. The scene is different, but still kicking. There's plenty to smile about. Just don't call a car show or a parade a "cruise", okay? The dishonesty is too insulting.

Medford Cruise Weekend, 2013. Saturday morning, I was heading to Dr. Lockjaw's shop to work on my Model A, when a sudden compulsion to walk to breakfast in the park overtook me. This was the scene in the alley outside the SGE office backdoor at 7:00 AM.

They were setting up the show 'n' shine in Hawthorne Park, as I ate a six dollar plate of eggs, "cooked" by local Boy Scouts, none of whom displayed cooking badges on their uniforms. Livin' on the edge, as usual.

A local brought these stereo Cadillacs. Two approaches from two vastly different eras, both bullseyes.

The only real hot rod I found was this local street/strip big block Opel Kadett - built on a Model A frame, with chrome Anglia front suspension and '57 Olds rear. It's been wandering local streets for a long time, but is finally in rehab and looking better already.

Out at Doc's place, we kicked his coupe out of the shop and proceeded to fine-tune my frame rails in preparation of installing the front crossmember. Another productive day of sweat and grinding dust.

I got home from Doc's at 3:00 PM to find the alley jumping. Funny to see people affecting an elitist foodie/wine connoisseur persona in a back alley jammed with beer tents and taco vendors.

Typical examples of what was hyped as "Cruising, just like back in the day!" I cringed when I saw two customer cars that I helped build making laps (not shown). But, good for them. There's a reason we call these "Brown Sedans" ("Red Flags" might be more appropriate). Shot from the SGE office window.

My pal Ray Willet recently posted this shot of he and his grandson on Facebook. It looks like we're going to be just fine, after all...

Sunday was spent repenting for my snobbery in the holy temple of James Drive Studio. The Scotty Gosson Combo album is inches from the stripe and sounding good. At break time, Rob installed a fresh ignition in his driver.

And just for the record, while I drool over the cars, I don't care for Cacklefests, either. So there.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

SWIMMING TO VANCOUVER III THE SHOCKING CONCLUSION!

Flame on! Burning out while cutting to the heart of the matter. And worth every mile.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw only satisfaction. Fourteen days of jangling in and around the Portland/Vancouver area had been fruitful. I got a lot of writing done, savored reconnecting with old friends and making new ones, shot nearly a thousand photos, and survived the Lord of the Flies experience with Bailey and Murphy. All positive. The lone sour note was a nagging jones for my girlfriend Shellski, dog Sheila, and cat Bob. But that would soon be rectified.

I was cleaning up for a farewell dinner with CC and family when the call came. My cousin Darryl - an inveterate vintage tin sleuth - had made an amazing discovery in remote eastern Oregon. He called to insist that I cover it before heading south. A few frantic phone calls later, the secret photo shoot was locked in. All of that dialing had worked up a powerful appetite. Murphy and Bailey were snoozing on the couch when I silently slithered out the back door, driven by a hundred forms of hunger.

A true blue to-the-bone hot rodder, CC has a dirty little secret in his garage. The Super Beetle was his dad's daily driver for years before it did the same for CC. It's currently being prepped for a thorough mechanical and cosmetic freshening (its third, at least). "Don't worry man, there isn't even any film in the camera." I love digital.

Celina Clark ("Lil CC") ran time trial laps around the garage while CC and I bench raced. Her badass ride has custom paint and a high performance bell. Celina also has a fish named Sparkles.

The Son of Godzilla Morris Minor hasn't aged a day while in CC's care and I'm so grateful. True confession: The Morris reunion was equally emotional to the human ones I experienced on the trip. Lil Zilla is in need of some carb tuning and street therapy, but is otherwise ready to run nines. Sadly, neither CC nor myself have time for it right now. I hope it doesn't rot into the floor, turn to dust, and blow away - a tragic end for a storied veteran street fighter.

Late the next night, the Kiwi Metal Fab crew finally returned from New Zealand (and brutal multi-day layovers in Hawaii). Seconds after their arrival from the airport, two weeks of dog training went out the window. It was almost worth it to see everyone so happy. What a reunion it was...

In the morning I packed up and headed east - straight into the last vestige of the untamed west - and my own past. I stopped for lunch in The Dalles, Oregon - snuggled up to the Columbia river, in the shadow of Mt. Hood - where I was born and raised. It was disappointing to find the little town that time forgot, slowly affecting a tourist-friendly makeover. But enough of the old hometown remained to trigger emotional memories, pro and con. I aimed the Honda up into the agricultural hills beside the river and watched time melt away to reveal forgotten America. This is where my folks came from. My dad quit school in the fourth grade to help out on the farm, outside of Dufur. My mom was from Wasco. Both towns remain mostly unchanged today. Reassuring stability.

Any trip through the Columbia Gorge requires at least a cursory stop at Multnomah Falls (in background). This is where the memory banks began to stir...

As a kid, I found these barren hills (scrubbed clean of most life forms by non-stop howling winds) to be excruciatingly depressing. The epitome of loneliness. Today, besides wheat, they're also farming electricity out here. I'm proud of the effort, but feel empathy for the tireless windmills. They deserve a parade or something.

Candid out takes from the secret photo shoot. My hosts, Kenny and Debbie, alerted the neighbors that their car was being shot for a magazine, and I soon had an audience to perform for. Other than nearly being blown off a ladder by wind gusts, I didn't put on much of a show. But I got to hear a lot of great stories. Without giving anything away, here's a few more out takes...

This last shot is dedicated to the memory of Grandpa Clark (for CC).

With the shoot in the bag, I went south. Destination: Bend, Oregon. I was completely covered with heavy dust from the shoot, but didn't care. It was a great experience.

With Mt. Hood overseeing some green on the hills, things were looking up. How many miles had I put on these roads over the years? Many of them were spent testing flat-out on deserted straights for endless miles. Bliss.

One way to pass the time out here is to contribute to the shoe trees. Locals and tourists are artisan peers at these roadside attractions - by and for the people.

Bend, at last. I scored a great room at a Motel 6, right beside a strip club and a sex toy shop! A biker gang meeting was just breaking up as I arrived, but dubious behavior in the rooms on either side of mine made for cheap entertainment, all night long...

And finally, home to southern Oregon, via 97 South. Crater Lake, Diamond Lake, and Mt. Theilson all whizzed past my windshield, and presto - I was sitting here writing this. Glad to go, glad to return. Lots to do, as always. Stoked for the days ahead. Meanwhile, I'm savoring today. And so I remain - the luckiest guy in town...