Yet Another Family Reunion

                                                This image has nothing to do with anything.

We never claimed to be the tightest family in town. But when my older brother Wayne uncharacteristically stepped up to mentor me from the age of 12ish, the two of us initiated a bond that only deepened over the years. Younger brother Mark existed somewhat on our periphery, yet was exposed to enough GBR Zen by osmosis to qualify as a bona fide Gosson Brother. Our sister Gaye was always a lively presence, while somehow simultaneously keeping a fiercely independent distance.

Brother Wayne read last week's SGE blog from his home in Nebraska and called with an idea to mutually benefit the two of us: He would fly to Oregon, buy my Bi Polar Bear station wagon, and drive it back to Nebraska. He gets his dream daily driver and I get enough money to rent some shelter for myself. Good plan.

This is about where everything usually comes unraveled and turns to a tragi-comedy. We have many, many stories like this, involving roadside repairs (often with police involvement), and unexplainable results. But this time, the plan was executed with military precision and zero drama. I drove my new Honda (formerly campaigned by northern California's Smith Bros. Racing) to Portland in four hours on a single tank of gas, picked Wayne up at the airport, and we hightailed it to Kiwi Metal Fab in nearby Vancouver for some intense bench racing and a great night's sleep (thanks, House!). The following morning, we breakfasted at Benny's Rod & Custom diner, in Vancouver (despite being joined by Benny hisself at our table, we still give the dining experience five stars). Benny even gave us a lead on a car that we couldn't resist checking out.

 Benny directed us to a vintage car lot in nearby Camas that was asking $3,000 for this '55. It's completely rusted to the gills. We passed, which is saying something.

        Wayne "Rocky" Gosson proudly poses with my Honda transport module at an I-5 rest area. He fell deeply in love with the spirited gas mizer, claiming it to be, "The car GM should build, if they really want to rule the world!"

After a mind-numbing DMV experience, we celebrated the Bi Polar Bear transaction by securing a Motel 6 room in the Medford area. This candid parking lot shot documents the first and last time these two Gossonmobiles were ever seen together. 

Also seen in the Motel 6 lot: Graphic proof that Tiburons - widely celebrated in sport tuner folklore - are not quite as fast as their owners would have us believe. Another legend exposed as urban myth.

The following morning, Wayne aimed the Bi Polar Bear at Winnemucca, Nevada. He arrived on time and repeated the feat at Wendover, Nevada, Rock Springs, Wyoming, and finally Omaha, Nebraska. The journey was completely uneventful, other than minor annoyances like an out-of-balance wheel, a loose steering link, a bent wheel, a rogue speedometer cable, and a wiper motor that detached itself from the firewall during a blinding thunderstorm. Mission accomplished!

While brother Wayne was enjoying the life of leisure on America's freeways, I worked like a dog at James Drive Studio and at Custom Metal. I couldn't spare the energy to photograph this week's recording session, but did so with gusto at Custom Metal, to prove my incredibly hardcore work ethic. I really need a vacation. One of these days...

In between this week's interruptions at Custom Metal, we managed to get some additional tacks on the tapered frame rails. Dr. Lockjaw demonstrates, while I supervise.

Still at the ugly stage, the 1" taper incorporated into the rails lend a graceful arc to the frame, which will be exposed from the cowl, forward. 

Roger Huffman brought one of his Model A pickups in for some tricky steering work. Doc didn't flinch.

Dr. Lockjaw (AKA Jamie Ford) goes over the game plan with Roger before busting out the tools of mass construction.

  Roger gives a steering shaft the skunk eye. You'd need a chainsaw to cut through the tension here.

In lieu of actual content (hey, it's been a crazy week), here's a handful of thumbnails to admire:

Thanks for your time. This last image will have to hold you until next week. I have a lot of work to catch up on. If I survive it, I'll meet you right back here in a few short days.

AN UNLIKELY FAMILY REUNION

What passes for wheeled sports activity in my new/old neighborhood. Before methamphetamine came to town, the streets of Medford, Oregon were ruled by extremely violent hot rods. Today, a two-wheeled street punk somehow equals three drunken Hells Angels. Gangway!

An unexpected family reunion of sorts has broken out in my life recently. Blood relatives were not invited though. This reunification honors my “other family”. At least that’s how I used to refer to them. In the last month, I’ve heard from each of the three principals from my Army days: Jon Neiss (not even sure that I’m spelling that correctly – it’s been so long), whom I shared an off-base apartment with; Tim Egan, who was my hot rod/drag race mentor of the era; and Biker Bob Crider, who, though a civilian, was our communal glue - much as Bob Skinner was to the Surfers. The four of us eradicated a lot of beer and drivetrain parts, while collectively stumbling to our individual futures. We last saw each other in 1975.

It seemed curious that these three characters would reappear at once in my life. Then I got a call from Dave Wood. Dave and I grew up mere blocks apart in the 60’s, became street punks together, and continued our adventures until I enlisted in the Army in ’73. We always referred to each other as brothers.

As one with a deep-seated belief that everything happens for a reason, I carefully searched these reunions for meaning before conceding that some things in life must remain mysteries. But now I get it: Don't forget where you came from.

When I took the leap of faith into full time writing, I did so with full awareness of the pitfalls. Submissions to publishers could be rejected like yesterday’s coffee, and said publishers have more pressing priorities than prompt payment for the work they do accept. I’ve been on the short end of this stick more than once now, but these instances were thankfully brief and far between. But immediately after being contacted by the aforementioned ghosts of times past, I found myself revisiting the haunts of my homeless adolescence. I’m living in my car now. The last time I did this, that meant the flimsy fiberglass bucket seat of my Anglia street racer. I was young enough to take it in stride then. Today, things are different. I struggle to get comfortable, even in the padded cloth seats of my Honda, and a super duty sleeping bag still isn’t enough protection from the night chill. All-night truck stop diners are still available for respite, but are fewer in number and higher in price. And I have no friends there anymore, other than the imitations from waitresses gaming for tips that I can’t provide.

The differences between “now” and “then” go deeper than the above examples, however. The biggest change is that, back when, “love and peace” was the mantra that united us street people. That ethic has been almost completely replaced with fear. Young roosters on Stingray bicycles and grey-haired bag ladies alike are now projecting a mean spirited and aggressive demeanor that would make Tom Waits nervous. Mental illness is rampant, and hopelessness reigns. None of this is really news, but the reality slap of it all has my attention. Have I really been so out of touch while toiling away in my little photojournalist world? Oh yeah. Big time.

So I decided to embrace my new/old family straight on and engage them in conversation. My hope was to express some empathy that might light up their eyes a bit, and maybe even garner some striking portrait photos for this blog entry. What happened instead was predictable: Enough rejection to fill a hundred publishing positions. In their defense, I must admit that all concerned expressed themselves clearly and honestly, which is more than I can say for myself. My selfish motives were to face my fears, prove to myself that I was an okay guy, and impress you with stark photos of the desperate people I’m now surrounded with – a perfect recipe for failure. An amalgamation of their combined responses reads like so: “Shut the fuck up and give me a cigarette. And gimme some money. And fuck off!” These are my people.

And so I found that I couldn’t photograph their faces for this family album. It felt like betrayal. Like exploitation. Chickenshit. This growth opportunity that has been offered to me hasn’t been for naught. I’ve already learned some ugly/beautiful truths about myself, and have only scratched the surface. More will be revealed. In the meantime, I’m working as conditions allow. I have computer access three days a week at the public library, for an hour at a time. The recording project at James Drive Studio has been productive, as has the weekly fabrication session at Custom Metal. I received a paycheck from SourceInterlink last week, and they owe me another. Once it arrives, I can go shopping for a room to rent and get back to a semblance of productive routine. Until then, it’s cold out here, but new teases of spring are appearing every day. I am a hopeful tourist in my own past. But (more blunt truth) I’m secretly anxious to turn my back on the unfortunates who walk my old beat, and to isolate in comfort. Thus I remain painfully human, but willing to grow, if absolutely necessary.

You’ve seen this backstreet on the blog before. I used to street race here, decades ago. I’ve used it as a backdrop for feature shoots, and it was a central location in Chris Darland’s American Thrill Ride film. Now it’s a quiet place to kill time for myself and other aimless drifters, during daylight hours. It should be avoided at all costs after sundown.

More small town landscapes (in the stead of human portraits), shot in a pedestrian hour around my 1966 – 1973 stomping grounds. It all looks the same, but everything is so different.

I’ve been spending my nights at this great rest area on I-5. It’s just past town (where most travelers have done their business), so traffic is light. These cars (my little Honda at center, with fogged windows) park in the same spaces every night. We nod at each other, but haven’t spoken yet - it’s only been a couple of weeks. For these few dark and quiet hours, we all know what to expect. Stability like that is priceless, in our situation. Bonus points to the plastic sheet duct taped onto the white Explorer, and the giant camper on the tiny Toyota pickup. The black Lincoln was a one-night-stand.

Like most urban areas today, Medford boasts a bike path running through town. Traffic is half taxpayers in need of exercise and fresh air, and half are crazed tweakers in search of victims. It’s open season here. We’ve had some ugly incidents (understatement).

Yet another old friend popped up last weekend, in a most unexpected place. My old sidekick “CC” sent me an e-mail with files attached. Imagine my surprise when I opened them to find these images of my scruffy old street beater on display at the Portland Roadster Show. Huh?! One of CC’s co-workers (at Steve’s Auto Restorations) was involved in organizing the show and needed more meat on the floor, so the old “Son of Godzilla” Morris was pried from hibernation in CC’s garage. It was too groggy to run (or even walk), so they chauffeured it to the show in the SAR transporter, which is much more accustomed to hauling around million-dollar perfection than this pie-in-the-face to such vehicles. CC took a lot of guff at the show about the “prima donna trailer queen” and decided to drive it home afterward, no matter how it ran (now that’s more like it!). SAR shop foreman Chuck Barr followed in his meanass Merc, and reported “cool flames” from the Morris’ 4” collectors all the way across town, providing a much better show than the previous static display. Color me baffled, but proud. I think.

I never thought I’d see this, if I lived to be a thousand years old. I love the novelty of it though!

Thanks for the use of your transporter, guys! Any fluids on the polished floor are CC's fault, not mine!

It’s showtime! Special thanks to CC and Chuck for promoting my book! I’m touched.

After years at Steve’s, CC is now definitely show savvy and even included the Rod & Custom feature story of our epic journey to Bonneville in his display (I love the oil drain pan book stand). Cool. Those Japanese Ansen Sprint knockoffs came from a crashed Nebraska sprint car. They look okay now, but required weeks of grinding and sanding, while sitting crosslegged on my apartment floor. They’re now paper thin. Every time I see them, my back aches.

Chuck Barr’s Merc illustrates an important point: Somewhere in the rod and custom continuum, everyone forgot what Mercs were about - their visual impact carried a threatening edginess that thumbed its nose at the “pretty boys” they later became. Chuck backs up the look with a stout Hemi. Perfect. It makes even the Pharaohs’ (candyapple) Merc look lame, in my biased opinion. The Merc and Morris surely strained some necks while blaring and flaming across Portland in the middle of the night.

Next week: Back to normal – hopefully.

72 Hours from Nowhere to Somewhere and Back

Last week, I went to the Grass Valley, California area to pick up my NEW CAR!!! Rick Smith (a longtime racer buddy, who now has my old Anglia race car - the "BTU") recently got a new daily driver and gave me his old one - a '98 Honda Civic (though it may be a Hyundai, or a Hyabussa, or a Dipshitsu, or something else - I have a lot to learn about modern cars). The Honda gets 50+ MPG vs the 12 MPG I'm used to with my Bi Polar Bear station wagon. My quality of life has improved by 38 MPG overnight, and those gallons don't even have to be real gas. You can probably burn urine in these things.

As luck would have it, Rick was delivering yet another car to a friend and was headed my way anyhow, so he picked me up and provided free transport to pick up my new free car! If the Big Three provided such customer service, there would be no more wars. Bottom line: Rick Smith = HERO!

Our trip to Grass Valley in Rick's pal's car (a Kia, or Lexus, or something like that) was uneventful, but for hours of adding greasy thumbprints to an enormous touch-screen, built right into the dash. We never figured out how to make it do anything, but we found it to be baffling entertainment, regardless. Picture two crusty old hippies playing a seven hour game of Pong at 70 MPH. We couldn't make the radio work, either.

                        We finally arrived at Rick's acreage at sundown and I clicked some images...

Rick worked like a dog for decades to build this place from scratch, in between electrician gigs and teaching in public schools. There was nothing but deer and trees here when he bought the property.

 Rick's new driver, parked in front of his house. I think the car is a Toyota Hybrid, whatever that is. It also has the Jumbotronic touch screen (with a full menu of beeps, bongs and blips), which is apparently impossible to turn off - very distracting while navigating rural twisties at warp speed. It has an engine, but it only exists to sporadically charge the battery pack. Bizarre.

                                      The garage, where I finally saw Rick's latest project...

Although Rick has built and enjoyed many a fine hot rod over the years, he always yearned for a car like the ones that people dropped off at his dad's wrecking yard, where Rick grew up. He picked up this veteran '33 coupe with unknown history and is now building a tribute to the cars that once spun his adolescent crank. The body was crudely chopped and gas welded together at some stage in its journey. Rick gets giddy just talking about it. He's having an absolute blast in this garage!

The following morning, we hit the local gearhead circuit to nab photos for various projects I'm working on. Here's some out takes of the day's adventures. I'm withholding hard data (and the best shots) until I know whether or not there's any money in these stories.

Our first stop was at Ken Stephens' shop. That's Ken in the top photo. The chassis is for a lucky customer's '35 Ford pickup. This guy has serious skills.

Ken won the weekend's Best Engine Stand award with this gem, which he even demonstrated for us. The Duntov 30-30 cam in this crate 350 sings a sweet song. Hopefully, Ken's neighbors are music fans.

Ken built all of the above '32s, and we couldn't find a single inch in any of them that wasn't worked to 100% perfection.  Ken hides plenty of clever trickery in each car to discover, too.

Okay, this Model A isn't quite finished to the above standards. But then, Ken didn't build it. Yet.

Mr. and Mrs. Bob Duncan were our next hosts. You might not recognize Bob here without his trademark black top hat. He's a regular on the salt, usually with the Buzzards Race Team '34 coupe.

But we came to see Bob's Willys pickup, captured here in winter hibernation mode. Bob's dad ran the old Duncan and Shores Willys A/Gas coupe, before they switched to the ex-Chuck Finders' pickup. When Bob found this truck in Ohio and discovered it was also a Finders (1980ish) build, he pounced on it and built a tribute to dad's rig. This one hammers both street and strip. Hard.

Glory-days leftovers.

We hit Bill Brothen's place just as he was formalizing plans to drive his '34 (with '33 door tops) to Bonneville. I can't wait to shoot this sano streeter with the Buzzards' nearly identical race version (now fortified with Hemi power) on the salt. Yes, Bill's a Buzzard, too. Membership is apparently a prerequisite for Grass Valley citizenship.

While we drooled on Brothen's tin, Bob Duncan rolled up in his driver. The '57 Ranchero does tow duty for the Buzzards. We were invited to stick around for some roadster guys who were enroute, but as you can see, the shadows were growing.

We walked in on Craig Wallace to find him doing that voodoo that he do. It's my understanding that Wallace did the body and paint chores on every one of the above cars (all steel, like the Deuce 3-window on the rotisserie), and I know he's done a zillion others. His work has been renowned for decades. But that isn't what he's most famous for...

Wallace built this A-bone tudor to win and it's one obedient sedan. He had already been a hero to me, way before we met and kicked off a dragstrip friendship, several years ago. I was even lucky enough to tag along for part of Craig's dominating Championship streak, and I still proudly wear the hat to prove it. Wallace has taught me more about racing than anyone. And I know he's sandbagging...

Some of Wallace's street cars. He builds them from scratch, alone - except for the late model ('56) Ford, which was a father-son build. Craig and wife Stephanie hit the road in style, as time allows.

For a fitting finale, we checked in at Paul and Shelley Andersen's, to help install the freshly painted hood (squirted by you-know-who) on Paul's '39 Ford sedan-convertible (yeah, that's a real thing - look it up). Paul takes some flack for the length of the build, but the wait will be so worth it! Shop photos don't do it justice at all. This thing is definitely studio worthy.

After such a grueling day, Rick's couch was beckoning to me. But of course, we stayed up all night jamming and bench racing, instead.

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! Ladies and gentlemen: Behold the 1998 Honda Civic LX!!! This magnificent machine has over a quarter million miles on it and is still tight as a drum, thanks to Rick's strict adherence to an anal retentive maintenance schedule.

                                              That name again: Rick Smith. Badass Hot Rod Hero.

Upon waking, I poured $24 of bargain-basement rotgut gas into the Honda and headed north to the Pacific Wonderland. Six hours later, I arrived home with a quarter tank still showing on the gauge! I can get used to this. Bonus: Nothing is stealthier than a silver Honda 4-door. I'm the Invisible Man. Nice.

One-handed tourist snapshots, taken at speed (by professional driver/photographer on closed course, of course).

I used up the remainder of the week searching for shelter, but finding none. It's still rest area parking spaces for me - which means no electricity, and therefore, no work getting done on my many writing assignments (This blog entry is being typed on a friend's computer, in a big sweaty hurry). But I did manage to get in some more work on the recording project at James Drive Studio and a bit of labor on the Model A project at Custom Metal...

Now Rob and I are down to the tedious job of mixing the album. There have been some long nights lately, but at least I have some excellent second-rate reading material ("Elapsed Times" is Car Craft's Hot Rod Deluxe knock-off. But it's a riotous good showcase for my favorite writers. Ro McGonegal is the Editor, so you know it's a paper party that pulls no punches).

Dr. Lockjaw and I closed up last week's framerail tapering pie-cuts, and tacked 'em down. Pay no attention to the Hemi-powered '53 Stude in the background. We'll do the finish-welding on these rails next week, then make crossmembers! I really like crossmembers!

Later this week, I have a meeting with some people regarding my new publishing company. Hopefully, next week's blog will feature some good news regarding my next step to financial independence. I'll also have some behind-the-scenes reporting on my new life as a homeless veteran in the modern age. Until then, take good care of each other and savor every moment you get.

This week's bonus shot: Scotty Fenn's gift to humankind, being towed up to the line. One of my alltime favorite images.