BIG WILLIE ROBINSON

There are a lot of people out there much more qualified than me to write this. I never met Willie in person. I never raced on the street or the track with him or his organization. Never stepped foot on his storied Brotherhood Raceway on Terminal Island at Long Beach, California.

There are several mentions of Willie and how his actions and words influenced me, on this blog. The influence was profound, to say the least, especially considering he was a total stranger. About a year ago, I decided to do something about it. It took some help, but I eventually tracked Willie down to a van in a parking lot, somewhere in the L.A. basin. My intention was to see about the possibility of an interview and thank him for having made a positive impact on my life. After a few minutes on the phone, he began to sense that I wanted nothing more than the truth from him and he began to open up to me. Over the proceeding months, we came to trust and even confide in each other, sharing hopes and fears, frustrations and celebrations, memories and future plans. Willie often called me from the waiting room in the Westwood VA hospital, where they were chasing down a stubborn infection in his foot, tweaking a pacemaker they'd installed, and generally trying to keep him tuned up. When I called him, Willie was usually in the van (he called it his "trailer"), in a Universal Studios parking lot, where boredom seemed to be draining him dry. It's been almost a month now since we last spoke. Willie died almost exactly 12 hours ago. But boredom didn't kill Big Willie Robinson.

As he explained it to me, Willie did a stint in Vietnam for the Special Forces, taking AK-47 fire on at least three occasions. Although he received his orders directly from the CIA, treatment for his wounds was provided at pedestrian VA hospitals (44 years worth of it). After returning stateside, Willie threw himself into street racing and came to see it as one of the few affordable goal oriented activities for disaffected L.A. youth, and a healthier alternative to gang life. The L.A.P.D. approached Willie during the LA riots for help and he managed to persuade a lot of people to look at the bigger picture and work for the common good. One thing they all had in common was an appreciation for a badass ride. At that point, the Brotherhood of Street Racers went high profile and Willie's connections with City Hall eventually resulted in the on again/off again drag strip at Terminal Island. While the gates at Brotherhood Raceway were open, street racing activity dropped dramatically. When the track was closed, locals became nostalgic for the more peaceful days of the riots.

We didn't get into how Willie met his wife, Tomiko. But I know that after they met and married, it was rare to find a photo of one without the other in the frame. I wrote Tomiko's obituary not too long ago. On the phone with Willie, I asked him about life without her. After a long pause, he answered in a semi-whisper,  "Tomiko was my life partner, my security, my everything. We were like Siamese twins. You know, in 2002, we worked together, providing security for U.S. Army intelligence. We did all that racing together. And after 38 years together, she died in my arms. It ain't easy."

Friends tell me Willie's physical decline began immediately after Tomiko's death and only picked up momentum from there. Willie told it differently. He said he was working with street gangs in New Orleans, and while helping one of them move a rollaway toolbox in a garage, it fell on his foot, splitting it wide open. Moments later, he received a call from the producers of the Fast and Furious films, asking him to come to L.A. and sign contracts for three new installments of the series, based on his life. Willie ignored his friend's pleas to get treatment for the foot and flew to L.A.

In Los Angeles, the studio supplied Willie with the van to live in (he'd lost his home after Tomiko's death) and he began consulting on the scripts. Friends drove him to the V.A. for treatment of his foot, but Gangreen had set in. The foot was soon amputated, followed by one leg, then the other, as the infection refused to respond to treatment. We discussed my wish to write his biography, but Universal now owned the rights to it and had two staff writers ahead of me on the waiting list. They told me I could write it if the other writers opted out for any reason. As of today, it's still out of my hands. That will work out however it's meant to.

Did Willie Robinson die of an infection, a broken heart, or some kind of negligence? A combination of the three? More will be revealed. Personally, I don't think it was any of those things. Willie told me, "In 1979, I was working with gang members in Chicago. Things were really bad and I didn't know if I was going to make it. Then God says to me, 'You still got work to do.' I told God I'd do my best, for making me Big Willie." From here, it looks like he just gave everything he had to life, until there wasn't anything left.


                             Snapshots of Big Willie from the Brotherhood of Street Racers website...

                                                             Big Willie and Tomiko

                        Big Willie (holding the Death Proof DVD) in the van that would be his last home.

                                               Willie's ride, in his driveway in Inglewood.

                                    Still preaching Peace Through Racing, just a few months ago.


And a few to illustrate the bare knuckle spirit that's been missing from America for way too long. These are Willie's children (over a million members, worldwide). They haven't forgotten and never will...

Every time we talked, Willie made it a point to tell me I was no less a veteran than him, just because I didn't see any combat. He encouraged my writing, drove me to work harder on my relationship with my girlfriend, and to make time for smelling the roses. And I'm just some stranger who called him on the phone.

Automotive Writers are Similar to Real People

  IMAGERY: Livin' the dream. REALITY: If I live to be a thousand, I'll never afford a Deuce. This car is built and owned by my buddy Dr. Lockjaw. I forced my camera on him and made him document the day I drove a Deuce.


WHAT YOU MAY HAVE HEARD: After all the fuss over my recent double deadline panic (which turned out to be a triple deadline before the clutch dust settled), it seems an appropriate time to shed some light on the reality of the automotive journalist. The popular misconception is that of an arrogant and wealthy playboy, shredding asphalt from coast to coast in factory-loaned supercars, then unwinding at poolside with exotic drinks and supermodels while lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills. While I've heard of a couple publishers who might fit that cartoon image, the actual writers I know live a lot like me. We pick up the dog poop in the yard and pay our taxes, barely existing on a job we're devoted to, just because we're hopelessly in love with the subject matter and the creative process itself. I can't speak for those other guys, but here's how it plays out for me.

WHAT I FOUND OUT: A friend recently suggested Stephen King's "On Writing" as an interesting read. She was right - I was hardwired into it from the opening line. For my tastes, it's much meatier than his fiction. Then I got to the part where King describes his typical day. I nearly dropped the book when I read that he has a dedicated writing room where he's not to be disturbed. He's generally in there from mid morning 'til early afternoon, five days a week, with his phone turned off, fully involved with crafting the perfect sentence.

WHERE I WRITE: I have a dedicated writing room. It's the spare bedroom in my girlfriend's house. It's also her dedicated computer room and doubles as a dedicated storage area and is a hotly contested dedicated sleeping area for our dog and cat. You can't imagine the traffic in that tiny space. Every minute is like rush hour in Los Angeles during an earthquake with Santa Ana winds whipping up one firestorm after another around us. Inevitably, our phones are both turned on, as we're both dependent on news from the outside world to do our jobs. The phones tend to ring a lot. At times, the cacophony exceeds a Jerry Lewis telethon call center. My calls tend to be a 50/50 mix of retired buddies hustling car parts, and pushy magazine feature hopefuls (or pushy friends or relatives of magazine feature hopefuls).  Yes, my phone has caller I.D. But I now have so many contacts, I can't remember my own number, let alone anyone else's. And any call could be the needle-in-a-haystack that can complete the puzzle de jour - I have to take it.

WHAT I ACTUALLY DO IN THERE: You've heard it a hundred times: "Writing is 90% research and 10% writing". It's true that research takes up about 90% of my time. Untold hours of chasing down photo ownership and getting photo permissions chews up a large percentage of that percentage. Another slice of the pie is gobbled up by processing, editing, and organizing said photos. The rulebook says I can't even count the time I spend cussing my lack of computer skills and chasing my tail around binary codes, HTML hieroglyphics, and other cryptic digital evils. I have to eat that lost time and chalk it up to the cost of doing business. And a lot of time is spent pitching stories to publishers and editors. This leaves about 0.007% for writing, which is squeezed in between the aforementioned distractions. Not ideal, but I'll take it. I crank up the computer upon waking (anywhere from 6:00 to 9:00AM) and shut it down just before dragging my dead ass to bed (between 1:00 and 3:00AM). I work seven days a week, holidays and all. Especially holidays. In the process, I've become a championship-contending power napper.

WHAT I DO OUTSIDE OF THE ROOM: The rest of my life takes place out in Realityville. Grocery store, parts store, Post Office - where everybody knows my name. The dog gets walked twice a day, so the neighbors and I know more than needed about each other. The mailman (another member of my lifeline team) knows I have a weakness for football. He has a stalker's obsession about it. I know he's breaking multiple Federal laws in his quest to keep tabs on every player and coach in North American college and pro ball. But I'm dependent on the daily mail and my guy delivers the news. He gets bonus points for saving me time reading the sports page of the newspaper.

You get the picture. I have a life. I'm in a long term relationship, which entails a lot more than just being in a relationship. I have many friends and we care about/for each other. I have a whole other life as a songwriter/musician. Meanwhile, my journalism workload is steadily increasing. I recently quit my gig at the local dragstrip to make more time for writing. This life is beyond the dreams of an unemployed chassis fabricator who was working part time manual labor gigs while living alone in his car, less than two years ago. I'm actually celebrating every noisy and messy distraction in my rich and full life. I savor every minute of my work and my play, which are one and the same anyway. How could life possibly get any better than this? Supermodels and supercars look like fun. I suspect both are high maintenance enough to quickly kill the buzz though. I'll never know. Ignorance is bliss. And I'm a happy guy. The luckiest guy in town.

  SNAPSHOTS OF MY REAL LIFE: 

 Spending some quality time with Sheila the Wonder Dog - my four legged reality slap and spiritual adviser.

            Playing music for a Saturday afternoon gathering of friends with uber fiddler Crystal Reeves.

                       Attending a friend's wedding with soul mate and life saver, Sweet Shellski.

                                                  Chasing a buck to pay for gas and food.

dedlinfvr epilog

wel tye dedlin has comee and gine and i survivred jut fiin. itslookink pretti good and i thinkg the publisher wil be happy with it. icna;t begin t thank al he peple that steppped up to mske it hapen, many of them totl strangers to me1 vey coll. gess i was worrited about nothimngill let you alll now what to look for on the shilves whn i get clarance from hedquareters the plan now is o take a showere, eat sime fod ad seep for 72 hiourts. ut heres a sneak peeek to wet you appetits...

Se yo nxt week&wit thelatest nerws fom teh bunker" scoyty

DEADLINE FEVER!

Guy sitting at computer in bathrobe and slippers: "The SGE blog doesn't have much new content anymore. This sucks. It used to be an okay site, but now this... what a #*^% ripoff."

Guy's Wife: "Oh Honey, that's so sad. But maybe it'll clear up enough time on your schedule to look for a job? If you get one, we can buy food and pay the rent!"

Guy: "Oh jeeze, I don't think I could do that to my Facebook friends..."

Hello, I'm Scotty Gosson, President of Scotty Gosson Exposed Industries. Sadly, what you've just read is a re-enactment of a conversation that's happening in millions of homes around the world today. I'd like to take advantage of this opportunity to apologize directly to you for our recent lack of content. This delay is due to current deadline commitments for our primary sponsors, CarTech Inc and Hot Rod Deluxe magazine. You all deserve an explanation and it's simply a nasty case of Deadline Fever. It's one of the rare negatives of the publishing industry, but one that affects real people, like you. You have my personal assurance that my crack staff and I are doing everything humanly possible to make our April 30th deadlines. Expect a thought provoking new blog post on May 1st, featuring behind-the-scenes poop on the issues that you care about most. You have my personal guarantee on that, or my name isn't Orville Redenbacker.

       Remember the shit storm that was stirred up when the manuscripts for these books were due?

Who could forget the SGE riots of 2010 and 2011? Those were dark times for sure, but I believe we've all learned some hard lessons and grown since then.


This time, I'm finishing up a swell new book for Cartech that I can't discuss yet, due to corporate paranoia. We're also deep into negotiations over the next book project, which promises to be a real blockbuster! While this is going on, I'm putting the finishing touches to a really neato tech story for HRD that you'll be referring to for ages. Sure, the tension and sleep deprivation are a little stressful, but it's a labor of love, because I'm doing it for you.

Graphic proof of Deadline Fever, from a study the University of Oregon Department of Departmentalization is conducting on the effects of this very deadline:

                                                   Subject (me) 7 days before deadline

                                                         Subject 6 days before deadline

At the 5 day mark, the doctors and students aborted the study and somehow escaped from the SGE compound. Some charges have been filed, so I'll likely be skipping a few blog entries to attend my court hearings. My apologies in advance for that.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make some more coffee and return to work. And at some point, I have to wash this bathrobe! Gack!

VIVA LAS VEGAS 2012 EXPOSED!

It's tense here in the bunker. Deadlines are bearing down with the weight of damnation. Coverage of my recent assignment to cover the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Weekender is due, along with the latest book for Cartech Inc. Perfect timing for a computer crash, which played out in spectacular fashion, scattering photos and documents to the cosmos like connecting rods from an overdosed nitro Hemi with a shorted magneto. My computer guy was impressed. I've spent the last seven days in triage mode, scrambling to replace the dead and patch up the wounded, while this poor blog suffers heinous  neglect. So here ya go. Fresh meat.

Las Vegas is already plenty surreal without 50,000 foreign  invaders (that's the number I heard) struggling to  place drink orders with surly/cynic bartenders who trip over their own English, let alone Swahili, Greek, Mandarin Chinese or the dozens of other unidentifiable tongues we failed to decipher at the event. The result was, at turns, festive, confounding,  joyous, even terrifying, but always touching - these people had journey'd from every crook and nanny of the globe to celebrate Americana with genuine American rock and roll musicians and hot rodders. The admiration was mutual, if often misunderstood, but we all just went with it.

I flew in a day early and checked into the Palms Hotel. The joint was crawling with vacationing twenty-somethings from Iowa or Ohio or somewhere, affecting expensive looks modeled after their interpretations of Entertainment Tonight red carpet highlights: Neon teeth, monster spike heels, just-barely-there minidresses and the latest styles from Super Cuts were mashed up and paraded through the casino like living advertisements for what must be Earth's last Playboy Club, hiding behind rows of crossed-arm security goons. Really. Either these people had been sold an empty package, or I'm completely out of touch. Shut up. The only shards of reality were down-and-outers jamming crumpled dollars into slot machines, while omnipresent overhead TV screens flashed updates on the last minute Powerball fever sweeping the nation. I ducked into an elevator and shot to the 17th floor to barricade myself in my room, cranked the SPEED channel to full volume to drown out the incessant blaring of canned Techno Beat musak, and fell into a deep sleep.

The Palms valet team was baffled when this unbaffled Model A rolled up, triggering dozens of car alarms. It sat for a long time while they attempted to start it. Six hours later, still no dice. Other than this amusement, I couldn't relate to my surroundings.

In the morning I rendezvoused with Hot Rod Magazine Publisher Jerry Pitt and worker bees Brandan Gillogly and Jesse Kiser at the VLV host Orleans Hotel. We set up shop in the car show parking lot and established another booth in one of the Orleans ballrooms. Jerry was there to sell subscriptions. Hot Rod Deluxe was sponsoring the event and I was its lone representative, since Editor Dave Wallace was stuck on a train in Canada with folk legend Ramblin' Jack Elliot (don't ask). I received a mountain of praise from readers for work that Wallace mostly did on the magazine. It was too weird. I packed up my camera and wandered into the crowd, at least half of which seemed to have bought into media-induced imagery of rock and rod stereotypes. But they were all having a blast, if blissfully ignorant of what they were really buying. Luckily, there were plenty of bona fide rod and custom hardcores there with enough cool cars to keep me engaged. I've already submitted my report to the magazine (Hey Hot Rod: Sorry about crashing your photo site!), so will share photos here that I'm confident they won't run. Online Viva coverage has already saturated bandwidth with the most popular cars, but there was plenty to go around. Check out Hot Rod Deluxe for the really killer stuff. Here's my leftovers... (Copyright 2012 SGE, GBR, SourceInterlink)

  These guys (unknown to me) provided an appropriate background score during their sound check, while we set up our booth in this ballroom and I experimented with my camera's light settings. Obviously, the experiment was a failure, but we all enjoyed the tunes.

  L-R: Jesse, Jerry and Bill (SourceInterlink subscription sales guy from Florida) converted some tables and cloth into a Hot Rod Deluxe Superstore.

 The latest (May) issue (featuring Les Brusatori's Willys) stared back at me all weekend. Weird to be on this side of it. People snatched 'em up as fast as we unloaded 'em. Many boxes worth. Cool.

Gretsch Guitars was one of our co-sponsors. They also had multiple displays and even gave away a guitar.

             The outdoor booth. L-R: Stunned fan, Deluxe Gals, Bill, uber shooter Wes Allison, Jerry.

 Brandan and Jesse had driven the Sailor Jerry Model A tudor from L.A. as part of a Hot Rod video thing (or maybe it was for Roadkill?). The roadster guys are from Mackey's Hot Rods, who built the A-bone. We were supposedly going to lunch, but spent most of the day shooting cars. Fine by me.

With Jerry wheeling the Hot Rod dually, Brandan and I took window shots while Jesse risked it all in the bed (mostly standing) . We may have broken a few laws maneuvering through Vegas traffic caravan-style, but it was all in the name of photo journalism.

 I believe Chinese Fire Drills are legal in Nevada, as long as you're not downtown and the day of the week begins with a 'T'.

All I can tell you is that the Mackeys overtook us at high velocity. We're only doing about 50 here, but are less than a yard from the crosswalk at a red light. Excellent brake test!

 Brandan and Jesse striking a studly pose. We were rolling right along, when the road abruptly ended right here. So we headed back into town for tattoos (hey, we wanted to blend).

Genuine Las Vegas tattoo artists, loitering around the Sailor Jerry car and the Mackeymobile. We were inside, getting matching flying unicorns on our shoulders, in observance of a day of male bonding. Not really. But I think Mackey got a Sailor Jerry logo on his leg.


Oh yeah, the Viva Las Vegas show. Here's some random photos.

             That's right - it's Duane Eddy on stage at the car show, with Deke Dickerson on bass.

                                                         Followed by The Ventures.

Even with 60-some bands at this event, picking our favorite was easy. This uninvited act was set up at the edge of the property, employing a gas generator to make the guerrilla performance possible. If you're not hip to them, their name will be revealed in Hot Rod Deluxe soon. This was lauded as their last hurrah, but...

                                                       What? Oh yeah, the car show.

                                             Business as usual at the Hot Rod Deluxe booth.

Of course, we weren't the only booth there. Without a wide angle lens, this tiny slice of the vendor area is all I could catch. Hopefully, you get the general idea.

 Jesse took about a million shots for Hot Rod. His primary assignment was to record crowd reaction to the Sailor Jerry car...

                                                 Everyone seemed to find it interesting.

After the event, I had an extra day to kill before flying back home. I spent it in my room, with the SPEED channel cranked to full volume to drown out the still incessant Techno Beat musak that pervaded every square inch of the Palms Hotel. For what it's worth, the tourists from Iowa (or was it Indiana?) seemed to thrive on the stuff.