Spring, 1993, Stone Temple Pilots Show

If you haven't heard of Stone Temple Pilots, that's fine. Just substitute STP for one of the hottest, sweatiest most packed live shows you have ever gone to and it'll all make sense, kids.

I'm not going to get into a debate about STP. I think there are two people: One who dig them and others who think they just aped Seattle Sound. Let's not argue that. Let's just say that if you're GenX you definitely rocked to Plush, Interstate Love Song, Sex Type thing... and many more tunes that are near and dear to my heart.

So, when STP came to the Mercer Arena in 1993, you bet your sweet ass I was gonna be at that Rawk Show! I'm a music snob but I couldn't wait to see frat boys who only knew two songs packed in and getting their lame asses rocked off just to hear Plush while they were high.

Well, turns out, it did't matter who you were that night. We all got our lame asses rocked. 

I had bought a brand new pair of Chuck Taylor high tops, the only size 13s in the city, just for the show. Chubby and Tubby on Rainier (like Sir-Mix-Alot but a rocker) for $24. I was ready to rock. The usual "Goddamned Rockers" piled into my 1979 Sleeper Camaro and cruised downtown to the Mercer Arena for just another night.

This is not the one shoe I had left. It is a representation.

It wasn't just another night. I'm not even sure who opened for STP because everyone was jockeying for front row to see the DeLeon Brothers and Scott Weiland. I was about 2 or 3 people deep and the lights went dark. At first it was quiet and then the crowd started to press. Scott steps to the mic with a megaphone in hand, into the microphone, with his inimitable voice says, "I aaaaaaaaam smelling like a rose......."


I aaaaaaaaaaam!


The lights pop on at the exact same time with red shining down on his red bleached hair and the place feels as if someone just vacuumed packed us all in this place and time to have wallets stolen, asses grabbed, nuts kicked, sweat swapped, and smiles and singing above all.

I am not a small guy, even at age 18. I swear to you, ½ way through the first song someone stepped (I'm sure purely on accident) on my right heel, removing my brand new right Chuck T. I immediately tried to go to ground but the pit was so packed, I was able to raise my knees to my chest! There I was suspended - lifted as if I were a 2 year old... an odd feeling for a "grown man".

Before I can even try to shimmy down the sweaty arms to my beloved, new Chuck T, I see what can only be MY Chuck T being thrown over our heads at the drummer. The person missed, and it sailed over his him. There goes $12! But it isn't just $12 because nobody is selling me one size 13 Chuck T high top. The meter is still running kids - I have my brother's Eddie Bauer watch to lose still - absolutely no idea where that one went... no idea which song, whether the first or last one.

Also, to win the Big Rock Show Trifecta, and only after the show was over and my beer soaked right sock (It was a Nike mid-cut with blue Swoosh™) and badly bruised heel, arch, toes and top of foot.... as I hopped out of Mercer Arena on my left foot - Seattle blessed us with its famed gentle downpour. 


Adam the Goddamned Rocker with my cold friend Mat

Picture Frogger but instead someone who still had to drive all his friends home in his $400 Camaro - which for some reason everyone envied but they never had to get their hands dirty. Denon pull out cranked the tunes, I added up my losses and our ears ringed all the way home. 

I did try to ask politely to get my shoe back after the encore... you can guess what the stage crew said to me.

And I was happy.

They Day Flamin' Amy Died (And I Almost Did Too)

Hello, Lovers. I've had ten emails just in two hours - ridiculous for a post from this rat-trap blog - wanting to know about my near death experience. No, I do not think this is gruesome or prying. Now keep in mind, because I am a Norwegian Viking Warrior, no scars nor blood was shed in my near death experience. In fact, I only woken to permanent, catastrophic pain on September 29, 1999 at 3:15PM on a clear, sunny day in Seattle.

First, one should know that by age 26 still nobody has ever trained you on what to do when a 1990 Kenworth from CTI (complete with second trailer) full of broken cement is out looking for trouble. You yourself don't have to snort cocaine to be effected by it. So if you send email questioning what to do after your spine is inevitably turned to liquid I do know now. Teachable moment.

On that afternoon I was driving home on Highway 167S which is a known gridlock generator full of semi trucks and people driving to Auburn or Puyallup (or the "Paris of Washington" as I like to say). Other trucks on the road are jacked up accidents waiting to happen, built up as if there are no paved roads just 20 miles south of Seattle. My 1979 Dodge short bed was just a plain ol’ pickup. You know, the kind you use for work and not to feel manly about or compensate for a lack of understanding physics.


I don't remember this. Three days after, I shouldn't be walking. Then, I couldn't.

Predictably, after driving 55MPH for about 5 miles the gridlock grew and I came to a stop. My arm was out the window. The stock AM radio was playing “Greatest hits from the 50s, 60s and 70s” and I was listening to chatter from truckers on the CB. C’mon! Great day right?

As I was singing along with Manilow I glanced into the rear view mirror (as all good drivers do every 5 seconds or when coming to a stop). What befell my Rootbeer Brown eyes was a Silver Kenworth dump truck about a mile back coming at me quick. What caught my eye was the second trailer visibly jack knifing. Not good.

Highway 167 South is 3 lanes in its direction. The carpool lane is on the left. The “fast lane” in the middle and the “slow lane” is to the far right - the lanes were in the right place but as usual the drivers were not in their proper lanes. I was in the middle lane and there were no cars behind me.

I can see the driver correct for the jack knifing trailer and then wheel from the center lane into the carpool lane but there is a car right along side him and he veers back towards me and that’s when I knew I was going to take a massive hit. The driver had made the choice to rear end me rather than crush the car beside him into the divider.

I had time to actually consider getting out of my truck and making a dash for the grass and trees on the side of the highway but quickly reasoned that the best protection I had was the Detroit Iron I was already in. I took one more look with my own eyes out the back window. To keep from adding to the change in velocity I was about to experience I threw the truck in neutral, let off the clutch and brake (not unlike Obi Wan lowering his light saber when facing Darth Vader) and heard Manilow sing to me,  "This ones for you," and said, “SHIT!”


SHIT!


By that time, it was lights out. Cocaine Kenworth crunched to within 3 feet of my body/head and had wiped out over 20 cars before I “awoke”. I don’t know how long I was out but there was not one thing in the cab of my truck bolted down that wasn’t thrown lose, including me. The initial hit had my head knocking out the rear window immediately followed by being pushed into the next car in front of me, knocking my big 6’3” 240 pound lifeless body into the steering wheel. The steering wheel bent at 90º and left marks on my cheek bones to this day. Still, no blood or tears came.


Courtesy rear window pop out via head.


This Norwegian oaf was shook out of it first when one Washington State Trooper, one Kent Police officer and one King County Sheriff were gently pulling me out of my truck. I only remember apologizing for being so big. When asked for my address I gave them a mix between my childhood homes and my childhood best friends home, none of them current in more than a decade.

I remember hearing one of them saying, “he’s dead.”

And that is where Adam 2.0 started. The shock of running 6 minute miles and dunking basketballs and lifting cars off people - gone in the blink of an eye. My brain is still sure I can do it, alas, it cannot. Think of every possible physical pleasure you enjoy - diminished by 50% or completely - forever. 26 and life to go, Mr. Smith.

The good side.

I remember coming around and saying, “I’m a hero!” That’s just my style - supposed to be funny in dire straits and I’m glad my brain quickly filed back to a good place despite a severe concussion and spine completely on fire. My body tightly strapped down to a board to prevent further damage, including my head taped down and on the floor of a speeding ambulance I remember my back hurting so bad my hands felt cold. I spent what mental faculties I could focus on by reassuring the medic. I asked him if I was in a General Motors vehicle and what engine was under the hood. He replied that it was inconsequential because the semi had wiped out over 25 cars and there was no traffic between us and the hospital.





The bad side.
Some details for your pleasure. Tailgate at 45º angle.

Use your signals. Give a semi 5 seconds of signal before changing lanes in front of one. Finally, submit to the fact that even if you do all these things and the driver is coked up and jamming gears that he is going to do some urban renewal on your body. 

I suffered three burst discs, L3-L4, L4-L5, and L5-S1. These immediately were the thing that set my spine on fire. The concussion, which was only termed "severe" made my whole body flinch every time I blinked my eyes. Newborn Adam, brave new world.
I don't remember this. (Taken three days after accident)


Anesis Pain Clinics - A Pain in the Anesass

My close friends all know that I am the survivor of a Near Death Experience (NDE). In 1999 while sitting in my 1979 Dodge Truck, which I loved, a semi driver high on cocaine plowed into me while he was doing 55-65MPH. This changed my life forever.

I'll describe the action packed event in a different blog (because if you do survive, only to be injured badly it is kinda exciting to think back on - if only it was a ticket to ride the most violent thing I think I could have experienced behind the wheel of a vehicle).


As you can see, Flaming Amy's thick American steel is a bit wrinkled. My head knocked out the rear window.



This truck had no damaged body panels on it before contact. The tailgate was flat and straight.


Today I'd just like to write about my experience after my beloved doctor retired after 17+ years of saving my life, keeping my body moving with as little pain as possible and generally just being a super person. Dr. Edward Hartzler is no longer practicing and I hope he has his toes in the sand, sailing his boat that I helped make payments on over the years.... maybe even building a nice bungalow with his own bare hands because he was that kind of guy. He also has a rarified 4.85 star rating since practicing medicine in Washington State since 1973.

Anyway, onto Anesis Pain Clinics.  The news you hear about opioid nastiness and overdoses and deaths are not in question by me. People who use them for fun times are playing a risky game. That being said people who are prescribed them because of nerve damage, severe spinal injuries or severe maladies such as cancer or other horrible, godless diseases do not get high off these opioids. It helps them manage their pain so that they are able to function, as best they can, dealing with life. Some, it helps be more physical (thus able to manage weight and do work), others it helps get along with family and friends or to sleep.

I'd wager that Anesis Pain Clinics will end up causing more harm than help to their clients, in the name of the almighty dollar and not doing their due diligence in listening, customizing and contouring their treatments to different cases.

I'm one of the people in the latter category. I have nerve root compression on two levels of my lower spine thanks to Mr. Cocaine Kenworth of CTI in Kent, WA. That truck still is driving by the way - I see it once or twice a month. Good on Kenworth for building such a tank; Kenworth is a Renton, Washington company and I take pride in that.

Opioids do not make me loopy, make my hair stand on end or give me a high. They do a job that surgeries, electrostimulators, IDETsmicrodiscectomies and myriad other treatments have not accomplished: Relieving people who suffer chronic pain due to an injury.

In this way you'd think your Pain Management Doctor would work with you when you spent  5 years trying all sorts of plans with your doctor team to find a balance between slowly killing you with nasty chemicals and you killing yourself because pain is so constant at best and at worst will put you onto shock and drop you to the floor (think Captain Kirk when he's beset upon by some superhuman alien with the loud screechy noise bringing him to his knees). Yes, it sounds funny but in real life it is shocking, painful and the cherry on top of the shit sundae, embarrassing. Followed then by having a nice 15 year run of life.

Anesis Pain Clinics have no interest in helping the latter. If you're injured, too bad. Their aim is to use guidelines set out by... someone.. to be your drug dealer... and hold back until you are on the razors edge of pain. So, all my fellow Square Pegs, prepare to be pigeon holed into a round receiver. You will be assumed to be at risk, assumed to have nefarious reasons for requiring pain assistance even when armed with 15 different MRIs from neurosurgeons, spine surgeons and overwhelming evidence from just about any venue you can imagine.

For instance, I recently tore the meniscus in my knee and will be going into the University of Washington Sports Ortho to have it repaired. My doctor at Anesis told me that they'd want me to stop taking my meds for surgery. She didn't consult the UW, call my doctor, verify my injury (either of them) she just told me to stop taking my pain meds. Cold turkey. I believe this was the most inhumane thing I've ever experienced including being rammed by a 180,000 pound semi being operated by a cocaine addled driver looking to do some urban renewal on Highway 167 in Kent, Washington. Lack Of Communication! (This to to keep you entertained).

My doctors at the University of Washington, of course, said, "no such thing!" 

So, I am about to make my second visit to Anesis. I fully suspect to not be listened to, to be tracked further onto their agenda to be yet another copay, another gateway to take your money only to be treated like a common criminal from these licensed drug dealers armed with the backing of?

I hope you haven't ever needed to make the decision between long term liver and brain alteration and being able to walk, work and function. But if you have, this is one chain store you can skip out of hand. I try to avoid Wal*Mart type operations but I am treated more humanely and kindly at Walmart, by strangers as well as employees!

I do believe I was stuck behind my pain management doctor on the way to work today.


////////

Post appointment followup.

PS - My doctor, a Xi Chen, mis-instructed me two weeks ago and to cover her mess she walked out of my appointment when I followed said instructions. I hate to tell you my fellow injured and chronic pain sufferers, there is no help for you at Anesis. You will be treated like a McDonalds Drive-thru except there is only one thing on the menu: Working you down to being in pain but still come back and pay copay after copay as they are The Purveyors of Vice for Profit. There is no other explanation for their behavior, ineptness and complete lack of sympathy.

Seattle Summer, 1990, The Airport

Nothing good ever happens after 1 AM.

Well, that's a credo, if you can have a credo, I live by and is mostly true. At least by my measure. But this night, I recollect from age 17 in Renton, our clocks were probably pushed more to the two or three AM time line. So, I won't name whose idea this was, but we all agreed it had to be done so we are all culpable.

So we hit the road. At that time, driving from Renton to SeaTac Airport may as well have been Mexico. A few of us drove V8s, but regardless, from an "Iron Duke" 2.5L, to a minivan, to a V8 “Pony Car” lets say, gas, as always equaled money.

When you're 17, at least on Benson Hill, you stop playing hide and seek. Even at this age, the dawning of the Internet, better communications, and some boundaries that we could not see, didn't matter a hoot. We had CB radios that could reach out 5 miles, 50 miles 500 miles, 5000 miles. Communication between myself and my friends was not a problem in 1990.

So we decide the airport has to be played. I can't remember which people, how many cars, or the exact date but I do remember we paid for parking.

There's not much traffic after midnight even today. So, say, you were to hop in your car, drive to SeaTac Airport, park and walk inside and have free reign of the whole place you might make that drive today, just for fun!

Back then whether anyone harbored any ill will for my country or not, the airport was a safe place to be. Or so we felt.

Since 17-year-olds don't play hide and seek, we played "manhunt.”

Manhunt was “hide and seek". When you're 17 jacked up on energy, running with friends, and at a giant airport in Seattle, you go all out. Just a few memories are: Being exhausted, hysterical laughter, not being seen by any of the airport employees whether physically or on camera… and while running down one office space going into a giant board room and plucking an ice cold Coca-Cola out of the biggest iced container I've ever seen for pop. As far as I know taking a few cold Cokes from a meeting that was either done or soon to be happening was the only thing we did that could have been of consequence. Let’s call it 1:30AM.

We were just thirsty and it was there. I do recall being chased and chasing friends with so much space in between us, even with youthful speed, that when someone cut down another aisle, you were too far away to really tell whether it was the next one or the second from the next one.

I am serious: not even an "hey kids!” Nothing! For an hour, maybe two we took trams, we ran down concourses, went through offices (because we were either running away from or chasing someone), until we had all given up we're drinking down Coca-Cola's for free.

Well, they weren't exactly free. I think we may have paid 10 bucks each car to park there. I say we got the better end of the deal looking back. Hell, the parking may have even been free. In that case, karmically, I’m still ahead.

This is not a challenge to 17 year olds today, had there've been a TSA back then it's quite likely I’d have a minor Federal record. I've been caught speeding before, nobody is immune to the immutable laws of average. It's just that at that day, at that time and at that place, we owned it.

I'm pretty sure we raced our cars (and the "Speed Tax") all the way through the valley back to Benson Hill.

*Apologies for the typos, they're fixed. I imported this memory off a Commodore 64 and wanted the raw text at first. It is now... proper. - acs

The Dufferin, Summer 1992

Fall 1992, Vancouver, British Columbia.

Myself and three other cohorts went up to Vancouver to support a couple friends of ours who were playing on a soccer team in a competition up there.

We were far from world travelers, but when we reached Vancouver we cruised around looking for a hotel where we might have a base of operations for the weekend. But not after filling up for what we thought was an outlandishly good price of $1.13.... but it was per liter and not gallon... we were 19, C'mon!

Four Jovial, 19-year-old, fresh face boys and one girl piled out of my friends car, a new Volvo sedan that was "The slowest car I had ever ridden in", into a hotel called Hotel Dufferin.

I was the only one with the debit card, so I paid. I wasn't much of a carouser at that time so I stayed in the hotel room while all the rest of them went out and had fun on the town where at our age, we were able to drink. I got a couple Cokes and watched Into the Eagles Nest while they partied.

We were very welcome and eyes seem to follow us everywhere as we all piled into our room and did our thing. I didn't feel we were being watched because anyone knew we were American or acting in any peculiar way.... there was just a lot of interest in us. Later that night, through the bottom of our floor, we could hear what sounded like a dance floor thump thump thumping away. It wasn't rock, it was louder than I was used to and I'm a metal head!

Everything was still copacetic until about three in the morning when one of my friends returned drunk on his feet to our room. Even though he was only two blocks from our hotel he needed a cab to get home. The cab driver laughed, pulled out off the curb and then immediately back to the curb and dropped him off. Easy hit.

It all fell into place when we woke his hung over self the next morning and the first thing he exclaimed was, "we have chose a gay hotel!"

The open arms for us received from other customers when getting a room, the eyes upon us as we walked through the hallways and in and out of the building. I can only imagine what they were thinking of the five kids in one small room! I'm pretty sure we were not in risk of have a piece of our asses taken but it was a time for action - we needed to drive further north to get to our friends match anyway.

We didn't have any run-ins, and we had nothing to gripe about when we left the next day… Except a few laughs at how innocent we were staying at what was obviously a well-known local haunt with tight pants, only men and many mustaches.

I still have the receipt somewhere, as a Momento of the night us five really tight friends (unafraid to swat each others asses and zero fear of our sexuality) packed into a room at a huge gay hotel.


Ah, The Dufferin (Doo-fer-Aaa) silent n. I'd go back, the cable was free.

Summer of '93

Summer, 1993

I had just started a new full time job, freshly out of high school and attending community college. I was hired on at Denny's Chevron on 192nd and Benson Highway in Renton, WA. At this time I'd call myself about "shade tree" as far as hands on mechanics go but an above average understanding in things mechanically related.

My boss was "Wes" and working for him, there was nothin' that couldn't be done. What he lacked in tact and reading ability he made up for in wizard-like mechanic ability. He rebuilt Rochester Quadrajets ™ or Carter Aluminum Four Barrels (AFBs) hell, any carburetor in 45 minutes. If you have never seen, heard of or worked on a carb, look one up: They're complex.

Under Wes' tutelage I became not quite a master mechanic, but became an accomplished mechanic who was instilled with fearlessness that only true gear heads develop, minus taking classes. I went on to be the "Van Man" as vans are a pain in the royal ass to do tune ups on, generally. Their engines require contortions that Wes just wasn't gonna put up with, the lanky 20 year old me grudgingly knew when a van pulled up - Wes' eyes sparkled and he'd smile at me with his missing tooth prominently... I was gonna bleed.

My eye got better at knowing how much to bite off one Sunday. The shop was closed Sundays - I was working so that meant my '62 Chevy 2-DR street racer and classic was in the garage but it didn't need nuthin' done, minus friends and fellow weekend road warriors stopping by to talk shop or ask for a hand.

My 1962 Chevrolet Biscayne 2-Dr and a pal I sold it to.. waaaaaaaah!

And out of the blue, and rare for a Sunday, a guy called in from outta state and was desperate. He needed a new water pump on his Chevy Truck or he was stuck in Washington! Well, he may think he didn't want to be stuck here but I sure as heck wanted to help him get his California butt back to California.

"Shops Closed," I told him. But he was desperate.

He told me it was a V-8 and I thought, "oh hell, I can do that."

So I told him to bring it in and give me three hours. At that time I could swap a V8 water pump in 30-45 minutes if pressed so that'd be no sweat.

He walked in, handed me the keys and off he went!

I was confident. All the tools, great air powered stuff, lifts, disposal, anything you could want!

I pulled the truck in and popped the hood and dove in. Radiator and fans, pullies, etc off. And I see the water pump. It's odd lookin. It's a diesel!!

I had never done more than an oil change on a diesel motor - and a water pump on a diesel Chevy 350 is much more time consuming and involved than a gasoline Chevy V8.

But I was proud and fearless. Yeah, I was sweating now now, between the summer heat and the dawning realization of the task that I just bit off was more than I could chew.. and definitely above my pay grade. Due to my childhood I knew it was on me and there was no internet, no phone line and nobody home to help me.

I was alone at the gas station half way through a job on a Sunday. Real quiet. Only success or humiliation could result.

I got in my car, locked the place up (it was open 24/7), and bombed down to the auto parts store. I think I turned a 13.1 ET as I banged home top gear and the roller rockers on the hood of my 283 with 327 cranked hotted up motor responded to my needs and at the same time soothed me with its silky smooth power.

Long story short is I got it all together, test drove it, and it all ran fine. I only charged the guy what I quoted (about 1/3 a diesel job) and off he went. I lived weeks in some pretty deep anxiety waiting for the long distance phone call that I screwed something up.

And some nights, like tonight, I wonder where the truck is that I most certainly over torqued the bolts and Permatex Blacked™ the water pump back on to and smile. I'd bet $100 he never had another water pump problem. That's the Smith Quality Guarantee™!

This story popped back into my head as roughly two weeks ago I was woke from dead sleep to hear a V8 being broken in about 3AM. It was revved loud and long and there's only one man on the hill I can think of that'd have ability, balls and "I don't give a shit" attitude is Wes. I'd bet $100 it was him. There is a art to mechanics. Yes, it is technical but when you can hear every part moving, time your beast by laying your hands on the distributor - not unlike using the Force instead of the timing light - it is as close merging with a mechanical, non-biological entity that I've experienced. Including Cortana, Siri, or whatever half-assed assistants we're stuck with today.

I smile thinking that. But if it was just any dumb ass that woke me up with breaking a new camshaft in, miles and miles away with extended 5,000 rpm, uncorked exhaust revs, I wanna beat him.

Pulled off a Hail Mary Christmas mechanical miracle before? Tell me about it in the comment box!

The Dual Fart Can - Inept Driver Conundrum

I'd like to start this out with some bonafides and because my life is an open book, share a story or two. I will then explain my exasperation at completely incomprehensible loudness of the slowest vehicles on the streets, peoples inept driving skills and offer some solutions. Most of them will be legal.

Yeah, I may sound like an old curmudgeon and my street racing days are waaaaaay behind me. My fast cars all sold for an "adult" modern sedan that is not exactly slow, but definitely not fast. 

My first car was a 350 cubic inch V8 (that's 5.7L to you, kid), 4BBL carb, dual exhaust, M-22 4-speed Camaro Rally Sport. I bought it before I had even learned to drive a stick - I taught myself. The clutch was non-hydraulic assist like cars today - just a big ass heavy spring that probably was more work out than I see most people do when they're working out their legs. 
With a 3.55:1 rear diff the car had a perfect mix of launch and legs. Redline in 1st was 60MPH - and the Hurst T-handle shifter made the 2nd - 3rd shift a fast, pleasant "snap" and into the wiggle of power coming back on in a blink.

I have no idea why my mom let me buy this car for my first car but bless her soul because this car is what led to my understanding of how the internal combustion engine worked - from start to finish. 

So yeah, in high school I worked 40 hours a week for an "honest" job but after midnight was when I made most of my cash. The job was merely a cover for my avocation of a little tomfoolery while rock music blared out the windows and the CB used to find where the action was that night.

Now, onto my curmudgeonly post. Please, suffer along with me  aswe go down the list of modern lack of disregard for neighbors and fellow citizens ears and peace and quiet.

1. The Fart Box car. These cars are, when you hear them, cars whose bark is not only merely worse than their bite, they are toothless except to act as should be noise citations. Legal solutions are to just hope they fix their car. Options are to share your stash of potatoes with them and cram one up their tail pipe any and every time you have the chance. We need to get proactive on this.

2. The Fart Box + Bad Driver car. These vehicles are much the same as above except the person "driving" the car has no idea how a powertrain works and either doesn't care about the longevity of their engines or purposefully drives their Annoyance in a manner that at all times allows it to make the most useless noise it can at all times. 

I must go in depth on the second one. If you have a fast car, even if it is loud, it should leave ear shot quickly. If you can still clearly hear a car as it shifts from 2nd - 3rd and until that redline, you know that most tow trucks could pull the car faster on their hooks than the car can move itself. Regardless, the cherry on top of the shit sundae for these Car and Drivers are that when they hit 45 and are redlined in 3rd, for some reason they do not upshift. Not even one gear! 
  • This is bad for your engine.
  • This is bad for gas mileage.
  • This is bad if you drive a car like this and run into the wrong guy at the wrong time.
Motorcycle drivers, particularly Harley Davidson riders (whom I consider newbs or just don't understand the point of driving a Harley) lately seem to have a strain of this ignorance/disregard or lack of couth. 

No matter if you are four wheels or two, when you drive a manual and are not in peril or racing for money or pride, we can hear you anyway. Trust us, you drive a Noise Generator and WE HEAR YOU. There is no reason to drive at redline for 30 seconds or rap out your car when you turn a corner onto a short/residential street.

Here is how, if you happen to be in this group of drivers or riders, to drive with some decorum and class:
  • Short Shifting. You probably have never heard of this, or just don't understand that low RPM driving is cool. Short Shifting is merely shifting up a gear without redlining your ride. Yes, you have 6 or 8k RPM but you needn't use them all when motoring. Instead, simply shift up a gear at 2-3k, and when you reach the speed limit upshift to  just short of under-revving your engine. 
Doing this primarily raises your driving IQ and the admiration of neighbors and fellow motorists as it shows you actually do have control and knowledge of your vehicle.  It also allows your engine (which even if you drive a cheap, base model Fart Box) such things as it starting the next time you want to drive it. Also, not blowing up as you drive it, more cash at hand and road rage avoidance, that is what Metal is for.

Now, kids, don't be offended by what I'm writing here. I get it. I was raised by a single mother and learned all of this (much more quickly than you have apparently, but I did) bit by bit. I love that you love cars. I love that you don't mind risking a ticket or wrapping your car around a tree at 2AM! Just do it at the outskirts of town and pass it on to the next generation so if you're fortunate enough to not kill yourself and live past this part of your life, you may have a fairly quiet sleep after midnight.

I am here, as always, as your Zen master if you have questions on how to win street drag races and street racing etiquette. Please feel free to post questions or comments below or, if you really do need help or have questions because you are losing at the drags for either psychological reasons, your car is slower or for any reason - you can always email me directly. I can help you sort this out and with just a few tips can have you giving faster cars hell.

Thanks for reading and NEVER let them look under your hood.

The Gist

This is a test! 

I've not had a blog/website for many a year - and while you'd think my Twitter or Instagram would be enough but believe it or not I get questions regarding my blog all the time - which has not existed since 2009 or so.

So, please, check in here from time to time - where I'll open up a bit more, tell some old stories that I find funny and think you may laugh at too, or I may just want to get down on "paper" before the memory slips my mind altogether.

If you already follow me on Twitter you'll know that I call it my "diary". Yes, it limits us to 140 characters but that is a good thing. If something is good, funny, important enough to be mentioned in my diary, that limit is a good thing for me. It keeps me from going too in depth. This will be a place in can delve further into my nerd habits and hobbies, strange sense of humor and my odd streaks of arrogance and self deprecation that confound not only me but probably many friends.

So, thanks for stopping by! I hope to have you laughing or thinking (even if the thought is "this is pure fart box!"). I look forward to hearing your thoughts and you are welcome for not using the Enable Smells option on my blog.

Adam "Lord of The" Smith