Yes, the road.

Yes, the road.
Eagle Nest, New Mexico. “People like to drive because driving is actually and symbolically an almost perfect mechanism for escape…there is probably no human being who does not have troubles, real or imagined, from which he at times feels the need to flee.” George R. Stewart.

PHB

My photo
Brooklin, Maine, United States
We own a 1975 GMC Sierra Grande 15 in Maine and a 1986 Chevrolet Custom Deluxe 10 in West Texas. Also a pair of 1997 Volvo 850 wagons. Average age in the fleet is 28 years--we're recycling. I've published 3 novels: THE LAW OF DREAMS (2006), THE O'BRIENS (2012), and CARRY ME (2016). Also 2 short story collections: NIGHT DRIVING(1987) and TRAVELLING LIGHT (2013). More of my literary life is at www.peterbehrens.org I was a Fellow at the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study for 2012-13. I'm an adjunct professor at Colorado College and in the MFA program at Queens University of Charlotte. In 2015-16 I was a Fellow at Harvard University's Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study. The Autoliterate office is in Car Talk Plaza in Harvard Square, 2 floors above Dewey Cheatem & Howe. SUBSCRIBE TO THE AUTOLITERATE DAILY EMAIL by hitting the button to the right.

Friday, December 15, 2017

1941 Dodge 1-ton pickup


From Alex Emond in south Saskatchewan: "Here's a good looking little 'grainer' that you have seen before when it was along the highway with a big Saskatchewan Roughriders tarp over the box. Now it has moved up beside one of the barns. It has the "dump truck" option ... really solid ,straight looking truck and quite possibly easily restored. The guy who owns the truck is a mechanic so I'm sure he knows what he has . Cheers , Alex"





Thursday, December 14, 2017

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Sweet Home Alabama


Thanks to Greg Phillips photo. "A week ago I traversed the state from southeast to northwest, purposely on back roads linking small towns to smaller crossroads. Along the way the most prominent pro-Moore sign referenced scriptures from the Bible which, in an odd way, gave me hope. The backfire that's thundering across America this morning is partially the result of Alabama Christians, both GOP and Dems, drawing a double yellow line when asked to find support for the devil in the Bible."

Cambridge Alfa

Looks like it was a California (Stanford?) car. Been tucked away a while.



Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Jack Delano's FSA photographs

Jack Delano photograph.

"Jack Delano’s touchstone as a documentary photographer was Paul Strand’s imperative that one had to have “a real respect for the thing in front of him.” Through his long career – photographing everything from coal miners, sharecroppers, railroad men and Puerto Rican canecutters – he conveyed a deep respect for not just the travails of Everyman, but a true appreciation of the dignity that lay within.
“To do justice to the subject has always been my main concern,” he wrote in his autobiography “Photographic Memories,” which was published by the Smithsonian shortly before his death in 1997. “Light, color, texture and so on are, to me, important only as they contribute to the honest portrayal of what is in front of the camera, not as ends in themselves...." see David Gonzalez's piece in NYT back in October 13. 2011

Monday, December 11, 2017

Karen Solie: Bitumen

Ed Burtynsky photograph  Tar Sands

Bitumen

One might understand Turner, you said, in North Atlantic sky
east-southeast from Newfoundland toward Hibernia.
Cloud darker than cloud cast doubt upon muttering, pacing water, even
backlit by a devouring glare that whitened its edges,
bent the bars. Waters apart from society by choice, their living room 
the aftermath of accident or crime. When the storm comes,
we will see into it, there will be no near and no far. In sixty-five-foot 
seas
for the Ocean Ranger, green turned to black then white as molecules
changed places in the Jeanne d’Arc Basin, the way wood passes into
flame, and communication errors into catastrophic failure
for the Piper Alpha offshore from Aberdeen.

It burned freely. If I don’t come home, is my house in order?
Big fear travels in the Sikorsky. Twelve-hour shifts travel with them, 
the deluge system, aqueous foam. Machinery’s one note
hammering the heart, identity compressed with intentions, drenched,
the tired body performs delicately timed, brutal tasks no training
adequately represents and which consume the perceivable world.
In beds on the drilling platform in suspended disbelief,
identified by the unlovely sea’s aggression, no sleep aids,
should a directive come. Underwater welders deeply unconscious.
Survival suits profane in lockers. By dreams of marine flares
and inflatables, buoyant smoke, percolating fret,
one is weakened. Violence enters the imagination.

Clouds previously unrecorded. Unlocked, the gates of light
and technology of capture in bitumen oozing from fractures
in the earth or afloat like other fatty bodies, condensed
by sun and internal salts, harassing snakes with its fumes.
Light-sensitive bitumen of Judea upon which Joseph-Nicéphore Niépce
recorded the view from his bedroom. It looked nice. A new kind
of evidence developed from the camera obscura of experience
and memory, love-object to dote on and ignore. Collectible 
photochrome postcards. Storm surge as weather segment,
tornados on YouTube relieve us of our boredom. In the rain, 
drizzle, intermittent showers, unseasonable hurricane threatening 
our flight plans, against a sea heaving photogenically, 
straining at its chains like a monster in the flashbulbs, on wet stones 
astonishingly slick, we take selfies, post them, and can’t undo it.

Meaning takes place in time. By elevated circumstance 
of Burtynsky’s drone helicopters, revolutionary lenses 
pester Alberta’s tar sands, sulphur ponds’ rhapsodic upturned faces, 
photographs that happen in our name and in the name 
of composition. Foreground entered at distance, the eye surveils 
the McMurray Formation’s freestanding ruin mid-aspect 
to an infinity of abstraction. A physical symptom assails 
our vocabulary and things acquire a literal feeling from which 
one does not recover. Mineral dissolution, complete. Accommodation space, 
low. Confinement, relatively broad, extremely complex stratigraphy, 
reservoirs stacked and composite. An area roughly the size
of England stripped of boreal forest and muskeg, unburdened 
by hydraulic rope shovels of its overburden. Humiliated,
blinded, walking in circles. Cycle of soak and dry and residue. 

The will creates effects no will can overturn, and that seem, 
with the passage of time, necessary, as the past assumes a pattern. 
Thought approaches the future and the future, 
like a heavy unconventional oil, advances. Hello infrastructure, 
Dodge Ram 1500, no one else wants to get killed on Highway 63, 
the all-weather road by the Wandering River where earthmovers remain 
unmoved by our schedules. White crosses in the ditches, 
white crosses in the glove box. The west stands for relocation, the east 
for lost causes. Would you conspire to serve tourists in a fish restaurant 
the rest of your life? I thought not. Drinks are on us bushpigs now, 
though this camp is no place for a tradesman. Devon’s Jackfish is five-star, 
an obvious exception. But Mackenzie, Voyageur, Millennium, Borealis —
years ago we would have burned them to the ground. Suncor Firebag 

has Wi-Fi, but will track usage. Guard towers and turnstiles at Wapasu —
we’re guests, after all, not prisoners, right? 
Efficiently squalid, briskly producing raw sewage, black mold, 
botulism, fleas, remorse, madness, lethargy, mud, it’s not 
a spiritual home, this bleach taste in the waterglass, layered garments, 
fried food, bitter complaint in plywood drop-ceiling bedrooms strung out
on whatever and general offense and why doesn’t anyone smoke 
anymore. Dealers and prostitutes cultivate their terms 
organically, as demand matures. The Athabasca River’s color isn’t good.
Should we not encourage a healthy dread of the wild places?
Consider the operator crushed by a slab of ice, our electrician mauled 
by a bear at the front lines of project expansion
into the inhumane forest. Fear not, we are worth more than many sparrows.
They pay for insignificance with their lives. It’s the structure.

Jackpine Mine photographs beautifully on the shoulders of the day,
in the minutes before sunset it’s still legal to hunt. One might,
like Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer, at a certain remove
from principal events, cut a sensitive figure in the presence
of the sublime. Except you can smell it down here. Corrosive
vapors unexpectedly distributed, caustic particulate infiltrates
your mood. As does the tar sands beetle whose bite scars, from whom
grown men run. Attracted by the same sorrowful chemical compound
emitted by damaged trees on which it feeds, its aural signature
approximates the rasp of causatum rubbing its parts together.
The only other living thing in situ, in the open pit where swims 
the bitumen, extra brilliant, dense, massive, in the Greek asphaltos,
“to make stable,” “to secure.” Pharmacist’s earth that resists decay,
resolves and attenuates, cleanses wounds. Once used to burn
the houses of our enemies, upgraded now to refinery-ready feedstock,
raw crude flowing through channels of production and distribution. 
Combustion is our style. It steers all things from the black grave
of Athabasca-Wabiskaw. Cold Lake. Rail lines of

Lac-Mégantic. The optics are bad. We’re all downstream now.
Action resembles waiting for a decision made
on our behalf, then despair after the fact. Despair which,
like bitumen itself, applied to render darker tones or an emphatic
tenebrism, imparts a velvety lustrous disposition,
but eventually discolors to a black treacle that degrades
any pigment it contacts. Details in sections of Raft of the Medusa
can no longer be discerned. In 1816, the Medusa’s captain,
in a spasm of flamboyant incompetence, ran aground
on the African coast, and fearing the ire of his constituents,
refused to sacrifice the cannons. They turned on each other,
147 low souls herded onto a makeshift raft cut loose from lifeboats
of the wealthy and well-connected. The signs were there,

risk/reward coefficient alive in the wind, the locomotive,
small tragic towns left for work, where the only thing manufactured 
is the need for work. Foreshortening and a receding horizon
include the viewer in the scene, should the viewer wish
to be included in the scene. One can’t be sure if the brig, Argus,
is racing to the rescue or departing. It hesitates in the distance,
in its nimbus of fairer weather, the courage and compassion
of a new age onboard. Géricault’s pyramidical composition —
dead and dying in the foreground from which the strong succeed upward
toward an emotional peak —
an influence for Turner’s Disaster at Sea, the vortex structure of
The Slave Ship: all those abandoned, where is thy market now?

It’s difficult to imagine everyone saved, it’s unaffordable. Waves
disproportionate, organized in depth, panic modulating
the speaking voice. The situation so harshly primary and not beautiful
when you don’t go to visit the seaside, but the seaside visits you,
rudely, breaks in through the basement, ascends stairs
to your bedroom, you can’t think of it generally then. The 
constitution
of things is accustomed to hiding. Rearrangement will not suit us.
Certain low-lying river deltas. Island states, coastal regions —
floodwaters receding in measures like all we haven’t seen the last of
reveal in stagnancies and bloat what’s altered, as avernal exhalations
of mines and flares are altered but don’t disappear. Still,
iceberg season is spectacular this year, worth the trip
to photograph in evening ourselves before the abundance when, aflame
in light that dissolves what it illuminates, water climbs 
its own red walls, vermilion in the furnaces.

“Bitumen” is excerpted from The Road In Is Not the Same Road Out by Karen Solie, published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in the US and House of Anansi Press in Canada. Copyright © 2015 by Karen Solie.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Friday, December 8, 2017

1959 (or 1960) VW Samba bus



Thanks to Stephen Hendrickson for the heads-up on this: "A 1960 Volkswagen Microbus is viewed during the media preview November 30, 2017, for Sotheby´s inaugural ´Life of Luxury´ sales series, offering the very best in jewelry, watches, cars, wine and fashion in New York. All ´Life of Luxury´ exhibitions opened to the public on 30 November,2017 "TIMOTHY A. CLARY / AFP.
Looks to me like the same bus that was up for sa;e last summer at Monterey Car Week.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Bennington, Vermont late 1960s

Photo in Vermont's Landscape Change Program, an online photo archive from the Green Mountain State, which Daniel Strohl wrote about in Hemmings a while back.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

1966 Mercury Super Marauder


The car's on the auction block at BAT. 

Church & Truck, Limerick Saskatchewan







from Alex Emond, in south Saskatchewan:
"South of Limerick, Saskatchewan, on a hill, sits a Lutheran church. On this day it was dead calm and the morning light was good. There is still a beautiful, embossed, cast bell in the steeple. Places like this never seem to be locked which is a beautiful thing. The chairs have a long board attached underneath the seats to create a "bench". Last shot is looking out the round porthole .
Cheers, Alex"

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

1958 Chevrolet Apache 38



Colin Washburn saw it for sale in Jamestown CA a few weeks back




Monday, December 4, 2017

Mercedes Benz seeks the soul of a Tesla Model X

Benz rented a Tesla to tear down, it seems;
the story is from jalopnik: "...Daimler rented the Model X for seven weeks in July and August...The 100-kWh Model X belonged to Bavarian couple Mo­ni­ka Kind­lein and Man­fred van Rins­um, who own three Teslas they put up for rent—usually to wedding parties and other events directly as an additional source of income. The agency reached out to them to arrange the rental.
However, the couple didn’t know who rented out their Model X until it was returned heavily damaged, with a note in the glove box which read “you parked incorrectly” from the Mercedes-Benz Technology Center in Sindelfingen, Germany, near the marque’s Stuttgart corporate headquarters..."
From an Autoliterate point-of-view--gosh, they all look alike, don't they?

1959 Pontiac Catalina; 1956 Buick Special; 1960 Pontiac Catalina


Reading Room: Love Cars

I could tell you I'm interested in cars, but that sounds all wrong in terms of their place in my life. I'm interested in a lot of things: Irish history, lesbian novels, roses, the geography of Canada, airfares to New York, how my mutual funds are doing. Cars an interest? No. Cars a drive, like sex: subterranean in some phases, idling in neutral, at other times popping the clutch and squealing right out of control down a lost highway where advertising meets wanderlust meets fetish object. 
I used to tell people that literature & love were what kept me going, but it is the car obsession--cars of the mid Fifties to late Sixties, the cars I grew up with--that has been steering me as long as I remember. Now that I have turned forty I seem helpless before it, haunting auctions and swap meets with the same anxiety and despair I remember feeling when I was fifteen and nauseated, trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl from one of the private schools in Montreal--Miss Edgar's School, say, or Trafalgar, or The Study--for a dance, one lousy dance, at the tense revels my own school sponsored.
A passion for cars seems banal and shameful and I recoil at the image of myself newly arrived at middle age, on the starting line of the white guy's slow decline, which begins with a hobby and prostate problems, and ends in exhaustion and death in a room with the air conditioning turned up too high, in a medical center run by a health conglomerate, near some freeway interchange in Florida.
Cars go deep. Cars, I tell you, cars are the bones of everything, the runes of my life.
The first car I remember is the 1956 Buick Special my father bought when I was two.
Our's was gunmetal grey, the interior red with black seat inlays. Most clearly, I remember the steering wheel. It had a special iconic fizz. Steering wheels are the center of the car, the point where car, man and road really connect, and they're all about power and who's in charge. The Buick's wheel was dense, shiny black plastic with three spokes. It had a plastic marque badge at the center, knife-edge strips of chrome that sounded the horn, and an aggressive masculine feel, the most masculine object you can imagine. My parents bought a canvas car seat that hung over the Buick's front seat on a couple of metal brackets and allowed me to sit eye-level with the windshield and actually scan the road up ahead: the same view my father had. Attached to this rig was a dummy steering wheel of my own, so I could kid myself I was driving the car, a delusion I don't recall ever buying into. It was obvious who was in charge, and until I could get my hands on his wheel I wasn't going to count for much, or have much say in where I was headed.
I was five when we traded in the Buick. My father brought me along when he picked up the new car at Midtown Motors on Dorchester Boulevard (now Boul. RenŽ-Levesque) in Montreal. We kept it for the customary three years, trading it in 1962 when I was eight, but somehow it became the car of my dreams, the one I've always wanted to recapture. It was a 1959 two-door Pontiac Catalina, white, with a grey vinyl interior.
A '59 Pontiac is a strange, unlovely car, though certainly an improvement over the swollen, bulbous '58. 1959 was the first year of the famous Wide Track Pontiacs, with their huge flat bodies that looked disappointing at first, like bread that hadn't risen. You could sit four people in the front seat, and Motor Trend declared Pontiac Car of the Year, but a lot of citizens had to rebuild their garages to fit them in. 
It is possible I want this car because it symbolizes an era when my father was in his prime--in 1959-62 he seemed to me wise and all-powerful, a lot like God. An era when I as a born member of the North American middle class felt secure and protected, reasonably certain of what the future would bring. In the Catalina I knew intimately my place in the world, which was right behind my father. I learned to lean forward from the backseat, my forearm strung across the angle between the back of his driver's seat and my window frame. My chin rested on my arm, so that I was as close to him as possible. Close enough to know the individual bristles of hairs on the back of his neck, and the whorls and seams of his skin. Able to look ahead through the windshield, instead of to the side, so that I could see what he saw, the road unfolding, and not the passively passing scenery, the streaming houses and boulevards and countryside, the effluvia of sprawled towns. I didn't want scenery. I wanted control, and I liked sitting with my head up near his because I could pretend that it was me, not him, guiding the car.
Men study their fathers to surpass them, and though they might build temples of tribute later, out in the garage--might spend months scouring the sunny junkyards of Arizona for just the right chunk of trim--in their hearts they are satisfied that the old men are gone, exhausted, over. We want these cars to memorialize our fathers but also our victory over them. 
My father had the only 1959 Catalina in Montreal. The Canadian Pontiac models--the Strato Chief, Laurentian, and Parisienne--were a flatfooted step behind in the Pontiac revolution: they had the vast new bodies bolted onto a narrow Chevrolet chassis. The wheels were five inches inboard and the cars looked teetering and clumsy, like boxcars. 
Somehow my father managed to avoid the Canadian lemon and acquire the genuine US article. This added to the car's glamour for me, since everything powerful, complicated and alluring seemed to drift up from the American border. 
Cars used to have moods; you could read their temperament from the configuration of headlights--eyes--and grille & front bumper--mouth, teeth, nose. Sometimes the rake of a windshield combined with protruding eyes and a thin, cold, chrome snout gave a car an arrogant, supercilious expression, like the '49-'51 Chevys, which always looked angry to me. '58 Buicks with double headlights and massive, goofy bumpers looked like kids in the schoolyard who thought they were tough but were really kind of slow, easy to trick in a fight. '59 Chevys have a 'fuck you' expression that's archly feline, feminine and sexy; even the ludicrous cat's eye configuration of the taillights has a kind of daring, damning trash style that is moving and reckless. '57 Chevys look companionable and eager to please. '60 Pontiacs are bemused, but willing. '59 Pontiacs are forceful, prepared to pounce, eager to win at any cost, whereas the '62s seem clean, earnest, and dull.
The closest thing to a sex life I had from 1962 to 1965 was my yearning quest for 1959 Catalinas. We had traded in the car of my dreams for a khaki 1962 Pontiac Laurentian. Bereft, I scanned the streets for Catalinas, knowing there weren't any others in Canada. To pursue my fetish I had to become preoccupied with crossing the American border
Riding north, the Plains Indians had noticed the radiant power of that US/Canada boundary. A few stone cairns set out on the prairie could jerk the bluecoat cavalry to an abrupt stop; medicine line the Bloods and Peigans called it. The Quebec/New England border had a power likewise tangible. Across that line everyone spoke English. The chronic disorientation we felt in our own country could be cast off. Striking into foreign territory, we finally felt at home. 
I knew all about the cars my uncles owned, understood Uncle Danny's sporting bent for cream convertibles and Mercurys, a taste that had tuned itself down to four-door sedans by the time his sixth child was born. I remembered each of the station wagons--from the two-tone green '56 Ford to the '67 Country Squire--that Uncle Gordon, the only Protestant in the family, favored. Uncle Ferdinand, conservative and French Canadian, always bought Chevrolets; and Uncle Paul, the brisk sales manager, went for two-door Buicks with big V-8's: the '58 Century, the snappy '61 Le Sabre.
I could make myself dizzy meditating on the idea that all the roads I had ever been on were connected, so that going anywhere, anywhere, was just a matter of starting out and taking the right sequence of turns. It was a promising idea, although the few times I did make my move--tossing toys in a suitcase, along with a few clothes, and bidding farewell to my parents--I never got further than halfway to Queen Mary Road before being overcome by self-pity that eventually sent me reeling home, in tears.
When we still had the Catalina we spent summer holidays in a rented cottage on a beach in southern Maine. A mile down the road was a store where the out-of-state dailies arrived every evening at six, kicked in bundles off the back of a maroon Portland News Agency truck that didn't deign to stop. I drove down to the store with my father, sunburnt, my skin licked with salt, streaked with powdery white sand, salt crusting at my lips, feet bare on the cool rubber floormats of our Catalina. I cranked my window down, planed my hand in the light air. 
Cars idled in front of the store. They bore different license plates: red-brown for Massachusetts, blue Connecticuts, sand-coloured Maine plates with their red metal year tags crimped in the corners. Our flimsy, flamboyant aluminum Quebec plates were changed every year. The 1960s were black with yellow numbers and a fleur de lys.
My father handed me a dime for the paper and I raced in. There was a screen door that slapped shut with a bright cracking noise, like the pistol at the start of a race. It was dim inside, smelling of fresh baseball cards and old saltwater taffy. The floor was unswept, perpetually sandy. I grabbed a limp grey Montreal Star off the stack, tossed the dime to the crone behind the counter, and trotted back out to the Catalina. And right there, I suppose, right there was where my love for the wheel got rolling, on summer evenings in Maine in 1960 when I was five, my father fifty and in his prime, and he let me sit on his lap and steer along our bumpy, sandy road, past the fragrant salt marsh and the shingled cottages where men were firing up barbecues and kids were garden-hosing beach sand off their hides. There was nothing like it: the mass of the car wholly in my hands while I was surrounded by his big body and the eternal security it represented. My father propped his forearm at the window, draped his right arm across the top of the seat, and sat back, sun glinting on his Ray Bans as I steered us, steered us home.
Is this why I find myself living now in a sandy beach town with Catalina one of the islands in a mountainy chain that begins twenty miles off our shore? (Ventura, another long-ago Pontiac model, is also a gritty city thirty miles down the road, and Malibu, once a popular mid-size Chevrolet, is a place I pass through driving into L.A. for meetings with producers, who aim to live one day in Bel Air, not the car but the suburb. I could go on: El Camino is a Chevy of the Fifties through Seventies and also a California boulevard lined with pancake restaurants and Quik Lube shops.) 
Yesterday my wife and I headed out for the beach about six p.m. We had just spent fifty minutes with a marriage counselor and it hadn't gone very well between us, though we were determined to stick to the course we were on, involving blood work and semen tests, ultrasounds, fertility drugs and egg extraction, all aiming to give us a chance at this baby we had been too preoccupied and unsettled to think much about up until now.
We started out walking on the sand together. It was a pretty evening but cool, with a summer fog bank hanging a couple of hundred yards off shore and a steady breeze. She was wearing a sweater and a windbreaker and I was in a t-shirt. We had left our shoes in the car. The fight we'd been having in front of the marriage counselor broke out again as we were walking on the flat, shining sand, and we broke apart finally, with harsh words on both sides, and I walked on ahead, not looking back to see if she was following. I walked for a mile into the wind, then it got too cold and I turned around, and about halfway back I found her sitting near the base of the shale cliffs, protected from the wind by some driftwood. She was sitting in the dappled sand, quiet and solitary, the sunset light making her face golden, and her bare legs and brown bare feet were tremendously attractive to me. I sat down beside her hoping for some sort of spontaneous reconciliation, but the argument broke out again, and ended with her insisting that she wanted to be left alone, and me stalking away from her.
We met up again twenty minutes or so later at the parking lot where we had left the car. I had gotten there first but she had the keys. We were so annoyed with each other we couldn't speak. She slid behind the wheel and for a moment I thought she wasn't going to flip up the lock on my side. But she did, and I flopped into the passenger seat and we started driving home. 
At the first intersection, I saw a big green bomber, a 1960 Pontiac, turn into our lane about a hundred yards ahead of us. It was lime green, with some surface rust: an untouched, unrestored original. It wasn't a '59, but it was a Catalina, it was close, essentially the same car except for some sheet metal. I wanted to follow it but she was at the wheel and I didn't want to ask her the favor. 
We drove in silence for two miles, up a long shallow hill and past a couple of stoplights, and sometimes I could see the Pontiac, and sometimes I couldn't. Finally, without looking at me, she said, "Do you want to follow it?" and I knew then that she had recognized the car and that we had in fact been following it. So we kept after it when it turned off the boulevard, and the wall between us that had been as cold as concrete, studded with old hurts like broken glass--I can't say the wall came down, but for a while there we agreed to ignore it, and we followed the green Pontiac all the way home. The owner turned into his driveway and we pulled up behind. I got out and he and I started talking, the way people who are into old cars like to talk, and my wife in bare feet circled the old car, urging me to buy it. The owner was saying that most people thought 1960 Pontiacs were ugly, and the fog was starting to roll in, and I saw the tired old car, for maybe a second or two, for what it was, which was a piece of the past, but also a piece of a dream, a restoration project, a hint that not everything lost is irretrievable. 
"Love Cars" originally appeared in Matrix (Montreal) no. 48, 1998, edited by R.E.N. Allen & Terence Byrnes.



Sunday, December 3, 2017

Saturday, December 2, 2017

1953 Kaiser Henry J



From Stephen Hendrickson: I just saw this in a gas station in Framingham, Mass. Never seen one before. The Chevy police car next to it, is for sale for $12,000 , sign in window.










Friday, December 1, 2017

1962 Plymouth Fury. Beulah Street, S.F.

David Rumsey photographs. Thanks to Michael Moore for forwarding them. These Mopars were the last of Virgil Exner's children, and based on a goof at Chrysler. An executive thought he overheard a GM guy at a party saying GM & Ford 1960 fullsize cars were being seriously downsized. He heard wrong: the 1960 fullsize cars were as full as ever but new compacts were being introduced. However, Chrysler made Virgiil Exner chop down the size of his new designs on very short notice. These weird babies were the result. I've always kind of liked them. Plymouth & Dodge didn't work their way back to fullsize until, I think, 1964.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

International Harvester R-140


from Colin Washburn: Spotted this little green beauty in Bishop, Ca. FOR SALE. Haven't a clue what year it is. Exterior VERY clean. Paint looks fresh. Interior gutted, waiting for someone to camperize it.( Sure as heck looks a lot better than all the rental RV'S and big, spendy buses I've been following the past 3 days!).
(AL: the phone # is 760 914 1538)