Course I ain’t never been to London, and I ain’t never seen France. And I ain’t never seen no queen in her damned undies, so the feller says. But I’ll tell you what: After seeing camera-equipped drones followin’ motocross bikers, like this here story I’m about to unfold, well, I guess I seen somethin’ every bit as stupefyin’ as you’d seen in any of them other places.
There is, apparently, no Rule 2.
Way back in the corner of the intertunnel. You know, on the shelf. Behind the other stuff. You need a flashlight, but it’s there. There are things on YouTube worth looking at.
Sure, you have to wade through Latvian talent show renditions of The Final Countdown played on ukulele, and Adele carpool karoake clips, but the stuff is there. There are interesting people doing commendable or mildly amusing things, or at least failing in the attempt in a charming way, while filming. There are people like Cold War Motors, making the world more exciting and less safe by putting 1960 Furys back on the road.
I’ve been blessed to have ridden in all sorts of vehicles, including old Plymouth Furys like this one, and even with all this water under the bridge, the questions remain the same. Can I get it to run? And if I can, can I get it to stop?
For a real man, watching this feller completely rehab this 1950s Kango jackhammer is better than watching Raquel Welch go-go dance. It’s better than watching Scarlett Johansson eat jello without a spoon handy. It’s better than Marilyn Monroe waiting for the subway to go by. It’s even better than eating baked beans straight out of the can while standing in the kitchen in your underwear, watching wrestling on a countertop TV.
I think I might have over-shared there.
