On my way to pick up my brothers, GoodWill and Josh B. Quick, so we could go to a car show Sunday at Iroquois Park, I was stopped at a red light when this 500-year-old, mangy-ass biker pulled up next to me on a chopper with this horrifically-cornball country song blaring on the radio, the lyrics of which were describing freedom boots being stuffed up commie asses. Luckily for me, and sad for him, I had Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz’ “Deja Vu” on the ready, backed by a sound system four times as powerful as his pitiful little speakers and, with the flip of a switch, I reduced Toby Keith and Mr. Motorcycle man to ash by way of super-sonic bass destruction. As the light turned green, old Greasy Rider didn’t even try to flex... he just putt-putted away, having been defeated on the fury road.
As I pulled the whip into the drive, I could see GoodWill and Josh helping Josh’s neighbor, Fernando, install a massive toolbox to the bed of Fernando’s work truck, which looked quite the Herculean task involving much lifting, pushing, straining and cursing and finally drilling it down in place. Josh’s driveway was awash in tools, as they had spent the morning putting new rims on GoodWill’s Nissan 240sx (that’s a drift car for you dumdums), and I marveled over the work they had been putting into this modern day chariot of the gods.
“I’m gonna paint it a wild-ass purple,” said GoodWill lighting up a cigarette.
I then told them about the biker being bested by Lord Tariq and Peter Gunz, and we soon started talking about Kavanaugh (guilty as fuck and dangerous as hell), “Saturday Night Live” (they need to just rename it the Kate McKinnon Show) and Kayne’s performance/MAGA rant (no comment) before piling into the jalopy I was borrowing from my uncle Michael J., while he’s in Japan ‘cause my truck is in the shop.
Let me make this clear, I love, with all my heart the car show they put on at Iroquois Park. To me, it’s better than Christmas, and I’ve been attending it all my life, so spending an autumn afternoon with two of my younger brothers as we run around looking at muscle cars, lowriders and whatever else moves on wheels and has been scrubbed up to perfection, is pretty much what I live for, and we weren’t disappointed. A good car show should be a mind-melting, almost overpowering, psychedelic experience, and it should be written down as law that they take place outdoors.
Walking the park, as your senses are being hit with the roar of engines, the smell of burning race fuel mixed with Edgar Allan Dro and an explosion of colors — electric blues, two-tone candy apple red and white, matte black and jacked-up war buggies stripped down to the primer — is a visceral experience I cherish. And I’ve never seen an unhappy person at the car show... ever! I don’t think it’s possible to be miserable while some old American-made lunatic gleefully explains how he cut the swivel seats out of a Monte Carlo and rigged ‘em into his Caddy he’s owned since he was 13, and how he took his wife to prom in it, how he’s driven it in funeral processions for his fellow fallen hot rod enthusiasts, and how he used it to get to us today as the sun set down on yet another successful car show Sunday in South Side.
