The weather here is working against me again. I have rotors and pads and a big old tub of bearing grease, plus brake cleaner and brake fluid, all just a-rattlin' away with anticipation on a shelf in the shed. Alas, with no cover from the angry wind and rain, the Dodge will have to go without her maintenance today, and the dipso will have to find another path to worthiness. Somehow cleaning the floors just doesn't seem like an acceptable alternative. Perhaps instead a rainy walk to the bar for a PBR and a whiskey over lunch later.
"V-12, yeah. And it's been V-12 ever since we built it. Some recorded it with 8 cylinders, but it had 12 cylinders, and it's still 12 cylinders."
Maybe today I can put on my hot rod galoshes, and hope for a showdown with a wool-socks-and-sandals jalopy.
Update: Because I like to scare Buck with my new-fangled punk rocksterism, I looked this up. His favorite Hot Rod Lincoln version is Commander Cody's, which is a close second for me, behind these guys. The band is called All, one of the truly, uh, decent punk bands from my youth (formed out of one of the greats). A studio version would have been better, because it's actually really, really good, but I couldn't find one. This'll have to do.