When Cars Had Fins

I wrote this poem a few years ago. I was thinking of putting a bunch of my old photos from the scrapbook up with some Rock-n-Roll by Dagmar and the Seductones, then Dagmar reminded me of the poem, and I decided that they might just make a good background for it, so I put it together that way. All the cars in the early part of the video were either mine, or relatives of mine. Some near the end were from 1970's car shows in Georgia, Stone Mountain and Andalusia Alabama rod run. Also: I've had a few folks ask for the words, so I posted them here below. Thanks. When Cars Had Fins So, I've got this old car, a Hot Rod... a serious piece of iron a duel exhaust Rumbler a tire smoking gear shifting full bore screaming hunk of Detroit vintage technology guzzling $3 a gallon gasoline and polluting the environment and speeding my heart like a mainline shot of adrenalin every time I step on the gas.... You can't get that from no Japaneeze hunk of tin... No matter if it does have more technology involved than the Apollo Moon Lander... There ain't no substitute for vintage American iron thumping un-economially matching beat for beat the rhythm of my teen age heart.... Sometimes I go out and I get in her and I thromp on the accelerator a half dozen times to get a good shot of gas down the carburetor and into the intake and in range of the spark plug/pistons so I can turn over the starter and listen to her catch and lope and stutter into life, running on seven cylinders till that broken ring worn camshaft piston wakes up and even then she doesn't smooth out.... 'cause she ain't smooth... Ain't supposed to be smooth... She is meant to run with that wicked kabooka kabooka kabooka rumble just like Ed Iskenderian intended her to do... I ease her into gear and slowly release the clutch and she lurches and catches and vibrates like a rocket waiting on the lunching pad for the countdown and when I do gas her she sings rhythm and harmony out of twin pipes barks rubber between the gears and pins me back in my seat.. As the speedometer climbs and my awareness of the likelihood of some rookie police officer out there somewhere who never had a chance to chase down a vintage piece of Hot Rod history, waiting, like a kid anxious to loose his virginity causes me to back off just shy of 100 miles an hour and let her drift down to a nearly acceptable speed 'cause I don't want to give him the satisfaction.... The old cops who grew up street racing like me don't care.... They look the other way or wave and smile appreciating someone willing to make a commitment to keep a little bit of the old life alive... a little longer even if the odds insurance prices pollution laws rust and the high cost of gasoline stands against it..... For there is something good in the heart of an old man like me who can remember what it was like to be a kid in America when cars had fins..... 12/07/2005 Richard Peek