In the Garage

Readers, dear readers...

The process of coming up with a novel, as with any creative endeavour, is as individual as the writer. As it happens, I possess very little training in any area beyond my own self-education...

...and so, on any given project, I take my own approach. I haven't read any manuals on the craft, haven't taken any classes since I attended WVU, nearly 20 years ago -- and the few short-short stories I wrote back then (for Creative Writing, and for Science Fiction As Literature, or whatever it was called) represented the extent of my literary work (unless you count the abandoned, disjointed, roughly illustrated Spaceman Smith stuff I began in the Army) until I was inspired to hack out BROADCAST and AIRWAVES, both found on these pages.

For Starliner, a much larger and more daunting project, there came a point where I had to simply jump in and start writing. Sure, I knew anything I put on the page was going to be subject to revision or deletion -- the question was, how much time and effort would be wasted?

When my computer crashed, I was saved from the fate of plodding down a temporary plotline. Given a bit of distance, I began to revise, expand, and flesh out the story, if only in my mind. Every day I dream up something new -- and so it has seemed imprudent to actually write anything. After all, what's the point if I just have to go back and change this, rewrite that, and throw out the other?

However, the time has indeed finally come for me to 'get my hands dirty' once again, as story elements have begun to sprout scenes, settings, new characters, and dialogue, all tenuously floating about in my head.

Max and Bob are going to have to spend more time at Max's place, so that Bob (and we) can take a look at Max's small but extraordinary collection -- which includes his own kustom kreations and one krazy (but tasteful -- and tasty) hot rod built by his late father -- before hitting the road, and then Max will have to spend a night or two at their destination.

Max's garage is filled with a few of my own vehicular fantasies, and it will take him some time to show Bob their features. As Bob is a certified gearhead himself, it makes no sense for him to whisk Max away without first checking out the machinery.

We may also do away with the extensive list of rolling stock to be added to Bob's clients' collection. Instead, he is given an inventory of it along with a short wish list, and will be asked his opinion on what may be missing... Good thing the diner serves breakfast all day.

And so, you see I'm going to have to go back to the beginning. I think the changes will mostly be insertions, though, not outright revisions.

Back to the drawing board!

The Day After Yesterday

The Day After Yesterday is the name of the novel Miles has written in the movie Sideways. If it is to ever be published, however, it will be with the help of his friend Jack -- the publishers just won't take the risk...

I've just finished watching Sideways, along with all the special features -- an excellent film, and one, as a budding novelist, that gives me pause...

Of course, I can't let anything like that get to me. I KNOW it's a cutthroat world out there, and that it's not easy to get published as an unknown author. WHAT THE FUCK EVER. This novel is in my head, and has been for some time, and it has to get out.

It's been a while since I've committed anything to the page, but even though my big excuse for that was a computer crash, can I say the interruption derailed the project completely? NO! The story keeps developing in my head, and soon I'll get back to it.

Apologies to those who were hoping to read more soon. As with any project, I feel it's best to work on it only when I'm inspired...

...and I feel the inspiration coming on -- so, patience, please...

STARLINER, Chapters One and Two

Yep, these chapters are short. Chapters, like paragraphs, can be of just about any length, right? Right. In any case, this is what I have so far, and y'all are free to read away as I drink more Columbian coffee and jump into writing the next chapter, which I think will be longer than five pages. Fasten seatbelts... (and bear in mind that this is still a first draft, subject to revision)

IGNITION ON

Out in the middle of nowhere in the high hills and low mountains of West Virginia, there is something utterly remarkable and as absolutely right as it is totally out of place. It is something that a relative few people gave a good deal of effort to create.

Elsewhere in the Appalachians, where the Potomac forms the border between Maryland and the eastern panhandle of West Virginia, a relatively young man lives and works in a century-old brick building overlooking the river. His late father wasn't nearly as into cars as he is, but still managed to name his son after a V8 engine.

This is the story of part of the life of Max Wedge. We will begin with the morning of the arrival of a special vehicle, and follow Max's journey from there. Sure, his life has been fairly interesting up to this point, but it is about to get much more eventful and more wonderfully strange than his most pleasant dreams...

TURNING THE KEY

Several late nights in a row had led to an all-nighter, after which Max had given up, showered, and gone to bed shortly after dark. Now here he was, up much earlier than usual and not sure what day it was or what to do with himself.

A splash of cold water to the face, clean jeans and T-shirt, steel-toed workboots and a warm coat -- out the door on a cold March morning to the corner store, as there were not enough grounds left in the coffee can to brew a pot (When did they stop putting scoops in?) and only two cigarettes left in his last pack.

Max liked this little town, liked being able to walk a short block to a family-owned place that was once a general store, where they never stopped carrying all the little things that people needed or liked to have. He crossed in the middle of the street without looking, because it was quiet enough to hear traffic coming from a good distance.

The stack of papers on the counter told him it was a Monday, which seemed about right, he guessed. The girl at the register looked much less ready to face the day than he felt, didn't ask why only one pack instead of his usual carton. He was glad not to have to explain how he was planning to switch to organic tobacco, and didn't mention that this was the last can of the Columbian coffee he'd asked them to stock -- he'd just remind the owner next time the old guy was in.

On the way home, dawn was just a bit more evident, a bit more bluish light making the fog glow, a bit more sparkle to the frost.

Upstairs in the kitchen, a heavy sigh as he spooned (Why had they stopped including scoops with coffee?) both fresh and not-so-fresh grounds into the last filter. It was always something, wasn't it? While the rich aroma began to waft about, Max walked over to his desk, started his computer. He found no new e-mail, shrugged his eyebrows, got back up and poured a cup, decided to watch the sunrise while he sipped.

The spot he chose to do this from was back downstairs, in his shop. Cocking his head to see past the steam his coffee put on the garage door window, Max played a game he used to share with his father. His brow furrowed, however, as this approaching pair of headlights and acompanying silhouette didn't match any 'headlight signature' in his mental database.

Now, this was really saying something, because Max had spent his life around cars, both up close and in magazines, compiling a rich compendium of automotive knowledge that served him well as a broker of collectible cars. Maybe he just wasn't awake enough yet, he thought, and gulped the rest of the mug down.






"You win this time, Dad," he muttered as the '53 Studebaker cruised up and pulled into the small lot in front of his building. Setting his cup on a shelf, Max thanked himself for placing the coatrack he'd made from exhaust header mistakes near the door.

Still, with the haste he was making to get a closer look at the Stude, the cold morning air got a good chance to bite one of his bare arms as he flailed into his coat.

Blue. A nice, soft, light blue, matching the original colour perfectly, as did the much darker shade of the same hue on the roof -- but in a pearly suede instead of the simple gloss finish from five decades ago.

A deep, mellow rumble which could only be a 'nailhead' Buick V8. Interesting choice, Max thought, as his eyes found actual magnesium wheels (Halibrands), bumpers without guards, and curiously enough, headlight dagmars, clear bullet-shaped covers that matched the half-dozen custom bullets in the grille. Max had seen a few Starliners in his day, but most of them were either bone-stock or mercilessly modified into drag cars. This was a tastefully done mild custom, its sleek, low lines undisturbed. Just about perfect.

Twenty seconds or so was plenty of time to survey the vehicle, and for its driver to put the transmission in Park and shut the engine down. The click of Max's Zippo as he lit the day's first Camel, fished from the near-empty pack he'd slipped in his coat pocket before heading out earlier, coincided with the much, much smoother sound of the Starliner's door mechanism. A large pair of black wingtips met the pavement, and a tall, silver-haired man in a grey suit and black overcoat angled himself up out of the low-slung Stude.

"Nice car," Max said, high praise coming from him, even if he felt he was stating the obvious. The man smiled.

"Glad you like it," the man replied, closing the door with a gentle click. They both stood admiring it for a moment, as the fog began to clear in the morning sun. Then he turned, offered his hand, and said "Bob."

"Max." Firm, brief handshake. "Coffee?"

"Why not?" Bob countered, but still they stood there, hands in pockets, listening to the slow ticking of the cooling V8 and gazing at the car for another moment, despite the cold, until Max finally took one last drag off his cigarette, tossed it in the iced-over sand bucket by the door, and, with a shiver, waved his visitor in.

Max watched as Bob hung his overcoat on the exhaust pipe coatrack, to see whether he would react to it as others did, but Bob appeared to merely acknowledge it. Instead, what drew his attention was the work in progress in the middle of the shop floor. Both men walked over to it, Max stealing sideways glances at Bob's face as his eyes scanned the square tubing, fully independent suspension, and dual motorcycle engines.



Just as they had done a moment before, however, the two merely stood in silence, gazing, without a comment from either of them. After a bit, they both looked up from it and headed to the stairs. Max led the way to his balcony office, gestured toward a chair, and ducked into his kitchen for the coffee. He'd left his mug down by the door, on that shelf (dammit) but managed to find two more clean ones.

He set one mug in front of Bob on the desk, without having asked whether he took cream or sugar. This was not an oversight, but a test. Max had guessed right, it turned out, that Bob took his coffee black. He just picked it up and sat there, legs crossed, warming his hands with it as Max took his seat and slid his laptop aside.

"I suppose you're wondering what brings me here, so early and unannounced," he said, drawing the steaming brew up to his face.

"Now that you mention it, I guess so," Max replied, "though anyone driving a car like that is always welcome. A '53 Starliner, right?"

"Exactly right. Quite perceptive of you, Mr. Wedge. I know, I know," he continued, as Max held a hand up and began to correct him, "you prefer 'Max'. I've gone to certain lengths to find the right broker for my clients, so I already know a bit about you -- enough to know you're the man for the job."

"Okay then." This was an odd morning, Max thought, but business had been slow and he wasn't about to object to the prospect of moving a few cars. He pulled his laptop back over and opened up a new file, fingers at the ready. "What can I find for you?"

But Bob was holding out a disk. "The list is on here." Max accepted it and slid it into the drive. "Before you go over it, let me tell you -- it's extensive. My clients are putting together a collection, one that should take a few months to complete."

"Okay then," Max said again, smiling. "You do understand that I review each vehicle's history, to make sure I'm not trafficking in stolen goods? Of course you do," he added, taking another sip, "As you said -- you know a bit about me." He put his mug down and stood. "Excuse me for a moment." Coffee being a very effective diuretic, Max suddenly felt a semi-urgent need that would allow him a moment to collect his thoughts.

At the urinal (one advantage, for a man at least, to living in a converted warehouse, small as it may be) he could tell he wasn't still dreaming. This was, indeed, his own bathroom. He hadn't had any trouble finding it, none of the fixtures were overflowing, and there wasn't a pictogram on the door indicating the other sex. No one walked in on him, either. His image in the mirror was quite clear and all too real as cold water ran over his hands. Nope, not a dream.




Back at his desk, he saw that Bob had drunk half the mug and set it back down, precisely where Max had put it a few minutes ago. "You were saying?"

"Go ahead and take a look at the list. I'll wait."

"Okay then." As promised, it was an extensive list, suitable for an impressive collection. "Some of these may be a bit difficult to acquire... but then I see that many of them are fairly common, if not here in the States... Looks like someone has done his homework."

Another slight smile from Bob. "We have a modest collection as it is, if you see any gaps in the list. Perhaps you would like to see it for yourself?" Somehow this stranger, from some strange land as far as Max knew, seemed to be aware of just how slow things had been.

"Sure. I don't suppose you have it in a photo gallery, on a website?" No, Max didn't suppose that at all.

"No, but it's not far. We could be there by noon, and you could be back by dark." Bob didn't say that he meant today, but that's what Max inferred, somewhat uncomfortably. There was something about this man's ease that made one uneasy. He was a bit too familiar, too assuming, but at the same time completely non-threatening, and this whole thing was moving way to quickly.

Yet there was no reason other than distrust not to go along with it, and Max could see no reason not to trust this mysterious representative of his new, even more mysterious clients. "Okay then," he said for the fourth time, starting to feel like a broken record, and not the kind one might witness at the Bonneville Salt Flats -- though at the speed these dealings were progressing, Max half expected to hear a sonic boom at any moment.

All he heard, though, was a stomach grumble, telling him that breakfast would not be a bad idea. "There's a diner up the street. Mind if we continue our conversation there?"

"Not at all."

Eggs over medium, buttered toast, and sausage links were soon placed on the table at Max's favourite booth, along with four glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Apparently, Bob wasn't hungry. Either that, or there was nothing on the menu that he would allow himself to eat. "Just the juice for me, two glasses please," was all he said after the waitress, with a wink, rattled off Max's usual.

Bob gave him a few details, among the small amount of small talk, answering pertinent questions that Max found he didn't have to ask. Subjects such as payment arrangements and other incidentals were covered, and after Maximillian Oscar Wedge learned that he was to deliver the vehicles personally, which is why Bob wanted him to visit the collection's location, one last detail almost made him choke on his juice.



"As part of your advance, if you like, we can include the Starliner." Bob revealed this very matter-of-factly, as though it were a completely normal thing for someone who was amassing a collection to give what could be considered an important part of it away. "If you decide to accept it, that will simplify our transportation for the day."

"You mean, we both drive down there, we transfer the title, and then I drive it home?" Max considered this. That Studebaker was a damned nice ride, he had to admit, and would be a welcome addition to his own small collection. "...and the trip down can be a sort of test drive?"

There was that slight smile again. "Is today good for you?"


[ ...It has occured to me, that by living out certain daydreams in the novel and sharing the chapters as they are completed here, I may be giving readers a better 'sideways glance into the mind of Phil Smith' than I could otherwise... ]

AIRWAVES

AIRWAVES
sequel to BROADCAST
by Phil Smith
Sat, 11 Sep 2004

X sat in front of his monitor, staring at the blank e-mail window, trying to put his thoughts in order -- what on Earth was he going to say? He typed 'sixdegrees2' into the Send to box, backspaced over the 2, then instead of hitting shift+2 for the 'at' sign, hit clear. Maybe later.

Hacking into the National Weather Service had been simple. Hacking into his local network affiliate's telepromptor was more of a challenge -- and more of a risk. He'd been lucky that no one seemed to notice his alteration, and was glad for the inspiration to have made it such a small one.

X cued up the tape again. As he did so, his resolve to take it to the next level was reinforced. No, messing with telepromptors and trying to organize a satellite hack were futile -- and possibly dangerous -- endeavours. He had a new plan: Celebrities must be contacted, educated (enlightened), and recruited for the cause. Time on the airwaves could be paid for -- what local affiliate or cable company would refuse payment for airtime?

...Yet the disclosure campaign must be carefully orchestrated, so that the message could reach the populace before the propaganda/censorship machine had a chance to quash it. Several spots would have to air within a short time frame, each with a powerful bit of truth for the public to consider. Then, if the operation were shut down, the spin doctors would nevertheless be making themselves dizzy with all the explaining they'd have to do.

If there was a reason that X could see for his plan to fail, it would be his own inaction and/or lack of dedication to the cause -- therefore he had to overcome his inertia and, as this was the next step, write that e-mail.

Operating on the questionable principle that there are only six degrees of separation between any two people, X had managed to gain the private electronic address of a celebrity. Ironically, it happened to be the star of the film, Six Degrees of Separation. He ran through yet another test of the game, "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" in his head, becoming more convinced that this was possibly, for various reasons, the best celebrity to approach.

~o~

He wrote it, sent it, then sweated over it. Called it up from his Sent folder a dozen times, looking for reasons for it to be disregarded, hoping he would be taken seriously. Nothing left but to pop open a pint of Grolsch and put on some vintage Dave Brubeck vinyl... X dropped the needle carefully in the groove of Time Further Out, lit a candle, and sat back in his recliner. Weary from another week of slogging away at his job, one pint, one album, and one pull of the lever on the side of his chair was all it took...

~o~

Late Saturday morning shocked him rudely. He wasn't in his bed, and an empty Grolsch bottle rolled off his lap as he sprang up to answer the telephone. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this X? Did I wake you?" asked an oddly familiar voice. What time was it?

"Yes, and um, yeah -- but that's okay..." he replied, trying to ignore what his bladder was telling him.

"I got your e-mail. Brilliant. Count me in." Suddenly X remembered having included his phone number in the message, and realized who he was talking to...

~o~

[This is a work of fiction. No Kevin Bacons were harmed (or even contacted) in the process of its composition, which was completed 11 September, 2004. If this becomes a series, dear readers, you will know that the plan is being put into action... Feel free to distribute this story widely, but please keep it intact, with no insertions.]

BROADCAST

BROADCAST

A short, short story

By Phil Smith
Thu, 5 Aug 2004

He started by hacking into the National Weather Service's Emergency Broadcast System, waiting until a severe thunderstorm loomed to insert a single word into the text that was to be spoken by the computer's synthesized voice. Pacing back and forth while the sky darkened and his television blared, his thumb aching to press the 'record' button on the remote in his hand, he mumbled incoherently, wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

There it was! Regular programming was interrupted with the storm watch notice, and he almost forgot to begin his recording. He sat down on the edge of a chair and waited for the computer to utter the single, innocuous word that would prove his success. When it was over, he played it back time after time, finally sinking back into his chair as the adrenaline subsided.

He had no one to share his success with. That night, he celebrated alone with a select microbrew and a DVD of The Lone Gunmen, laughing despite himself at the pilot episode, which originally aired in Spring 2001 and featured an airliner being flown into the World Trade Center.

The beer calmed his nerves enough to allow him to fall asleep before dawn.

~o~

X (as his friends called him) awoke in early afternoon to a ringing telephone. He hit the 'talk' button, and hearing only silence after saying "Hello?" twice, knew it must be another recorded sales message, or a telemarketer waiting to key in. He hit the button again, cursing the depths such people had sunk to, before the spiel could begin.

Ruminations and reminders in a hot shower. Coffee brewing as his computer greeted him with a custom WAV file and a black-and-white image of an odd-looking fish by a microphone on the desktop. Steam from the small glass mug briefly fogging up his glasses as he sifted through posts from radical message boards...

He knew what the next step was, and steeled himself for the task. X brought up an mp3 of the Beatles' Why Don't We Do It In the Road? and began to hack into his local network affiliate's system. Luck! There in front of him, telepromptor files for this evening's news program, ready to be altered.
He searched for a single word in which a single letter could be changed, that would change the meaning of the sentence or even the entire paragraph, as he'd seen typos do in the past. It was found. The change was made. He watched the local news, and recorded the strangely attractive anchorwoman cluelessly bending to his will.

This time, he slammed the beers down so fast that he couldn't concentrate on any films or television shows, and drifted off to a Foo Fighters CD.

~o~

Another phone call woke him, but he simply turned off the ringer after checking the caller ID, reminding himself to flip the switch back later. More sleep seemed like a promising option while he swayed to and fro over the porcelain fixture for a length of time that he found dimly amazing, but moments later X found himself sitting in front of his television again with an open, dry, sour mouth, reviewing the tape of his subtle crimes.

What to do now? He knew, but the task was too monumental. There was a message to be relayed, but first he had to find a way to hack major communications satellites, figure out exactly what must be said, and determine the best time, the proper format, etc.

His computer, X left dormant. The endless questions, the enormity of the implications and consequences, swam furiously in his head as he dropped backwards onto his bed, wondering how he was going to face his stupid, pointless job the next day, Monday, the beginning of another useless week of participating in a capitalist society...

~o~

What will happen to X? What is his message? Will he manage to get it to the many millions tuned in to whatever it is they like to watch? Apologies, dear readers, but these are questions you will have to ponder for yourselves. Please do so, and respond with your thoughts...

Multiple Outlets

1953 Studebaker Starliner

Starliner is the title of the novel I'm working on. The premise and title have been in my head for a few short years now. I dabbled in composition in my youth, decided to give it up until such a time as I had enough life experience to work with...

'funkmaster fil' WAS the name applied to the music I've begun to do, using the free editor found here: http://www.beaterator.com/ -- the name is terribly cheesy, so I'm changing it to Phil's Mythos, same as this blog [this edit was made July 3, 2005]. I'm listening to Arrival at this moment, cranked up in my headphones. I had no idea of the depth of the bass as I was piecing it together... To fully appreciate it, I'll have to plug my bass amp into the computer... At some point I imagine I'll do one called Departure, and put it at the end of my CD... (getting way ahead of myself, as usual)

Maybe I can figure out how to share the mp3 here... Sharing my writing is no problem, though, so the next few posts will be a pair of short-shorts followed by the two short chapters that begin Starliner. Please bear in mind that earlier posts are found at the bottom of these pages, latest at the top...

Dee Hunter

Well, here we go.

Hunter S. Thompson was suicided this weekend -- how poetically ironic that he would die on the same day as Sandra Dee...

I cannot think of anyone less likely to commit suicide. You would think he'd go down with the ship, cursing the shitstorm loudly with his last breath. If you've never read his ramblings, copy & paste this URL into your browser: http://espn.go.com/page2/s/thompson/010918.html

I doubt one will find a single example of his writing, however, that would have tipped the scales in favour of his termination. No, my guess would be that there were semi-private conversations that prompted the decision.

Then again, he may have actually done himself in -- a surprise move that he must have known would create exactly this sort of speculation.

Either way, he's martyred now, and there are many, many who will never forget him -- and his fans will doubtless insist that their friends read his latest (last) book, Fear and Loathing In America.

Perhaps the whole thing was faked, and HST is alive and well. Truly, there is no way to know, at least for the above-average guy on the street...

These are indeed very troubled times, and reality itself is in question, more than ever before.

Been There, Done That, Got the T-shirt

It's official -- I've become an entrepreneur...

Early in the run of Vehicle Magazine, an e-mail 'publication' I used to send out (still planning on a farewell mailing), one issue was titled 'Inevitable Merchandizing', wherein mocked-up images of Vehicle Magazine T-shirts were presented to the couple of dozen readers I had at the time.

Now, once again, I've mocked-up some T-shirts, but this time the images are available on the Web, @ http://www.unifiedsettlement.org/apparel.html . On Thursday the 13th of January, 2005 (today to me, but technically yesterday, especially considering that post times here are recorded in UTC), I contacted not one, but two local printers about Flag of Earth / Unified Settlement T-shirts. The first offered me a great price, and the second promised to match it -- and thse prices are competitive with what I would get from large Internet-based companies...

Now, all that stands between me and a half a gross of shirts is a sum of $522 -- and demand for these shirts, at least among the few I've 'spoken' with about them, is high.

This is how I'm to be somewhat reimbursed for my time spent developing the Unified Settlement. One in each of the 4 colours of the Flag of Earth for me (I'll wear them often), a few given away, and the rest sold at a profit, sent around the world, generating income.

People like T-shirts, sometimes treasuring the ones that show everyone else what they believe in, often loving the ones that are comfortable and have colours and designs that make them feel good... The Flag of Earth is a design that we should all feel grateful to Jim Cadle for authoring way back in 1970 -- a simple, geometric representation of where we are from in the larger sense. I've felt for months now that it would look great on a T-shirt, and that those shirts would sell much better than actual flags -- those flags (sewn, not printed, in 2 sizes), lapel pins, and window decals being the only merchandise Jim offers on www.flagofearth.com ...

I'll be sending one in each colour to Jim -- and if he should choose to, he can order some from my printer to offer on his site, without having to pay the 'art & screen' charge. If he would rather not do this, I'll send him more shirts as a thank-you, along with a paid order for some of his stuff (I want to wear the pin, fly the flag, and stick the decal on my car anyway -- and I'll want more of these items to give as gifts).

Another shirt will eventually follow, with a large f.i.l. on the front, 'freedom is life' (and perhaps other f.i.l.
acronyms along the same vein) and the Unified Setlement URL on the back...

Click on the title of this blog entry to access my site, and please (if you have something to say) click on the number of comments at the bottom to leave a comment of your own.

"I'm Phil Smith, and I approve this T-shirt."

Time Out

The BRUTRUCK is meant to be a brute of a truck. Though its design elements are taken from my concept for a small sports car, the Brubeck itself is one tough-looking two-seater...

SKETCH

Once again, I started with MS Paint and moved on to Serif Photo Plus. Using these programs to create new images becomes easier with practice, and the results gradually come closer to the images in one's mind's eye. When it comes to angular designs, an image created on the computer can actually be superior in some ways to a freehand sketch.

The angular nature of the Brubeck and BRUTRUCK concepts makes them difficult to draw with a pencil and paper, but then there are subtle proportions that can get lost in the process of laying down straight lines. The image above, to me, seems awkward -- the wheelbase is a little too long and the front bumper (yes, it does fully surround the grille), along with the farside front wheel, are not in proper perspective with the rest of the truck. Then again, it could be the greenhouse (top of the cab) that isn't quite right...

In any case, I'm pleased to have been able to adapt the elements of the Brubeck -- which I haven't been able to get out of my mind for two years straight -- to a different type of vehicle. Now I have a second concept begging to be built (the flat panels make body construction a relative breeze), with a third in this theme forming in my head.

The next one will be a Brubeck sedan -- not to be called 'the Brubeck Sedan', but, I think, Time Further Out, as an homage to one of my favourite Dave Brubeck albums (the name also hints to transcending the 4th dimension).

But you ask, "What's with this angular, flat-panel design theme? Why do you persist with it?" All right then, since you asked...

Angularity was toyed with most successfully by Chrysler (plus Plymouth and Dodge) designers in the mid-Sixties -- I will point specifically to the Plymouth Fury, model year '64, but there are many others. One can also look to the original Willys Jeep Wagoneer and other purposeful vehicles of that nature, such as the Pinzgauer, even to a particular Voisin design from the late Twenties. Making a vehicle look good when all or even most of its panels are flat is not an easy thing to do -- it represents a design challenge. I like challenges.

Beyond that, while the trend is slowly reversing, there are so many vehicles out there these days with bloblike, amorphous forms that it's getting hard to tell them apart -- even for a lifelong automotive enthusiast like me. To be specific, BMWs, Mercedes, and even the formerly 'Boxy But Good' Volvos have gained sickeningly melted forms -- and don't even get me started on the dementia of the current crop from Chrysler...

To be truly different in these times, to really stand out among the crowd, a vehicle has to be as angular as it can be -- but then, as I mentioned, it isn't easy to make it look good with all flat panels. One has to take a geometric approach, playing the angles against one another, moving the lines by degrees, doing one's best to give a good appearance from any direction. This is quite different from working with curved lines and surfaces...

And yes, flat-panelled bodies are much, much easier to build, which brings the dream of seeing one (or more) of my designs realized as a drivable vehicle that much closer.

How does this tie in with the Unified Settlement? That will be covered in another entry, perhaps the next..

Now, if you will excuse me, this concept has kept me up most of the night (post times are Greenwich Mean, though I live in the Eastern time zone) and I need to get some sleep. I may lie awake thinking of various things for a while, but that is often part of the process. Give me 30-hour days, and I may be able to keep a regular schedule...

The Blur of Time

ABLUR

Yes, my son took the picture, with his new camera -- but the blurring was done on purpose...

Personally, I believe he has a bright future ahead of him in photographic expression. This is not only good alternative framing -- the car almost looks NEW. (Photo not cropped or otherwise altered -- only resized.)

Where does time go?

Time, the 4th dimension, is systematically being obliterated by the 5th...

Will entering the 5th dimension feel anything like drinking a fifth of vodka?

2005 is going to be INTERESTING.

No Pressure

Amazing. I first photographed the Cressida way back in May -- meaning the offer stood for a full six months before I was able to act on it...

ORIGINAL ALLOY -- MAY 20, 2004

Walked up to the convenience store / gas station to try starting it again today. Starter working fine, no hammer taps needed, but still no fuel to the engine. Then, while at the counter buying a bottle of Tradewinds tea, was informed my Toyota would be towed if it sat there much longer (what ever happened to SERVICE STATIONS?).

Called the one out of five of my siblings who lives in town. Dave has a lot of experience with cars, has owned a Toyota pickup for many years. We went over the relevant pages of the Haynes manual, drove up there, were able to determine that the fuel pump is working, but no start...

Plan B called for being pushed through traffic -- a new meaning to the phrase 'bumper-to-bumper' for me. Let's just say I'm glad there wasn't more traffic, that it was a short distance, and that only slight grades (no hills) were involved.

Ha! But next time a vehicle needs to be pushed that way, I'll volunteer to do the steering. Unexpected fun. Driving the pusher is probably more worrisome...

He lent me a floor jack and a pair of jackstands, in case I need to get at the fuel pump -- or for when I decide to remove and replace that wheel bearing on the Cadillac. He's also promised to bring metric line wrenches so I can track down the suspected clog. THANKS DAVE!

The weather is mild, so maybe I'll have the Cressida running again before next year.

No pressure.

stamped steel

In the future, plates like this one will be on more and more vehicles.

BRUTRUCK

Did you know I was an amateur automotive designer? I sometimes forget...

A couple of years ago, I entered a Peugeot design contest, then worked on a couple of things for a Mitsubishi contest (that never got sent in). One of them was a neat little sports car I called the Brubeck -- Over the past month or so, I've been thinking of how its design elements would work on other vehicle types. The BRUTRUCK is the result.

It just happens that the Flag of Earth is proportional to the doors on this beast...

Herbie the Humbug

Herbie the Humbug -- or The Ghost of Cressida's Past???

If it's possible that cars (like the fictional Disney 'Love Bug' portrayed by a series of 60's Volkswagen Type Is) can have souls, I think my Cressida might be one of them...

[I know, I know, I keep going on about my non-Beetle beater, and you may wish I would write about something else, but if this blog is a sideways glance into my mind, that's what you'll see these days.]

Mysterious things keep happening with this car, as though it were not merely a collection of connected systems integrated for the purpose of transportation. It most certainly has character; Sometimes you would swear it has an attitude...

Without speculating too much about spirits and what they may or may not do, I'd say it's unlikely that a car would be 'born' with a soul -- that being the premise of the Herbie films. However, post-corporeal spirits have been known to do a number of very odd things, and if one were to decide to attach itself to a vehicle (or, alternatively, 'imprint' it), should we be surprised?

Now, before you start thinking this is some horror story like Stephen King's Christine, or an attempt at humour like the old television series My Mother the Car, stop. I am neither joking nor trying to spook anyone. Seriously, I suspect that my Toyota is more than the sum of its aging parts.

Today it started with only a few taps of the hammer (though the front passenger door, which gave me so much trouble yesterday, still refuses to open), then started normally (no hammer required) after a short trip to the grocery store. THEN, close enough to my favourite gas station to coast in, it quit. The fuel guage isn't working, so I figured we'd burned up a full tank already -- not so much from driving, but by leaving the engine running so many times in case getting it started again would prove to be troublesome.

SO. While I was pleased to find that the remote fuel door release still functions, after pumping in ten dollars' worth it was apparent that the tank had not, in fact, been emptied so quickly. Several successful tapping sessions allowed me to TRY to get the engine running again, but sorry, no fuel seems to be finding its way to the injectors.

Somewhere, it seems, the line is clogged. This is a risk you take when you rescue any gasoline-fired engine from years of being left stationary without fuel preservative. Yes, the lines and the tank were cleaned -- apparently, not well enough.

There was a space at the station for me to push it to, and that's where the Cressida sits, until I can walk back up there and disassemble certain bits -- after more study of the Haynes manual, of course. Oh yeah -- and I'll try spraying starter fluid into the intake, hoping the system will build up enough pressure to unclog the line. And -- first I'll try again normally, because you simply never know with this thing.

Humbug? Next on the agenda was yet more Xmas shopping -- I call it Xmas (sometimes FNXmas) because the holiday never seems to have anything to do with Christ... For that matter, it has little to do with Saint Nicholas -- but I digress. No, it's all about stress, stress, and more stress, which I have little of myself -- but I still suffer when those around me succomb to it.

Our kids already have much more than I ever had at their ages anyway, and there are plenty of presents under the tree. More and more, I resent this holiday for the mad consumerism the masses submit to, playing right into the hands of their capitalist overlords.

If my car IS haunted, perhaps that spirit shares my feelings (about more than this wretched holiday -- hint: front passenger door)...

Vroom vroom, beep beep. Happy New Year.

Gaussing and Guessing

I TEND to think it was an accident. A vandal would not be likely to wipe years of algae growth away to see how much damage was done (time that could have been spent busting out another section).

AARRGH

THERE WAS, however, no note -- so either it was blown away in recent brisk winds, or it was never composed, never left. Which level of carelessness was it? No way to know, and besides, I'll be trolling the junkyard for parts anyway. I may even find an intact pair of taillights from a slightly newer model, and decide I like them better...

YES I finally have my project/getaway car legal and on the road, but yes, it still has the problematic starter which sidelined it half a decade ago.

WHICH IS why I travel with a hammer. The remedy, you see, for a starter with a stuck solenoid is to tap the housing -- fortunately Toyota starters of that era are mounted high enough to be reached from above the engine (but be careful with that claw when you pull the hammer back out).

BUT WHY does this work? Personally, I didn't see why it would, even after a few successful whacks -- that is, until I noticed a magnetic attraction between the housing and my hammer...

A SOLENOID is a very simple electrical device that uses an electromagnetic field to move a steel core in one direction, usually with a spring to push it back (this is the mechanism in a standard doorbell). Somehow, my starter's housing is becoming magnetized, and this interferes with the function of the solenoid (which moves a gear into contact with the flywheel, so that the starter motor can turn the engine over). Whacking the housing with a hammer doesn't physically unstick the solenoid -- rather it degausses (nullifies the magnetic field of) the housing. With the interfering magnetic field removed, the solenoid can function as it was intended to.

A REBUILD of this starter will not solve the problem. Oh, it might behave fine for a while, but sooner or later the magnetic field would generate again. A replacement starter may behave in the exact same way -- as past replacements seem to have done on this car...

THIS SORT of thing isn't covered in the Haynes manual I picked up today, but my limited knowledge of electromagnetics gives me some clues. Though it wasn't meant to, the starter solenoid is generating excess magnetism, temporarily magnetizing the housing. The housing's field degenerates over time (or abruptly, through judicious use of the hammer), but not at a predictable rate (variables such as temperature and humidity are factors). There may be a low amperage short somewhere, giving the solenoid enough charge to slowly build a larger and larger magnetic field, until the housing becomes gaussed enough to keep the solenoid from functioning.

THAT SHORT, if it exists, will be tracked down and corrected. If one cannot be found, the solution will be to rig up some kind of anti-gaussing device -- perhaps an induction coil...

THE MECHANIC who nursed this Cressida back to life reported a short (which he could not locate) that drained the battery over a few days, but something tells me the key was left in the 'on' position during that time -- it did not drain a second time when left to sit again. If there is indeed a short in the starting system, that was likely the culprit -- not the glovebox light, which is on only when parking lights and/or headlights are on. Then again, it might have been indicator lights in the instrument panel...

"BUT HOW does it drive?" you ask. Well, it goes really well, and stops just fine, and the ride and handling aren't bad either. For now, at least, there doesn't appear to be anything mechanically wrong with it -- except, of course, the starter.

DON'T GET me wrong -- there are plenty of problems, but none of them get in the way of getting down the road (once it's been started). Power windows, doorhandles and locks, rear armrests, and the glovebox door will all need attention, as will the fuel guage...

OH, AND the steering column surround is cracked -- leading me to believe that someone, at some point, tried to steal (or succeeded in stealing) this Toyota sports sedan.

IT HAS more wrong with it than I thought, but nothing that can't be taken care of, certainly nothing that will make me regret spending what I did to get it going again.

THE SHAKESPEARE play? I tried, but could not slog through the flowery dialogue, and found nothing to support the idea of the title characters -- either Troilus or Cressida -- being ghosts, beyond one line with a reference to India... Oh, never mind. I skimmed over the Cliff notes. BFD (yawn).

AS WITH any project car, this one may never be 'completed'. However, it could theoretically be driven coast-to-coast as it is now. Seriously -- it is that solid.

FUTURE ENTRIES here will be from the road...

The Grey Ghost

Not yet a classic, quite likely never to be revered as one -- and that's fine by me.

TAKEN ON THE EVENING OF FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 2004

You may ask, "What's so special about an old grey Toyota that's been sitting for five years?"

Several things:

• inline 6
• rear drive
• not too heavy
• crisp, well-executed body lines
• original alloy wheels, nicely designed
• rare, but not flashy (and in grey, nearly invisible)
• traded for a six-pack of Irish Stout

...but perhaps most importantly, this is the first vehicle in a decade that has my name on the title. I've enjoyed the other cars I've driven in the meantime, but this one is -- and will remain -- MINE.

It was parked because of repeated and seemingly unending starter trouble, becoming an obstacle that had to be removed. My old friend's offer came along just as I was tiring of the seven-liter Cadillac I've been piloting -- a sublime yet ridiculous land yacht whose fuel consumption is merely its most obvious problem. With this Cressida, I expect twice the fuel mileage...

...that is, once it's back on the road. Through the week of Thanksgiving, I must wait patiently as the mechanic I entrusted it to spends his time in the woods with a compound bow, hunting for deer. On the plus side, this gives me plenty of time to work out the legal hassles and seek out the Shakespeare play, Troilus and Cressida...

The title characters were ghosts -- that's all I know so far.

Stay tuned.

- Phil Smith

"Of course, he only had the two arms, and the one head, and called himself Phil..."

Yes, because of that line in Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the girlfriend I had in the mid-Eighties called me Zaphod. I, in turn, called her Trillian... But no, I never took to wearing the orange sash of the Galactic Presidency, and I never stole a spaceship. Not one. At least, not yet...

So who am I? Merely the founder of the Unified Settlement, a new nation created for each and every Citizen of Earth. Now, hang on -- that may never be quite as important as it may sound. I'd be quite surprised to find that more than a thousand individuals are aware of the Unified Settlement, and I'm pretty sure only 60 or so understand what it's about.

I'm just a guy in his late thirties, with a small family and a struggling marriage (struggling, that is, to find a way for us to be comfortably divorced), trying (but not hard enough, apparently) to be self-employed -- and planning for the future.

My trouble has always been that I look too far into the future, and that I'm always looking at too big of a picture. Then again, if I hadn't been doing that, I would not have come up with an idea that may, if I can get it across, finally bring World Peace.

The idea is pretty simple. People are people, and if they were allowed to decide for themselves, would not choose to go to war.

The solution, however, is incredibly complex and difficult -- or is it? Sure, governments and corporations, steered by the Machiavellian machinations of secret societies, have a stranglehold on the world -- but they have no power over anyone without consent.

Visit http://www.unifiedsettlement.org/ to find out more. I've got a lot of building to do on that site, so check again, and again and again, over the next few months -- and sign the guestbook if you have something (anything) to say.

If you REALLY want to know more about me, well, there's not much to tell. "Zaphod's just this guy, you know?"

- Phil Smith