Jesus built my hotrod (A tale of cars and robots and being a boy)
When I was a child, I used to speak as a child and act as a child, and play with toys. Though the toys I played with were never nearly as nice as the other kids’. When I was in 5th grade, nothing was cooler to a 5th grade boy than a car that turns into a robot. For several months I had to borrow Transformers from other kids during recess to keep up with the latest craze. I finally got one for Christmas, unfortunately it was the lamest Transformer possible: Ratchet. Ratchet was the medic. His car form was an ambulance, and his robot form didn’t have a gun. Not having a gun made him basically useless when it came to playing with Transformers during recess. And then I ended up breaking him. Nothing is more pointless than a broken toy robot that is supposed to pretend to fix all the other robots. Eventually I gave up on Transformers.
When I was in 5th grade, cars that turned into robots made a lot of sense. When I’m 34, they really don’t. Especially when a handgun is turning into a fifty foot robot. So I pretty much had to be dragged out to see the movie. I guess it’s easy to be impressed when you have zero expectations. What I liked the most was the whole “Christine” aspect of it. I read the Stephen King book when I was a teenager, but seeing the movie gave me a new appreciation for the power of a teenage boy’s obsession with cars as a literary device. As I left the movie, I thought the only thing that would have made it better is if they somehow had worked Jesus Built My Hotrod into the soundtrack. But then Hollywood blockbusters are seldom made to appease Ministry fans.
I didn’t really have that car obsession myself at that age, at least not to any appreciable degree. I was never one for memorizing specifications of certain models, and even to this day I’m terrible at identifying a vehicle just by looking at its design. I only have one memory of a car giving me any power or freedom as a teenager: the time we skipped class in 10th grade and I was the only one of us who had a car.
Two days after seeing the Transformers movie, I’m driving to Denver to look at a motorcycle. On the way there, a certain local radio station started playing a set of car themed songs. I immediately gave them a call and requested “Jesus built my hotrod,” but they didn’t play it before I got to the house of the people with the motorcycle. The motorcycle people were not answering the phone or the door when I got there. I decided to go look at some art while waiting for them to call back. Two hours later I figured I might as well start drinking, as they had obviously blown me off. I began to have thoughts about these people that could more eloquently be phrased by the likes of gomeza and involve something called curare which I have only just now googled to find out what it means. Fortunately I met many old friends during the artwalk, and this improved my mood considerably. One of them told me that when the right bike is ready for me, I’ll get it. I guess I believed him.
A couple of rather profound events occurred during the artwalk: a) the Motoman project, and b) a rather disturbing vehicle. The Motoman Project is a collective of artists who create fighting robots. With lots of fire, explosions, loud bursts, and broken glass. They might be settled down with kids now and not performing that often, but that doesn’t mean you get a little bit concerned for your safety when they do. The vehicle I found disturbing was a large black limousine/bus. What I found disturbing was the balloons, streamers and partying people I saw inside through the tinted glass when it stopped and the lights came on. The reason I found this disturbing was that it appeared to be a high dollar knock-off of the Artbus. Yes, it has apparently reached that point. Eventually the real artbus showed up and I saw many more old friends.
Somewhere in the midst of all these robots and vehicles something very profound occurred to me: cars that turn into robots actually do make sense to me. I think it’s because I’m a male. Something about power and movement and steel is very primal. Maybe I have car lust that I’ve been repressing along with everything else.
Or maybe I just approach the whole vehicular obsession a little bit differently. I don’t lust after certain specifications or models or designs of cars. I did have a certain obsession with the Saab, I’ll grant that much. But it had more to do with nonlinear acceleration due to a thing called turbo, than memorizing the specs that make that possible. So what does my primal power, movement, and steel obsession look like?
A much more famous man than I once said “I am not your rolling wheels, I am the highway.” And I think that about sums it up. I’m not as concerned with the vehicle as what it does for me. Movement. Setting wheels to pavement and not necessarily always knowing where I am going, but knowing the only way I will get there is by driving. I've driven all over this country. And maybe part of the reason I like it better than other countries is because I can't get to most of them by driving. At the heart of everthing, I'm as American as Apple Pie and Optimus Prime. I grew up riding around through the vast expanse of the Inland Empire in the trunk of a Volkswagen rabbit. I found great comfort in the sound it made against the lonely road. It was the sound of possibilities, and the movement into them. Any vehicle that can make that sound is fine with me. In the end it’s not as much about the vehicle as how you use it. But it’s getting damned expensive in that bigass truck, which is why I need a motorcycle.
I stopped at Café Netherworld for some dinner before making the drive back up here. I ran into more friends and there was more motorcycle talk. But the jukebox was calling me. There was a certain Ministry song I’d been wanting to hear for two days now...
Jesus built my hotrod.
Really, he did.
I got back into my truck and made the long drive home.
When I was in 5th grade, cars that turned into robots made a lot of sense. When I’m 34, they really don’t. Especially when a handgun is turning into a fifty foot robot. So I pretty much had to be dragged out to see the movie. I guess it’s easy to be impressed when you have zero expectations. What I liked the most was the whole “Christine” aspect of it. I read the Stephen King book when I was a teenager, but seeing the movie gave me a new appreciation for the power of a teenage boy’s obsession with cars as a literary device. As I left the movie, I thought the only thing that would have made it better is if they somehow had worked Jesus Built My Hotrod into the soundtrack. But then Hollywood blockbusters are seldom made to appease Ministry fans.
I didn’t really have that car obsession myself at that age, at least not to any appreciable degree. I was never one for memorizing specifications of certain models, and even to this day I’m terrible at identifying a vehicle just by looking at its design. I only have one memory of a car giving me any power or freedom as a teenager: the time we skipped class in 10th grade and I was the only one of us who had a car.
Two days after seeing the Transformers movie, I’m driving to Denver to look at a motorcycle. On the way there, a certain local radio station started playing a set of car themed songs. I immediately gave them a call and requested “Jesus built my hotrod,” but they didn’t play it before I got to the house of the people with the motorcycle. The motorcycle people were not answering the phone or the door when I got there. I decided to go look at some art while waiting for them to call back. Two hours later I figured I might as well start drinking, as they had obviously blown me off. I began to have thoughts about these people that could more eloquently be phrased by the likes of gomeza and involve something called curare which I have only just now googled to find out what it means. Fortunately I met many old friends during the artwalk, and this improved my mood considerably. One of them told me that when the right bike is ready for me, I’ll get it. I guess I believed him.
A couple of rather profound events occurred during the artwalk: a) the Motoman project, and b) a rather disturbing vehicle. The Motoman Project is a collective of artists who create fighting robots. With lots of fire, explosions, loud bursts, and broken glass. They might be settled down with kids now and not performing that often, but that doesn’t mean you get a little bit concerned for your safety when they do. The vehicle I found disturbing was a large black limousine/bus. What I found disturbing was the balloons, streamers and partying people I saw inside through the tinted glass when it stopped and the lights came on. The reason I found this disturbing was that it appeared to be a high dollar knock-off of the Artbus. Yes, it has apparently reached that point. Eventually the real artbus showed up and I saw many more old friends.
Somewhere in the midst of all these robots and vehicles something very profound occurred to me: cars that turn into robots actually do make sense to me. I think it’s because I’m a male. Something about power and movement and steel is very primal. Maybe I have car lust that I’ve been repressing along with everything else.
Or maybe I just approach the whole vehicular obsession a little bit differently. I don’t lust after certain specifications or models or designs of cars. I did have a certain obsession with the Saab, I’ll grant that much. But it had more to do with nonlinear acceleration due to a thing called turbo, than memorizing the specs that make that possible. So what does my primal power, movement, and steel obsession look like?
A much more famous man than I once said “I am not your rolling wheels, I am the highway.” And I think that about sums it up. I’m not as concerned with the vehicle as what it does for me. Movement. Setting wheels to pavement and not necessarily always knowing where I am going, but knowing the only way I will get there is by driving. I've driven all over this country. And maybe part of the reason I like it better than other countries is because I can't get to most of them by driving. At the heart of everthing, I'm as American as Apple Pie and Optimus Prime. I grew up riding around through the vast expanse of the Inland Empire in the trunk of a Volkswagen rabbit. I found great comfort in the sound it made against the lonely road. It was the sound of possibilities, and the movement into them. Any vehicle that can make that sound is fine with me. In the end it’s not as much about the vehicle as how you use it. But it’s getting damned expensive in that bigass truck, which is why I need a motorcycle.
I stopped at Café Netherworld for some dinner before making the drive back up here. I ran into more friends and there was more motorcycle talk. But the jukebox was calling me. There was a certain Ministry song I’d been wanting to hear for two days now...
Jesus built my hotrod.
Really, he did.
I got back into my truck and made the long drive home.