Kickin' Rocks

by Don Pennington

Crayons and Other Gastric Delights

Crayons have spellbinding power, there is some mystical voodoo magic thing about a box a crayons. From the first bite (black one - thought it was licorice) crayons have controlled every moment of my being. Well- maybe not, but it didn't taste toooo bad, kinda waxy (no licorice taste). Not only does that taste keep coming back like fried skunk liver but the "power of the crayon" continues to control from the shadows. In our early years just after the crawly period and sometime before we realized the color sticks don't have any nutritional value, they became our first real scoreboard of life. Guys with 48 crayon sets thought they were much cooler than the guys with only 8, there was that "Standard Starter Set" and then of course the "Limited Edition 464 Custom Color Mega Van Gogh Signature Series" (mine is personally signed by Van). They are such a part of our being that true crayonites can't toss out the short ones, we all have this old cigar box with a coupla thousand stubbies in it packed neatly tucked away next to the Lionel fake steam locomotive, both are listed in the will.

Although coloring within the lines and sometimes finding the lines seems to be a brain twister for some hot rod guys, the crayon people just wouldn't leave us alone, if they would have left us alone with 8 colors we would be much less confused today. It seems like you just can't do a thing without color, it tells us stuff like when to go (green) and when to stop (red) and of course when to speed up (yellow somewhat red). When the ladies are talking color it is usually about some silky thing or a flower but when guys do color it's always cars never wardrobe, look around.  Color is the first thing you see, except when one of those mega dollar super models shows off her latest rear maximus exposure floss suit, of the thousand or so people we surveyed nobody remembers the color of the "suit".

There is no question that making the... "color decision"... can cause the funny farm vultures to swoop down and get you. In Henry's day you could pick from black, or black, and although crayons came on the scene in 1903 (5 cents -  8 colors) apparently Henry never chewed on a crayon. He had no imagination, well- he imagined huge piles of money but he wasn't much with colors other than black... or green. There is a lesson here, if you have ever built or painted a car for someone else, you probably wished there was only black to pick from, waiting for some people to make a decision can challenge even that patience guy in the Good Book, Jake or something like that. Some people think about their car's future color for years which often pushes them over the nutcase cliff. And it's not just the paint, you have to consider interior color, do I paint the garnish moldings or chrome them, what about chassis parts? Striping? Flames? Whacko graphics? It's like getting a tattoo, many people just can't make the commitment... "I'll just leave it in primer until I see a color I like". In this world of broken pencils there are even computer programs that will make your car any color you want, add flames, scallops, whatever. This doesn't work, all it does is create a wall covered with colored pictures, still no decision. There are so many indecisive people out there that "leave it in primer" has become a permanent choice... confusing some of us even more, just when we thought the primer deal was safer, it is no longer a time-out zone. Maybe the safe thing is leaving it in bare metal? But then you have to decide whether to clear coat it or leave it alone. It seems there is no rest for the wicked wicked people that can't make a decision, you kinda wonder what their houses look like.

Paint fumes absolutely do effect the thinking process. Shortly after Henry started using other colors than black, colors like gray and brown and tan (quite the risk taker), other car makers realized the designing process needed some zip, having the coolest looking or the fastest car just wasn't good. Puzzled and apparently having spent the day with his head in a thinner barrel, some screw ball designer type mentioned his employer's interest in new colors to his wife over dinner, game over. This guy wasn't going to consider her thoughts on the matter he was just making conversation, but the ladies have a way with subtle threats using marital "accord" as a bargaining chip, so "girlie" names for the colors started appearing, red was no longer just red, they had to zip it up, now it was Prissy Pretty Poinsettia Puce,  what's a guy to do with that? It's not Manly Maximum Ego Passionate Blood Red, its Prissy Pretty Poinsettia Puce! "Hey Jerry I heard you painted your blown hemi mega chopped ‘34 3 window... what color is it?". These words should never be uttered by a real hot rod guy... "Prissy Pretty Poinsettia Puce". Cars have personalities and egos too, some cars should be red and others light creamy yukie green. Corvairs should never be red, Good Humor trucks always white and killer hiboys... some killer color like red or red or maybe yellow if it's got a track nose. Maybe a good way to pick that color is from a real life experience like the time I took the family for a high speed run through the mountains in the hi-boy, Gramdma was in the rumble and somewhere around turn 74 she was a curious green, but got over it after that stop behind the Flying A station where the gastric multi-colored "accident" occured. There ya go, green... or any one of many gastric colors.  

The future of the world hinges on your picking the right color for your ride, this can start a fight, split a marriage, and smaller things than this have started  wars! Never pick your color for it's name or from a pillow case swatch. I especially like it when a guy takes his car in for paint, picks out the color from the flowers on his wife's pillow case. Returning a year or so later just in time to see the last bit of Passionate Persimmon Puce being applied on the "not more that 3 months" paint job, they push the car outside and the guy starts walking around it, circling, circling, circling... and finally asks if they could make it "just a bit darker", he thinks his wife would like it much better if it was just a bit darker. They always blame the wife. "Sure no problem...sir... we can just shoot it again... no problem". This is where the guy thinks that the paint guy was screwing him, he knew there was a bunch of blue sky in that paint job, now he knows it for sure because the painter can just shoot it again, "no problem". The "no problem" you idiot... is the fume sniffers way of saying "not only am I not going to do another ounce of work on this rat but if you don't pay me what you owe me I'm gonna burn your house down and you and I are going to have a common law relationship".

To sidestep all this psycho trauma, harmonious familial negotiating, threat of charred and smoke stenched underwear and of course the color stick chewing, just let the painter pick the color, that's a real good way to do it, don't ya think? "Whatever you think... uh...Sniffy, as long as it's black or primer, I can't decide".  

Kick a rock

DP