Mort's Shorts



It’s about the iron. Yeah, even tho’ we make sappy ‘I love ya, Man’ comments,  it’s about the iron. The iron transends the personality, social climbing, rivalry and worse that some make of this creative hobby.

It’s about the Iron.

The iron isn’t there the make the man (at least not in Hopupland); the man is there to make the iron and the iron will outlast him, will transend his time and if it’s half-assed cool…...... somebody else will become it’s caretaker for the next spell. That’d be a nice thing.

See, your little hot rod machine out in that barn, surrounded by the tools that formed it and the ones that maintain it, is a kind of calling card. A rolling scrapbook of where you been. Your auto-biography. Rock chips, springs stickin’ out of the seat, uneven wear on a tar, little slop in something or other…..attests to a journey. Lots of journeys. The success of the long trip, the anxiety before that trip, and…yeah….the remarks you heard when you brought it to Elmer’s shop night the other night…..uncorked…..remarks you heard from one of the - oh - six people whose opinions matter to you?

Oh, yeah, Buddy. Testify.

Somehow, Big Glossy didn’t shoot it for the article on ‘32 Belchfires; it wasn’t cited as a milestone. Ya didn’t get the jacket from the Catalogues Top Ten at the Ego Nats, an’ it didn’t draw a crowd at that drive-in cruise nite. Damn. What’s a guy to do? What will you do?

What ya been doin’ all along. That’s what.

It’s about the iron.