I haven't seen this html in a while. If I haven't completely succeeded in running the very last of my regular
visitors off, then you may enjoy this, the latest saga of the mustang-tbird.com. As of November 11, this place
will be here for six years. That is six years of cars that don't exist anymore, monthly Cody Young hilarity,
crying over Mustangs and crying over lost loves and chances taken. To a small community of readers, I've
continued to bare my soul to you in a specific manner, vague to some, perfectly clear to others. I've taken pride
in reporting the ups and downs I've faced, man made or not on the page for these six years. I also feel like a
dirty little sneak for cheating on my beloved space on the intraweb with all the time I've spent on that myspace
crap. Yes, it is very mainstream and I have spoken with people that I haven't talked to in thirteen, fourteen
years, friendships that predate not only this website, but social computing at large. And here I am, writing this
tidbit for all the eyes of everyone to see on this the 10th on November. A significant date, because tomorrow,
I'll put the past forever behind when I ask Dema Rucker to marry me. Words really can't express the way I feel
right now, and that's a real shame considering words are really the only medium this website incorporates. I
digress. The whole of this website and really alot of the crap I posted years ago on this site really come crashing
down in relevance once one considers the weight of what tomorrow will in fact bring. Rants was fun, even
when I was emo crying about the girl flavor of the week. I even got real lucky and found a great website that
takes you back to an archive of old websites, (specifically http://www.archive.org/index.php) and found what
could be the most pitiful moment of my life in a recalled in a so-called 'guestbook' on the still archived 2001
version of this very site. The long and short of this is of course that I'm not needing to come onto the internet,
my $8.99 a month crutch, in order to bare my soul about anything other than the Mustang and/or Thunderbird,
and/or Z, and/or Camaro. And believe me, this is an exceptionally good thing. ..All this because I met the ne
person in the world that has changed my life forever. This is something not to be taken lightly, and this is
something that is going to take me a long time to fully appreciate and understand. I've never met someone who
made me feel as invincible as Dema does. Knowing now how things turned out, knowing now, that I'll be with
her forever, the struggle and the journey to this point makes sense in a way that it never did before, and I can
say for the first time in my life.. it was worth it. I'd do it all again, knowing this is where the road leads. So
from here on out, we'll have Steve fiance to look forward too.
..and yes. I know how defeating and self serving the March 9th entry below is. Amazing also how fortune can
change in a short time. The last sentence reads,"My garage, still full of parts and tools, is waiting for a car that
will never show up." If you are in a hole, perhaps you don't know that soon, one day very soon, the Mustang
is finally coming home.
Welcome to Rants 2006, the fifth year of recorded nonsense
exclusive to Mustang-Tbird.com. With the advent of the highly
visible weblog in these days of 2006, I invite you to stroll
through the current affairs and take a swim through the archive,
from times before baring your soul online was en vogue.
I just got done re-reading some of the tidbit I put up on myspace and it led me back to the site. I read down to
the the 05 October 7 entry and got halfway through it nodding my head in the approval that I was once again
right about everything.. and then I stopped coldas it occured to me that I don't have a sportscar anymore either,
despite the fact I worked five years on one. This has been held in long enough. I tried typing this up a day
after the wreck, and after actually seeing the car it was the most ridiculous, foolish article I have written in my
life, only because it was too 'nice'. Do you know why? Can you guess? If you are reading this can you see me
staring at you in utter disbelief at the turn this has taken? If you are in a hole currently, I expect you do not
know what happened to my Mustang, the once eternal project "LQD SNK", a staple on the website since its
inception.. five and a half years ago. Against all monetary odds, imposed by being the age of twenty-one, I
built the car from scratch and finally saw it completed in August of 2005 with it's new motor. Since that
August I accrued 900 miles over a span of six months, not alot of driving to be sure. It was a garage queen, and
for all the right reasons. Never let it get dirty. Take it out on special occaisions, take it out for a sunny
weekend. NOT RAINY TUESDAYS in February. So the car's story has come to an abrupt and violent end as
my dear brother took the car out without my permission or knowledge and unwittingly and drove the 375+
horsepower Mustang that he had never driven or controlled on dry pavement, much less in the rain, straight
into a culvert, and then a tree. And that is the end. The car will be scrapped after I take all the valuable things
left on it and put them.. somewhere else. The eternal project will finally go to the very place I tried to save it
from when I saw it for the first time so long ago. Junk. Thank you so much for wrecking it Kevin, I really
didn't need it I guess, it was only a car, right? I haven't figured out a way for you to pay me back for it yet and
I'll admit I'm having a hard time thinking of what you can possibly do. The sad answer is probably nothing.
Congratulations are most definitely in order, though. I didn't think it was possible to absolutely rob me of my
desire to do anything with a car anymore, but you have and I must admit, I'm surprised. The thought of
building another Mustang sickens me. To look at people who have Mustangs, sickens me more. I'm done with
them, barring some miracle Mustang that shows up and replaces exactly the one you wrecked, with the same
story, the same cast who helped bring it together, but we both know that isn't going to happen. I swore when I
sold the red Mustang I was done with them forever, and you can still read on this page where it is still printed,
but I mean it now. I have nothing to go with, no desire to right a wrong, nothing. Just a heap of wrecked ass,
totaled out, shit box Mustang that is now worth a dime of every dollar I ever sank into it. People call me,
asking to part it out and I can't say yes, because it is disgusting to me. My garage, still full of parts and tools, is
waiting for a car that will never show up, is empty now, thanks to you. The only thing you can possibly,
possibly do now...
..is to turn off the light.
It is 12:19 a.m. and I just walked in the door from an excruciatingly long day. I woke up, ran out in the door in
time to start out late to work and yet somehow managed to make my own coffee this morning. I made the 45
minute drive to work in 35 and walked in ready to roll out on another amazing super fun happy waste of
fleeting earthly time. So I work.. all day.. and at the end, at 5:30 I have the great honor of driving the Supra
back to Fort Worth. I spent until 8:30 to make sure that everything I could make perfect was, and the
presentation did not disappoint.Unfortuantely for Jarrett, the maiden voyage finished like a Sunday matinee
showing of 'Titanic', as the Supra, grand and wonderful, wimpered into a mess of diagnosis and speculation.
Somehow, someway the car just decided to quit working, we don't know why. This car is a curious curiousity.
I have been near it, everyday, since the end of November. Except for the period where I gave it back to Jarrett,
the car was with me, everyday. My Mustang didn't get that treatment. It is now in the garage rendered empty
by my brother. How odd it should be there, but fitting somehow. It isn't mine, but for the next few hours, it is
mine to take care of. I'm glad that it is there in a weird way. It is because of that car, I built my Mustang to
begin with. This is the end of the car talk tonight. I have to find a way to work in the morning and things are
not looking good. I have a project Thunderbird and a project 300ZX that are less than reliable, simply put. I'm
going to finish this problem solving beer and go to bed. I just wanted to share. Tomorrow I have to decide
whether or not I'm going to stay at the apartments, or move out. I'm thinking, after 3 years of the same place, I
may look beyond these apartment gates to another gated apartment. What a wonderfully lateral move. At least
I get to leave work early, and I'll skip out to go have happy hour somewhere. Tomorrow is the Ides of March,
by the way. Watch yourself.
A sad, rainy day..
I was out last night when I was called by my Dad's phone. I already knew what that meant. It was Mom on
the other line.. I wouldn't hear from Dad. She told me what I had been dreading the past two days, and the
news didn't offer me any relief, just alot of sadness. My grandmother has died. I was in Fort Worth last night
with Dema, and we finished dinner not saying much, because there really wasn't much to say, and went home
afterward. Today, through all the gray and wet rain, we are on our way to Burleson to go see my Dad.
On this, the fourth night of staying at work until at least 8:30, I am finding it difficult to manage to do much of
anything right now. The world is far, far away right now as I sit here in the nestling bosom of my faux leather,
claw damaged reclining chair. There is no music I can hear, no video games worth conquering, not enough beer
in the apartment to ease the fact that yes, there is another day of work in front of me, less than eight hours from
now. As the ever encroaching gray hairs on my head become more prominent, I have sadly realized that for the
past four years I have aged an additional week for every last day of the month since. That is roughly another
year off my life for the math illiterati. My grand scheme is to work hard enough as a young man, and then
disappear and spend my invisible life somewhere on the Pacific side of Baja Mexico, more towards the end of
the peninsula. Sure, I'll miss Texas proper, but I'll visit I'm sure. I was asked if there were any new entries to
read tonight and I said no, because it is true, partly. Partly, in that I forced this one out, in this, the single most
boring and uneventful, drama-less week of my life. I swear, nothing happened, and I mean it. Did anyone do..
anything? I'm looking forward to the weekend in the same way that, well.. I don't know where I'm going with
this. April 1st is the beginning of a new month, (a better month hopefully) spring is in the air and I'll do this all
over again. This entry is a new record for usage of the word 'I'. Too much talk about me.
I'm in my own little movie, folks. My own little indie film.
I just got home and it is nearly 2:00 in the morning. I have to be up and ready to go at 6:45 and I could give a
rat's ass right now. I also just got home and from downtown Fort Worth, and called Dema to let her know I
made it alright. It made me feel good to know that someone might possibly be interested in the fact that I may
be home.. or not. Anyways, I decided to get on Myspace and that of course led me looking around for all kinds
of foolish things, like songs, or people, or what have you. I found things that I was necessarily not looking for,
and otherwise. At this point I went back to my page and looked at its rather humble and yet egotisical
approach to this whole web-slash-blog thing and decided that for all the fun stuff I had on the front page it
really was missing a kick ass mission statement at least somewhere on the front page, (be it hidden in the blog
or what) it is now here for you to read. I just cracked open a new beer and I am holding my middle finger up on
my right hand and typing with my left, and also thinking about my job tomorrow. Ahh.. yes. My beat down
of a job. A job that anyone reading this wishes they had and the one thing I sleepwalk through everyday,
wishing for something to happen. Do you remember, in that movie 'Fight Club', where Ed Norton was holding
his mouth wide open as the back section of a plane tore off and people were sucked out? That is kind of like
the face I make when I get to work in the morning and realize where I am at, after about the third cup of coffee.
Ironic isn't it that I should work so hard for something, recognize it, and then not value it or care about it in the
end? Isn't this the entire reverse of everything we are taught? Does this make me a worthless individual? I
think not, as it is my job to hate and I will accidentally make more money than some people can reasonably
dream about, and more importantly no matter how bad it is, it does carry the ability to provide to those I love
whatever they they should want or need. So with that in mind, I'll at least carry the prestige that the job has,
and show it off like gold and you'll never know different. I have the job and you don't. I don't start fires for a
living, but I can put them out, as someone once told me. You may think that this is all macho posturing
without a leg to stand on. To you, I ask... where have you been? Read my 'Rants' much? It is on a little site I
call mustang-tbird.com, and I have been keeping it for the span of six years. This blog is perfectly justified. As
a matter of fact, this is the qualified and watered down version of the head bashing you may have gotten on the
main site. I will post anything and in, as I like to say, sickeningly (4 syllables... damn) articulate detail. This
isn't a joke. I talk like this folks. What good is a vocabulary if you don't use it, and my six volumes of Rants
ought to exemplify this for you beyond a shadow of a doubt. This is not rocket science.. It is simply English
composition, and this is my voice. I want you to read this and hear my voice like I know you can when I write
something. I suppose that is the point of this rather useless 'blog'. One day, I will have an opportunity when
the job I have to get up for at 6:45 won't be good enough and people can pay for my voice all over the place for
25 cents in the newspaper on the weekdays and 50 cents on the weekends with any luck. Until then I want
you to know that I am successful, I realized my dream beyond all circumstances and I work the job I always
I've got nothing else to say without being unreasonably cynical.
Mind Expansion 101
I tried to post a new article the other night as I was Hunter S. Thompson drunk off my ass. When Andy
Warhol walked in to the room and tried to kick Timothy Leary out onto the porch, I knew it was time to quit
Too bad I rarely take my own advice.
I have been called alcoholic, I have been called out of control, and I have been ridiculed for it. For those
detractors I give you the big internet F. You are unworthy of the polysyllabic vocabulary I hurl towards you
careless and warrantlessly during my periods of heightened enlightenment.
I'm drunk now.
Fuck you for thinking there is something wrong with me, and bless you if you wish you were here with me.
Beer is better shared, and I know this all too well. I hate drinkin alone, but it does allow me a certain amount of
internet freedom as I can type, spellcheck, and conjugate like a secret Chinese assassin whilst pecking away at
the keyboard unabated.
This could only be better with girls.
Girls make the world go 'round. ..and we know this because you can ask any man and we say girls are a hassle
and this, and that. Still, I go back to what Cody told me once. It was good advice, but now I can't remember.
Cody always has good advice though. His strength doesn't come from concentrated exact advice, but rather
wide all over the map, the-more-the-better advice, something will eventually stick to the wall. I don't know
where this particular paragraph is going, but I can assure you one thing. It is over now.
Congratulations for making it all the way to the end of this thing. I appreciate the time and effort you no doubt
wasted to get here. Believe me, it does not go unnoticed, ann I may even do this again before too long.
Tonight, I'm taking it easy. I have spent the last two night uncharacteristically (8 syllables? Can I get a check
on that?) spending my time destroying one of the last physically remaining vestiges of my teenage life by
forcebly ripping the interior of the Thunderbird completely out. It is gone, all of it. I threw away nearly every
piece in the car and the dash broke into a million little pieces that for arguments sake can never be reconstituted
into usuable form. This was brought on my the absolute disgust that I had for the seats and carpet in that
particular car in the ensuing Mustang madness, another vehicle of mine that I worked untold hours on to make
sure the passengers and myself were, should we say, well transported. The Thunderbird had deteriorated into a
faded, greasy, mildewy, inapropriate means of comfortably moving drivers and passengers. For some reason,
my Mustang isn't available to me, and it is disappointing, because I felt the interior was really one of the
highlights of the car. And why not? I don't sit on the hood, so the seats should be a place you want to be. To
this end, I decided that I would basically start from ground zero and rebuild the interior of the car completely.
I'm documenting this better than any project I have taken on, and I can eventually show with some detail the
level of, well, detail that this project will entail. So after two days, the only thing I can say about working on a
23 year old car? Pray for me. Pray for all the receipts I found from 2001, the fries under seats, the change
stuck under the carpet. You can tell how old the car is by retracing the number of Taco Bell promotions (you
remember, the little circle things they had?) I found in and around the backseat. It looks like I also won a free
cheeseburger.. in 1997.
I'm glad I'm finally doing this. It seems like something I should have done a long time ago. So in the spirit of
promotions, I'm going to issue this one right here. For everyone who posts a comment to this little
pseudo-Rant, I will personally take you out (rather than send my people) in the car and we will go enjoy a coke
at the nearest Sonic. Sound good? I thought so, and I can't wait to show you guys when I'm done.
Today I woke up with a phone call at 8:28 this morning. It was overcast and dark enough in my room that I
couldn't see the phone right away and tried to ignore the fact that it rang so early. Five minutes later of tossing
and turning found me trying to figure out who called me without looking at the phone, so curiosity got the best
of me and I went to go find it. It was Paul and he told me that he was coming over so that we could go and find
some parts for the T-bird that had ground to a halt inside my garage. I took him up on the offer and an hour
later I was in dirty Haltom City looking at the most perfect dash that I'd ever seen inside a Cougar that was
underneath a partially crushed and beaten Escort GT. After about thirty minutes of real work, we are back on
track and I can begin working to take all those folks to Sonic now. You know who you are. Paul should get a
six pack for his effort, so I'll drink one for him. Sound good? The only problem is that for the rest of the day
all I want to do is sit around and do as much nothing as possible. I'm already thinking of work on Monday and
here it 5:00 on Saturday afternoon. They can't possibly be paying enough to worry about work a day and a
half in advance. This is why I have grey hair already. I guess I think about it alot because I do work alot. It's
what I do so of course I carry it with me. I have a couple of decisions to make as well tonight regarding what it
is I need to be doing. I called it an early night last night, so I need to make up for it tonight somehow, and I am
drawing a blank.
Okay, all of Fort Worth can stop calling me now. Jeez! I have completely lost my train of thought with this
thing. I took five phone calls in a little over three minutes, have people to call back I'm through here. Have a
"Languished in his noise... dreamt in his night... stared at his eyes for answers... bent my ears to see his fingers...
would have followed him into the dark... certainly followed him into the bleached out morning."
"Syd, dear man, what now? The music is there... a door he left unlocked... spend time there... it's good." -
Graham Coxon, Blur.
When Dimebag was killed on stage I thought, "Oh my God, he's gone.." I stared at the TV screen watching the
news reports over and over, being reported dozens of times, endlessly, ceaselessly, while these local news
anchors tried to trump one another on the next breaking scoop related to the shooting. In the end, after it was
all said and done years later, I can put in a Pantera album and listen through it differently, a little more
reverently, and go back and enjoy a time when this man was making music. It drives me crazy to no end today
to listen to the CD, enjoy and analyze it endlessly, to the point where I know it backwards and forwards, and
know that is all I will ever hear. No more moments like 'Cowboys", or 'Vulgar Display'. Like most fans I'm
probably thankful for the time I was allowed. At least, I was alive while this guy was playing and making that
music. I never knew the guy, but he was a larger than life charcter to me not only because I was into the music,
but he had real interaction with people I knew. I wasn't the only fan. I knew that there were people that had
run into him in Arlington, and the guy I used to work with rekindled my interest in metal at large after letting it
languish unchecked for years, all in time for him to be killed. So I was sad., and I mourned with all the other
fans out there who felt the same way.
And then today, I find out Syd has died.
Here's a man who was the absolute opposite of the above story. Syd founded Pink Floyd in '65 and they
played a bunch of small clubs until they recorded their first album in 1967 right across the hallway from another
band making some record called 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band'. Syd was the artistic and creative
genius that powered the band through arguably the toughest days a band must face. The record was a success
for many reasons, not the least of which was Syd's remarkable ability to come up with strings of words that fit
together in little more than complicated nursery rhymes matched to a pounding guitar sound. Perhaps the
success proved to be a bit much as Syd delved further into his creative ability by exploiting any number of mind
altering substances that further enhanced and detracted from his God given ability. By 1968, it was clear to the
band that he wasn't going to last much longer in this state and relegated the once front man to little more than
contributor by giving him the last song on their second album, 'Saucerful of Secrets'. Some of Syd's last
recorded words to the band were cryptic, yet were full of a knowing angst as he seemed to speak to them
through the song, "It's awfully considerate of you to think of me here, and I'm most obliged to you for making it
clear that I'm not here.."
Syd departed, and besides one brief brush with the band six years later, the man simply vanished from the face
of the earth. A couple box sets were released in the Eighties, but for the most part, the now forty something
Roger Keith Barret had put his old life behind him, living reclusively, never answering fans and running from
photographers who might by the off chance recognize the vibrant songwriter hidden under the eyes of an old
It was this Syd Barret that I met.
My first Pink Floyd album was a response to a late night when I was 14 years old and in high school. I had
heard 'Learning to Fly' late, late one night as I used to turn on my clock radio and go to sleep to it. As it was
playing that night I heard the song and I knew I wanted to go find the Floyd album with that one song on it.
The first place to look was my parent's record collection of all things. Dad had 'Animals', and 'The Wall'. I
went through these albums and while I recognized the great music I was hearing, I didn't realize the extent to
which I was becoming involved with this band. This led me to search out other people who may have heard the
song, and I was given my first copy of 'Dark Side of the Moon'. I obviously didn't find the song I was looking
for, but I definitely found something a little more interesting. We could have this conversation, but anyone
reading this article right now nodding their head in approval already knows where I'm going with this. Long
story abridged, that particular album sent me searching for all the Pink Floyd I could handle, oftentimes at the
expense of schoowork and busrides as I wore out my Sony Walkman with cassette tapes of appropriated Floyd
albums. As I became overwhelmed witht the music, I eventually sought out the people responsible for this,
namely the band members. Being a now 15 year old, I couldn't afford lunch somedays, but I managed to buy a
copy of Pink Floyd's first album and that's when I met Syd.
I was continually blown away by the man's talent. Unlike Dimebag, Syd was never a real person to me. I knew
his story, I saw his pictures, I heard his music. I'm sad he is gone, but for different reasons than the reason I
was sad for Dimebag. Syd was gone long before I knew him. He was done with what I was interested in him
for, for years before I was born. I will always claim him, say I'm a fan, and remember the awe I had as I learned
more and more about the man. He truly is gone today, and I had always hoped for people like me, people
who'd found him, that he'd come out and say something, maybe any one thing that would acknowledge the
legions of fans that he accidently spawned long after the twilight of his career..
But for Syd, I wish nothing but the best. Godspeed, and thank you for everything.
When was the last time you let go and cried about something? I always think about that when.. I think about
that. Isn't that just a horrible open expresion of insecurity and a blaring poster of everything that's wrong with
your sad little life? What could have possibly happened that led you break down to the point where you lose
control of your body and you shake in the in the cold embrace of unmitigated emotion? How many people can
admit that..? To sit somewhere, in total darkness, dark, and alone. What a horribly vulnerable and open place
to be in Why do people feel the need to take the obvious open shot at themselves? I suppose, and (this is just
a supposition[is that a real word?]) it's just a kind of flimsy reality check, some kind of a screwed up way to
make ourselves jump through the hoops that we thought we needed to jump through for whatever stupid
reason. The truth is, sometimes, we need to let go all the super serious crap we can build up, and like so much
coffee pot scum, it needs to be cleansed and scrubbed out. I was told by someone that laughing once a day and
crying once a day was the best way to live, experiencing your highs and lows. What a load of crap, I once
thought. I still don't think emptying oneself to cruel reality is a good way to go, but I do agree in the sense that
no one really can experience highs without context, that being the ultimate lows that can really define what is
good about your highs because you'll finally know when they come around. Context is one of the most
important words I could ever come to know. Without 'context', things have no meaning. Without context, one
could never enjoy the great greatness that is great, because they don't know firsthand how things are or can be at
the other end of the spectrum.
I know this is making less than ZERO sense to you.
..so, concisely, if you or me are sad for whatever reason, I think it's okay. You're simply defining the things that
are indeed good in your life, and that's in of itself is also good, and the point of this ridiculous MySpace blog.
It's okay. Okay?