Bobby Great Lakes sings to the Water Wonderland's recent, glorious past. Paul Ingrassai's Crash Course details how the Big 3's hubris and the UAW's vanity share equally in ruined American automobile industry.
Makin Thunderbirds
The big line moved one mile an hour
So loud it really hurt
The big line moved so loud
It really hurt
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds
We filled conveyors
We met production
Foremen didn't waste words
We met production
Foremen didn't waste words
We were young and proud
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were makin' thunderbirds
They were long and low and sleek and fast
They were all you ever heard
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds
Now the years have flown and the plants have changed
And you're lucky if you work
The big line moves but you're lucky if you work
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were makin' thunderbirds
They were long and low and sleek and fast
They were classic in a word
Back in '55
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were young and proud
We were makin' thunderbirds
We were young and sure
We were makin' thunderbirds
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Stitt was our 10th grade gym teacher. He was built like a fireplug with a crew cut, drove a T-Bird, and had cool guy/tough guy attitude that comes with being a short guy who could you the hurt on you in a heartbeat. Back in the day, wrestlers came in two flavors: scientific wrestlers and rule breakers. Stitt straddled the chasm that separated the two flavors like a pair of wrap-around shades. Our class nicknamed him "Sunshine."
Stitt hearded our class out to high school track on the first near-Spring Michigan March day and told everyone to run a mile. We'd been inside all winter. Sure, some guys played baseketball and some guys wrestled. A few guys were on the swimming team. As a group, were all pale, a little doughy, and sun deprived. It was cool being outside. It sucked to have to run a mile. We didn't run distances. Never had. A mile could have been a marathon.
Gym class was supposed to fun, right. It wasn't physics. There wasn't homework. So, what the hell are we doing running four laps around the track. This was work. Stitt made us do it every day, weather permitting, until school closed for the summer. When we finished our mile Stitt made us do 50 push-ups. And, so it went. Everyone had to run a mile and do 50 push-ups in order to pass the class. By summer, we were nearing decent shape.
Stitt had a decent sense of humor for a wrestling coach. He'd grin as we sang songs while circling the track. Our favorite, "You Are My Sunshine," was a layered serenade and, when Sunshine Stitt was out of earshot, we boldly chanted "70 minutes of Shit from Stitt." I tink he heard us and liked it.
Anyway, I hadn't run a mile since Stitt's class until I broke though that barrier last month. Funny how stuff rattles through your mind while running. I couldn't help but think about an old friend who recently passed. He was chantmaster while we ran around the track for Stitt. He was a trendmaker, a wit, and a bon vivant. But, black water roiled below the surface. Within a few years his wit turn to choler, and lonliness, bitterness, heroin, and cruelty coursed through his veins. He wandered about the world fooling friends and taunting everyone. He left us broken and toubled. So long, dude. We'll always miss your best. We'll always forgive your worst.
Ran 2.1 miles non-stop the last two runs. The distance was verified when I followed my route by car. Keeping one foot in front of the other. Loving where it takes me.
Stitt hearded our class out to high school track on the first near-Spring Michigan March day and told everyone to run a mile. We'd been inside all winter. Sure, some guys played baseketball and some guys wrestled. A few guys were on the swimming team. As a group, were all pale, a little doughy, and sun deprived. It was cool being outside. It sucked to have to run a mile. We didn't run distances. Never had. A mile could have been a marathon.
Gym class was supposed to fun, right. It wasn't physics. There wasn't homework. So, what the hell are we doing running four laps around the track. This was work. Stitt made us do it every day, weather permitting, until school closed for the summer. When we finished our mile Stitt made us do 50 push-ups. And, so it went. Everyone had to run a mile and do 50 push-ups in order to pass the class. By summer, we were nearing decent shape.
Stitt had a decent sense of humor for a wrestling coach. He'd grin as we sang songs while circling the track. Our favorite, "You Are My Sunshine," was a layered serenade and, when Sunshine Stitt was out of earshot, we boldly chanted "70 minutes of Shit from Stitt." I tink he heard us and liked it.
Anyway, I hadn't run a mile since Stitt's class until I broke though that barrier last month. Funny how stuff rattles through your mind while running. I couldn't help but think about an old friend who recently passed. He was chantmaster while we ran around the track for Stitt. He was a trendmaker, a wit, and a bon vivant. But, black water roiled below the surface. Within a few years his wit turn to choler, and lonliness, bitterness, heroin, and cruelty coursed through his veins. He wandered about the world fooling friends and taunting everyone. He left us broken and toubled. So long, dude. We'll always miss your best. We'll always forgive your worst.
Ran 2.1 miles non-stop the last two runs. The distance was verified when I followed my route by car. Keeping one foot in front of the other. Loving where it takes me.
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