This has absolutely nothing to do with cars. Unless it does. Which it does. So it does. While garage-saling, Coop picked up a tackle box once owned by one Harold Underhill, replete with a collection of lures, as well as Harold's fishing license from 1959. For petrolheads of a certain age, this will immediately invoke the scent of a certain era of garages, before said garages were mandated for automotive storage by asshat homeowners associations. This tackle box, friends, is an optical scent memory of the two-car garage prior to the advent of enforcable suburban same-color dictatorial suckage; when real men dropped transmissions in driveways with nothing but a Chilton or Haynes manual to guide them and a well-used Craftsman set to do the work. When the smell of pre-mix was the comforting smell of fatherhood, rather than the distant scent of gardeners. Of the banks of Folsom Lake at dawn or camping vacations on the Mendocino coast. This tackle box is a visual representation of the smell of the glory of the suburban garage of the West. And I haven't even eaten fish in twelve years.
Gone Fishin' [Positive Ape Index]
He Brakes For Nobody: Coop's New Wheels [Internal]