Sunday, March 28, 2010

No, Sir, You do NOT Rock.


There's this common stereotype tied to the car known as the IROC, the old Camaro model that somehow surged into uber-popularity some time in the late eighties, when Mustangs were horribly boxy and sports cars were only cool if they were imports (you can thank the yuppies for that). While it's hard not to see the appeal of an engine that's actually composed of a majority of real metal pieces--a car that actually generates a few noticeable Gs when accelerating--it's hard to understand why this one car was at one time so damn popular, and why it retains so much popularity even now. (Don't believe it? Google it. Hundreds of thousands of images and entire websites like iroczone.com are keepin' the faith alive, brother.)

While there are a handful of reasons for writing on this phenomenon , it seems time and fate have brought me more than enough reasons to keep the stereotype alive and strong. The first and most hilarious/infuriating: the typical IROC driver. You know this guy. In fact, I'd be willing to bet you know at least two of these guys. One of them is that guy that calls you once a week, telling you he's having "a blast," that he's surrounded by "foxy mommas" at some hole in the wall bar where he's currently exploiting the canned beer special of the night (most likely a Tuesday or Wednesday); you typically ignore his phone call because you won't be seen in public with him. The other version you likely know is a relative of yours. A distant relative, maybe, but if you're Caucasian and American, this guy has likely splintered off your family tree at some point due to lack of gene-pool chlorination. His disposition is similar to the one I just described. The only difference is the two inherent strikes built in to him: his appearance, as above, and the fact that he'd mention being related to you in public (an even more mortifying consequence of spending time with this genetic excrement).

The typical IROC driver, and damn similar to the first guy I can remember seeing in an IROC as a child. The major differences: I remember a Miami Dolphins Jersey (cut in the same fashion) and denim cutoffs (with frayed strings a-plenty). I'm sure the Milwaukee's Best Ice was a staple, though.

The largest problem with IROC drivers is self evident, honestly, and it's proof sits in dilapidated garages everywhere. There is no one more dedicated to living in the past than an IROC-Z owner. In fact, the one Camaro from the era I still see on a regular basis has a vanity plate that attests to this principle (amongst others that I will, of course, conveniently overlook). Nevermind that the car itself is in great shape, only gets driven in the spring and summer seasons and still growls like a Kodiak bear: SICILY84 is having "nothin' but a good ti-ime," "livin' on the edge," with "the songs of yesterday." Can't you just "feel the noize" coming out of those killer aftermarket stereos every IROC seems to be equipped with? You can imagine it, right? A 1984 Camaro with a 2001 Pioneer deck? Why is that so bad you ask? Well, it may not be for SICILY84, but allow me to give you the perfect example:

Let's face it: the majority of IROCs still on the road today look something like this one. They are piecemeal signifiers of a man still longing for the days when mullets and bonfires were the pinnacle of social evolution; a time where Kip Winger was still a feathered-haired god; a time where women could easily be separated into two categories: the shoulder-padded and the available. While a part of me still longs for the days when my mostly black wardrobe and cheeky band t-shirts made me both a rebel and an innovator in the latest in teen-angst fashion, I can admit that I looked, well, flipping ridiculous. I have since moved as far on from those days as I can so as to not sacrifice my dignity on the altar of humiliation. The IROC driver can make so such observation. He sees himself as cool; nay, as cool-est, the superlative of his kind.

Unfortunately for him, the IROC driver is wrong. There is nothing cool about body filler, mismatched body pieces, restoration projects that last longer than 8 years but are still driven regularly, mullets, the last several Motley Crue records, drinking beer that costs less than ten dollars a twelve pack, acid wash jeans, Chevrolet window decals that match the intended primary paint job color of said pathetic restoration project, black and red wolf/tiger/grim reaper tattoos, or public scratching. You say you disagree with me? Disagree with this: this picture was taken on a major local highway in the city I reside around; the speed limit is 55mph, and you'll notice it is raining:


I think you can agree when I say, enough said. Get a door, buddy. Then, get a horse. It's a finer way to get around, and it will match your wardrobe and haircut.

-j

1 comments:

MScottW said...

Hilarious. Best part? That would have to be in the last picture: The driver is clearly wearing bell-bottoms.

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