This article was written by Anton Miriello for magazine submission, not specifically for the website.

With the astral touch of the sun's flaming fingers and the wretched oil slick that had a slight odor not unlike that of DAX Wave and Groom slowly forming on the ground underneath our feet, it was turning out to be one scorching day. Nevertheless, on July 23rd The Pittsburgh Drifters Cruise In was a haven for the cool and unwanted. At least fifty cars showed up filling the parking lot of Butya's Restaurant, which lies next door to the old Twin Hi-Way Drive In. The Twin Hi-Way is one of those lost Mecca's of our retro mimicking culture. Its giant concrete block screen and rolling grassy hills make you want to soak into the ground and wait for history to make a full circle. The original plan was to have it on the plot in front of the screen. It would be out of the way of prying police and provide for a comfortable viewing ground for all our hot rodding needs. The problem with that reared its ugly head when we showed up to find that, although previously arranged, the field was not as clear as we had hoped. After confronting the owner of Butya's a rather fortunate arrangement was obtained. It turned out there were two cats that ran this place. The one who we hadn't talked to before was incredibly excited about the show. He helped out by letting us use their entire lot. I guess it really didn't inconvenience them because their sales must have been rolling pretty well on account of the boozers present.

Like I said, there were at least fifty cars that showed up. Around these parts that constitutes a shindig. The most astounding part was that they were all more or less bracketed within our style of cool. We avoided the annoyance of PT Losers, rice burners, fiber-loppies, head straighteners, and any other ass licking new rides as a cause of the at least nine other huge car shows surrounding us that day. There were only the folks that knew what was happening in the wide world of the weird (alternative classics) that dropped by to knock down our door.

The barmaids slung down brew and sandwiches inside while steaming customs ruled the lot outside and old rockabilly was shouted through the totem speakers of our friendly disk jockey Jason. Above us all beamed the grand daddy of light (the sun) who baked our brains and kept everyone relatively happy. Inside this blacktop island resides the coolest cars to hit Pittsburgh. Among the stranded were some 49 Mercs, mid fifties Chevys, a Ford Ranchero in flat black and red, some mixed up newer British rod stripped down to its bones, and a selection of other slick hot rods and customs. They were all great people too. I think they appreciated being among some folks inhabited by the same internal demons, like The Primer Satan, Ratty Lucifer, and our favorite, the asphalt dwelling, No-Trailer Beelzebub. Please don't use these for club names, that's just stupid.

Within every story there is an antagonist. Someone to stir up the plot and twist the already purple nerple of its readers. Our local savant in this case is our best brother A-Bomb. So named for his ability, and willingness, to fight anyone in his way when provoked.

"They tried to give me a hard time!" While it was made clear to the guys directing traffic some others were still thinking "the more the better" so some new rides slipped through the cracks. "I told them either the new one goes in the parking lot or they both Fuckin leave." Although I never condone his inspiring performances he does get the job done. In the end they both stayed with the new one far from site. Not a big deal. After that A-bomb kinda lost sight of our "no new rides" way of thinking and almost sent a chameleon painted, fully custom, old Beetle out to pasture with the other rabble-rousers.

"It may not be to our liking, brother, but at least it ain't stock shit." Our president, "Greasy" Jeff, always acts as that stern voice telling us what the club should be about. He's usually always right, too. His 59 lime green Ford sat with our machines. That's our Frankin Ford. Its green spray painted stitches reminds us of the rampant problems we go through when owning something of that nature. Something made for tearing up the road instead of gliding over it. Hard shifts and rolling suspension make that piece of steel.

The other brothers that brought along their byway coasters helped out where they could. Thing One and Thing Two (so named because they are so similar and both joined the club at the same time) came dragging some steel from Butler. Thing One rolled in with his newly finished 1954 Pontiac Chieftain. His is the only other car in this area, other than Trixy, that has fame throwers. Thing Two's 1953 Packard Clipper wasn't far behind. My Father's 1950 Buick custom with 59 sunken Caddy tail lights and home made hood scoops, showed up early. After some goading he is now a prospect. Our club has a small social unit devoted to those "would be if they could afford it" car guys who are just there to help out. They consist of Shaun, who brought his wife and two kids, Andy, who lives up by the Things and brought some supplies from work, and Chad who we inherited from our Drifters Columbus chapter.

Trixy, my truck, was there of course. If you frequent this rag you'll remember her from a previous issue. On the ride home however her break drum broke and almost sent the wheel flyin. Then she was impounded because the Vice President (of the country) was coming to town the next day so they cleared the roads before I could get back to her with some parts. Woe is me. Ha!

They say a car show is simple; get some cars, throw in some old men in lawn chairs (we had some of them too and they were really cool people), and maybe some old music. Within some realms of thinking that is all that it is. It ain't true though. Much planning went into this swagger of a show. A lot of which (now my boys will back me up on this so don't think I'm being snide) was accomplished by yours truly, Anton "Ponyboy" Miriello. I wouldn't have done it without my guys pulling the puppet strings taut on the day of the show. Without a club you are but a man alone. Well except when the lonely are en mass. In which case… Aw never mind.

Toward the end we were forced to choose some well-deserved winners for best show. We hadn't advertised trophies but what the hell, I had some rust still coursing through my veins and I had to get it out some how. First place went to a freakin pristine mint green 49 Merc. This just couldn't be passed up. Although none of my crew would build something like this it had to win. We just couldn't imagine it stained every inch with grease, axle, hair, or other. Our second went to Ken Loughner of the Rollin Oldies out of West Penn with his 50 Chevy. The red devil flame paint job and Red Raja flame-thrower leads cinched it. Third went to one of our buddies in the other alternative local club, the Sacred Pistons. Shaky, the owner, had a beautiful blue sued Shoebox Ford. With so many cars that were actually worth something in our eyes we had to choose a fourth winner. Our folly was that we were out of trophies. Luckily the owner of the ride we had chosen was asking me to come by and do some professional shots of his car. That was fourth prize. It went to Gary Powell with his flip nose 40 Plymouth Business Coup. I think even the people who didn't win thought those were fare choices.

Since our humble beginnings as the Devil Boys, The Drifters have come a long way. All the while wading through the murky fog of club uncertainty. We have lost some members and gained some greater ones. It is all for the better though. We may be mocked because of our lack of numbers and berated for some members lack of cars but here's to those who think it doesn't matter, and to the ones who are too stuck up to accept that… go roll your ride over your rod.

Translated for you into Regular Greasball Lingo here

Written By: Anton Miriello