An infamous author wrote a story about a night there back then, hoisted onto the Net a few years ago. I cannot find that anymore, either. Probably on my other hard drive.
Oh my goodness gracious. Guess what I found, along with [ominous violin music] OTHER STORIES by said infamous author? [/music]
Im all ears 
You are a glutton for punishment! OK, I may have linked to this many years ago in the N54 forum, possibly. Anyway, the infamous author is just trying to convey a little of the mysticism of the VNB life to another person from another locale...
Ah, you would have hated it.
It's Friday afternoon and your buddy calls, needing a ride to check out a Chevy at a car lot on Sepulveda Blvd. You pick him up and head for the Union 76, where 100 octane leaded has just skyrocketed to 36 cents a gallon. On the way he remarks how every major intersection has tire stripes in all directions. He is anxious to add his own. At the lot the salesman leads us to a '67 Chevelle with no hood. A dual quad tunnel ram perches atop a solid-lifter 396. It has a 4-spd and 4.10's, and the test drive is hellacious. $1600 and, yes, they will finance with 100 down. You look around and realize that this lot is wall-to-wall muscle, as are the lots next door and across the street. Ain't no imports in this town, baby. Your friend blows off the gas guzzler Chevelle and settles on a Commando-powered '63 Belvedere with a built TorqueFlight and 4.56 Sure Grip. He drags out half the $1000 price and goes his own way as you head home. He is one of us now.
Yeah, you would have hated it.
It's Saturday afternoon and you look over your Mustang while you empty the sudsy bucket into the gutter. Boy, she's a beauty. Metallic blue, black hood with a 5" Sox and Martin scoop, L60's under flaired fenders, U.S. Indy mags, orange traction bars. Attitude in spades. An hour later your girlfriend slides inside. She is wearing a miniskirt with lace panties and a braless tube top. She smells like wild flowers, and you feel a familiar tingle in your jeans. Although you have bucket seats, she places herself on the pillow you have put between them, and tucks one foot on either side of the transmision hump. A quick hello kiss is followed by a longer, more serious one. She blushes and reaches for the AM radio. Hendrix does his best to battle your exhaust thunder, but he has no chance.
I know you would have hated it.
Saturday night and Van Nuys Boulevard is alive. Nowhere is there a bigger melting pot: lowriders, Harleys, nerdmobiles, surfers, racers. We make a couple passes. A lone Datsun 510 gets curious glances. Guys check out your chick; you check out theirs. Someone steps off the curb and snaps a pic of your Mustang. The slow pace is taking a toll on your radiator, and you head for the B of A.
Oh yes, the Bank of America on VNB. Ain't no low cars or two wheelers here. This is muscle central. 500 to 1000 of them, drifting into the huge parking lot out back, hidden from the hubbub of the main drag. Each hot shoe idles in, his high compression mill chopping its staccato song, and files his ride into an angled slot. Dimly lit, no radios playing, no tires screeching, no beer bottles breaking. Once in a while there is a fist fight, but boys will be boys. Flashlights inspect the other guys' engines. Some are caught in lies. Some aren't. Sleepers are parked next to straight axle cars. There is a Hillman panel with a Chrysler Hemi in back. Its owner looks sideways at the 6-71-blown 455 Cutlass. Hmmm.
Think you would have hated it?
Negotiations continue to fly about. You stash your girlfriend in the car as the police rumble through, looking for minors from their big block Mopar. They sit stonefaced as hundreds of eyes stare. A deal is struck after they leave, and the duelers lead a caravan of 40,000 cubic inches of Detroit's finest offspring into the night. The rest remain to polish their bench racing. Your girlfriend is talking to another girl who looks your way and smiles. A few yards away Bottle Bob explains the intricacies of a handicap start to a gullible newbie. It will soon be your turn to choose off and make a run.
This is how it always will be, you think. You breathe in the warm city air and listen to sirens in the distance. The magic is woven into your blood. There is nowhere else you'd rather be. Soon the rudeness of daybreak will make the metal roaches scurry for cover. You quickly whisk your girl away. There is still time for a "detour" on the way home. As you wrestle in the back seat, you wonder how long you will stay with her. There is so much ahead. But there will always be the races, won't there? You are a young man. You have no idea that writing about this night 24 years later will cause you to sob like that girl when you finally broke up with her. Yes, the best years of your life are long gone, and your soul with them.
I'm certain you would have hated it.
Wouldn't you?
