"An Image in Time Photography"

08/24/2026

08/24/2026

World Series of Pro Mod 2026
Bradenton Motorsports Park, Bradenton, Fl.

08/23/2026

For your viewing pleasure!
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08/23/2026

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Big promotion at the quick l**e today. Ricky Kenny Bob finally traded in his guessing stick for the official KaleCoAuto OBD II Master L**e Tech Diagnostic Spinner, and the shop has never run smoother.

Customer rolls in with a squeak? Ricky pulls the cord. SPIN. Code P8008: Out of blinker fluid. Customer says it pulls to the left? SPIN. Code P9999: Excessive tire magnetism. He told Mrs. Higgins her Camry is suffering from acute Premature Rod Knock Sensor Anxiety, sold her three tubs of low headlight grease, and topped off her horn fluid before lunch.

Snap-on truck in absolute shambles right now. Never pull a code the hard way again.

08/23/2026

https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1bbh2D47ec/

If you grew up in the ’70s, subtlety wasn’t really our thing. The cars were loud, the jeans were wide, and the stereo had exactly one acceptable volume: TOO LOUD.

You could hear somebody’s garage before you reached the driveway.

The door was up.

A couple of friends were leaning against somebody’s pride and joy.

Chrome was shining in the afternoon sun.

And somebody had just arrived carrying a stack of records that absolutely had to be heard immediately.

There was no playlist quietly running in the background.

You picked an album.

Pulled the record from the sleeve.

Dropped the needle.

Then turned that enormous silver volume k**b until Mom yelled from inside the house.

“TURN THAT DOWN!”

Which usually meant you lowered it for approximately thirty seconds.

Everything seemed to have more personality then.

Cars had enough chrome to blind you on a sunny afternoon.

Jeans kept getting wider until they practically covered your shoes.

Stereo speakers were pieces of furniture.

And a garage wasn't just where Dad parked the car.

It could become the neighborhood headquarters on a Friday night.

Somebody brought records.

Somebody brought something cold to drink.

Somebody spent half the evening talking about what he'd done to his car.

And nobody needed much of a plan beyond that.

Years later, it's funny what comes rushing back.

The smell of gasoline and freshly cut grass.

The weight of an album under your arm.

That first blast of music through speakers almost as tall as you were.

The ’70s weren't designed to blend quietly into the background.

They were meant to be seen in chrome, worn in bell-bottoms, and played loud enough for the neighbors to know exactly what record you bought.