View of a 1955 GMC L'Universelle experimental truck. Label on back: "Among the galaxy of experimental cars at the General Motors Powerama in Chicago will be this GMC 'dream truck' L'Universelle, which has created a sensation at public showings since its introduction in January. Although still in the 'show truck' category, plans are being made to put the revolutionary new vehicle into production. From: GMC Truck & Coach Division. Pontiac, Michigan." Handwritten on back: "Concept dream truck. L'Universelle, 1955."
National Automotive History Collection, Detroit Public Library
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Before Project Mayhem, before fight club, before Marla, before Tyler — there is still one sad sack of shit.
.
.
The hard part about work trips isn't making the plane or seeing another family of five burnt into their leather seats. It's missing support groups.
See, if you're lucky, the company will send you out to a major city. Cities are great. A little advanced work to find a slightly below average church or library, you're set each night you're there.
It's a bit of novelty, getting to be a new face all at once. People assume you've just been diagnosed. It's never the failed treatments, the degradation of their life and everyone in it, the continuous experience of knowingly dying — none of those things are the worst thing that happens to you.
It's finding out they will.
So people cry. They crowd around, I sob like I've been told I've got stage four colon cancer and three weeks to live. We all cry. I sleep soundly on the plane back or in the nice, four star hotel my company provides me.
Flying out to a small town, though. I'll be awake enough to be hallucinating by the time I get back for Remaining Men Together. The only mercy is that the next time I show for all the groups I missed, I can see who thought I died. I get to be resurrected.
The other part about small towns, you have to take a second, shitter plane to a local airfield, or you have to take a rental car. One of the most popular rental cars available right now, it'll light itself on fire if you use the cruise control at the wrong time. I know this because I sat next to another guy with my job, who worked for a different company, and he said I'll show you mine if you show me yours. So I told him about the faulty airbags, and he told me about the overheating switch.
I prefer to avoid driving.
All the rental place at the airport has left for me, it's one of those flaming cars. I use cruise control. If I don't, one of my narcoleptic spells will send me into the Jersey barrier.
When you drive into these small towns, you have to try to pay attention, or you'll end up a county over talking about the wrong wreck. They're otherwise interchangeable, but the miles on your rental car won't line up and those are the type of records that might get pulled out when the company is finally sued for the big one ten years down the line.
As a result, I see the same decor on the way in every time. Meth lab. Abandoned homes. Garbage fire. Classic Americana. There is no four star hotel here; I sleep the same.
The only reason I've been brought out here is because the poor shithead who drove his truck into the ditch drunk was driving my company's flagship vehicle. It loses power steering if the car jostles the right way going above 55 miles per hour. I've been told to keep track of potential incidents and make sure the company can firmly claim it's not at fault.
We've had this problem for decades, and we will for many more. Sometimes, everything is falling apart.
The job is simple, and I only get tempted by the town's blatant opioid addiction for a day and night. Painkillers would probably make me sleep. The thing about being a recall campaign organizer, though, is like recognizes like. It's not only other Compliance and Liability guys who tell you company secrets while sharing the aisle in business class.
When I'm finally back in my own town, after my own support groups, after crying my eyes out into Bob's meaty middle — I pick up my mail. There's the newest IKEA magazine. Half of it looks like shit. The type of thing you'd only see in some curated art deco, modernist, post-modern traditionalist bohemian minimalist apartment.
I have to have it.
I go to sleep, hard, like God himself tucked me in. I sleep with my wallet net four hundred heavier, because even an IKEA spree tends not to outweigh a work trip. I sleep, with my called in IKEA goods only two short weeks away, my job well done, and I know, my life is complete.
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This custom-built town car represented an experiment in body styling and design by famed industrial designer Raymond Loewy, who is seen here at the wheel on February 5, 1946.
The designer expected the comfort features of the model to be adapted to standard makes in the future. Built on a standard 1942 Lincoln Continental chassis, the car is six inches lower than standard cars without loss of headroom. The Plexiglass roof over the driver’s seat could be removed in warm weather. Blue glass portholes were an innovation in the rear dome. A plastic shield, hinged to the top, could be lowered between front and rear seats. A rear spotlight was an aid in parking and maneuvering in reverse, and a blue pilot light on an antenna rod flashed to identify the car quickly in a theater or hotel queue. The exterior was in black and deep brown, without a bright chrome finish. The simplified body treatment eliminated projecting hardware.
In 1963, Loewy designed a car for Studebaker that he called the Avanti. It is one of the most sought-after cars among collectors.
Photo: FM for the Associated Press
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Sir Vival, the two-piece safety Hudson
Sir Vival, Walter Jerome's Hudson-based concept for the ultimate safety car, last moved under its own power sometime around when he showed the car at the New York World's Fair in 1964 or 1965. Since then, it's been split apart, reassembled, shuffled all over eastern Massachusetts, and remained hidden more or less in plain sight, but nobody's made an attempt to get it running again. That'll change now that longtime owner Ed Moore of Bellingham Auto Sales has sold Sir Vival to Jeff Lane of the Lane Motor Museum.
"It'll be the perfect fit," Lane said. "I've been pestering him about it for a while."
Moore, as we reported in November, has decided to close the doors at Bellingham, which he considers the last active Hudson dealership in the world, and has been either selling off his inventory of cars and parts or transferring portions of his lifelong collection to his house nearby.
In 1958, Worcester-based Walter Jerome decided it was about time somebody built a car designed primarily for safety and not for looks or speed. Rapidly increasing numbers of highway deaths - especially in the postwar period - led many to call for greater automotive safety as early as 1947, but the response from Detroit was tepid at best throughout the Fifties. Ford made a few gestures at improving automotive safety, including funding a study on safety cars at Cornell, but it largely fell to independents and individuals to build cars with safety features designed into the vehicle.
Jerome decided to start with a step-down Hudson - which he bought from Bellingham - and split it into two sections "to anticipate the possibility of collision from any angle." Similar to Bela Barenyi's idea for the crumple zone, Jerome intended the front section, mounted via a hinge to the rear section, to absorb a collision rather than deflect one, noting that the rigidity of typical cars was what led to injuries and deaths in collisions. To each of the two sections, Jerome added steel bumpers that acted, in his words, like a second frame, and rubber bumpers around the steel designed to redirect all but direct collisions. Yes, he built a full-size bumper car.
He didn't stop there. The driver controlled the car from a turret-mounted central driver's seat surrounded by a "full circle" windshield for greater visibility. (According to Jerome's literature, the windshield itself rotated past stationary windshield wipers as part of Jerome's quest for maximum driver visibility.) The exterior is fitted with high-visibility marker and signal lamps; the parallelogram doors are designed not to pop open in a crash; and the interior features seat belts, padding, and even a rollbar.
"It is all too obvious that Detroit has no plans to come up with anything really new," Jerome wrote. "Their 1964 cars are already on the drawing boards and spring from the same rigid frames. I hold that human life is important, far more important than Detroit's worry about the cost of retooling to produce an automobile which will save human lives. Adoption of the flexible Sir Vival design would make rigid vehicles obsolete and create a new market, almost immediately, for 65 million vehicles."
Moore and his family assisted Jerome over the years with Sir Vival, including one episode Moore recalls in which he went to Worcester to retrieve the vehicle from the fourth floor of a warehouse, where Jerome had stored it in two pieces, so it could be reassembled and transported to Jerome's house on Cape Cod. After Jerome's death in the early 1970s, the Moores took possession of Sir Vival and brought it back to Bellingham. While Moore had hoped Sir Vival would have gone to Eldon Hostetler's Hudson museum, it turned out fortuitous that he didn't donate it to Hostetler, given that the museum was closed and liquidated in 2018. Sir Vival has thus primarily sat in its pride of place in Bellingham Auto Sales's garage ever since.
"It needs gone right through," Moore said. "It's not really something I want to take home and just let it sit there. Jeff, he's the guy who'd really appreciate it. He'll build it and do it right."
Lane said he's only seen Sir Vival once in person, when he spent an entire day up at Bellingham Auto Parts four or five years ago. "I recall it as not terrible, but also not in great condition," he said. "It's not like it's been outside for 40 years, rusting away." While he won't have a more definitive plan about what to do with Sir Vival until he picks it up later this month, he said he wants to go through it mechanically without restoring the entire car, if possible.
"I'd say the closest it comes to any other vehicle in the (Lane Motor Museum's) collection is the Dymaxion," Lane said. "It's a really interesting story but it's really been pretty much hidden away from the general public."
Moore, for his part, said he'll continue selling Hudsons from his home garage even after the Bellingham Auto Sales property becomes a warehouse. "I still have my new and used car licenses," he said. "I know I can't keep them all, but I've tried."
UPDATE (6.January 2023): The Lane has started restoration on Sir Vival, according to a Facebook post from the museum. "Sir Vival has been separated into two pieces, and the automotive archaeology begins!"
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