BigBoy Monthly Manifest: One Step Closer to the Lobotomy Lounge

M/M BigBoy Monthly Manifest 25.03.14 – Built for Speed – Not for Comfort!

No brakes. No mercy. No survivors.

Welcome back, hellraisers, road burners, and chrome-clad maniacs. This month, the BigBoy Monthly Manifest doesn’t ask for permission—it takes what it wants and leaves a trail of destruction in its wake. The road ahead is cracked, the bridges are gone, and the only way forward is through the fire.

This issue isn’t about slowing down. It’s about ripping the throttle wide open and seeing what’s left when the dust clears.

The Reckoning Rides on Two Wheels and a Full Tank

I, The Great Ape, have assembled the wildest, most pulse-pounding, rule-breaking collection yet.
Street demons, wasteland warriors, and nitro-fueled desperados have come to stake their claim.
There’s no finish line, no podium, no parade—only the last machine still moving.

This is a death march on two wheels, a collision course with destiny, and the kind of ride where even the ghosts hang on for dear life.

What’s Inside?

What’s inside? The meanest, dirtiest, most asphalt-melting collection of madness yet.

The Future That Never Was – Citroën’s pyramid car, Ford’s nuclear-powered fever dream, and a roller-skating revolution.
Disco Inferno vs. The Great Ape – When de-evolution and the dancefloor collide, only one survives.
Venus Vixens & Martian Marauders – Pinups, plasma guns, and interstellar troublemakers rewriting the rules of the cosmos.
Outlaw Speed Kings – Burt Munro, flathead Harley rebels, and the grease-stained gods of velocity.
Burlesque Queens & Neon Dreams – Gold-painted sirens, Weegee’s backstage snapshots, and the smoke-filled cabarets where time stands still.
Rebels Who Burned Bright – Suzi Quatro’s funk-fueled fury, Blondie’s ‘Atomic’ detonation, and Lee Van Cleef’s cold-blooded stare.
Atomic Nightmares & Rock ‘n’ Roll Dreams – From Hiroshima’s fallout to the soundtracks of the apocalypse.
The Most Insane Jobs in History – Sit under a moving train to check if it’s on fire? The Hot Box Inspectors did.
Escape Artists & Mad Magicians – Houdini didn’t wait for a key—he made his own way out. Learn how.
The Birth of the 27 Club – Robert Johnson made the first deal at the crossroads, and rock ‘n’ roll never stopped paying the price.
Lost Civilizations & Cosmic Mysteries – The Shigir Idol is 11,500 years old. It’s whispering secrets—are you reckless enough to listen?

And that’s just scratching the surface. The wreckage goes deeper.

No brakes. No safety nets. No surrender.

When the Road Runs Out, The Great Ape Keeps Going

Manifesto Maravillado isn’t a magazine. It’s a manifesto for the fearless. If your pulse doesn’t race, if your knuckles don’t turn white, if you don’t feel the static charge of something dangerous in the air—you were never built for this ride.

The Last Words Before the Storm Hits

The countdown is over. The streetlights are dead. The sky is cracking wide open.

April’s BigBoy Monthly Manifest is rolling in fast. Don’t just stand there. Get in, strap up, and keep your damn paws off the brakes.

Hit the gas. Break the limits. And if you stall? You were never built for this road.

Hellcats, High Heels, and Havoc

Where Style Meets Speed and Trouble Follows

Lipstick as bold as the engines they rode and heels sharper than their wit—these women weren’t just in the scene. They ran it. Whether gripping the wheel of a supercharged beast or standing at the edge of a neon-lit skyline, they lived fast, burned bright, and left nothing but smoke and stories in their wake.

New York City, 1950—the neon hums, the cabarets smolder, and the streets pulse with restless energy. It’s a world of thick cigarette smoke, velvet-draped backrooms, and performers who move like liquid gold under the glow of stage lights. Somewhere in the electric haze, Weegee prowls. The lensman of the underworld, the master of high-contrast revelations, the man who saw what others missed. His camera strikes like lightning, cutting through the city’s fever dream, freezing moments that would otherwise melt into the night.

And then, there she is—a woman gilded in gold, mid-sip, utterly unshaken by the flashbulb’s sudden intrusion. A stripper, painted head to toe in metallic sheen, shimmering like a deity in the dim backstage glow. Around her, figures recoil from the brilliance, hands shielding their faces as if they’ve caught a glimpse of something too radiant, too surreal. Maybe it’s the way she stands, poised and untouched, the very essence of confidence. Maybe it’s the way the light clings to her, turning flesh into something immortal. Maybe it’s because, in this city of ghosts and smoke, she is too much for the room.

Weegee’s world was never one of subtlety. His film stock was reserved for the extreme—the blood on the pavement, the sequins in the spotlight, the faces that told stories no one wanted to hear. He found beauty in chaos, glamour in decay, and in that post-war era of reckless indulgence, his camera had no shortage of material. Burlesque wasn’t a sideshow. It was an empire of illusion. The women who ruled it weren’t just entertainers. They built myths, sold dreams, spun reality into lace and satin, their whispers drowning in the dim roar of after-midnight.

But Weegee always saw through it. Even at its most dazzling, his work carried an undercurrent of grit, a lingering shadow at the edges of the frame. The city could sparkle, but it never really washed clean. And yet, some images refuse to fade. Some faces stay burned into the film, into the night, into history. The gold-painted woman isn’t a performer frozen in time—she is the glow, the fever, the moment that never stops smoldering.

One drink. One photo. One unforgettable image. And just like that, she’s immortal.

Weegee’s photo is lightning in a bottle! A prophecy wrapped in sequins and attitude. The burlesque queens ruled, commanded, and burned like supernovas in smoky clubs where time bowed to the right shade of red lipstick.

The Great Ape respects that kind of power. Some people fade. Some images refuse to die. Golden. Untouchable. Built to last. The Great Ape tips his Banana to Weegee and the Gold-Plated Dancer!

Your Mama won’t like me…

Suzi Quatro – Your Mama Won’t Like Me

Suzi Quatro stormed into rock and never looked back. Leather, attitude, and a bassline built to shake the foundations—Your Mama Won’t Like Me hit like a warning shot. Funky, fierce, and dripping with rebellion, it proved she could groove just as hard as she could rock. She’s one funky monkey!

And The Great Ape? He’s got the volume up, the leather on, and a look that says one thing—I just got Funked.

Neon, Nitro, and No Mercy

When the Future Was Built on Gasoline and Guts

The world promised jetpacks and utopias. What it gave us was grease-streaked mechanics, riot-ready rocket cars, and troublemakers with a death wish. If the universe wasn’t wild enough, they made it that way.

The Great Depression began a few months after the introduction of their 740CC model. Harley-Davidson’s sales plummeted from 21,000 in 1929 to just 3,703 in 1933. Despite this, Harley-Davidson pushed forward, unveiling a new lineup in 1934, featuring a flathead engine and Art Deco styling.

To survive the remainder of the Depression, the company manufactured industrial powerplants based on their motorcycle engines.

They also designed and built the three-wheeled Servi-Car, a delivery vehicle that remained in production until 1973.

70s SSP Racers – Get one and get in on the fun! The Great Ape wishes he still had his Sidewinder!

The Great Ape’s Guide to DIY Snow Goggles!

Snowblindness is real—nature’s way of punishing the unprepared. If you find yourself in a winter wasteland with no proper eye protection, don’t panic. You just need a little ingenuity and whatever’s on hand.

Duct tape? That’ll do. Slap a strip together, cut a slit, and suddenly you’ve got DIY glare protection. An emergency blanket? Perfect. Trim a strip, poke some holes, and wrap it around your head. Birch bark? Now you’re thinking like a survivor. Peel, shape, and strap it on—instant ancient eyewear.

The Great Ape salutes your resourcefulness. Out here, it’s adapt or go blind. Choose wisely.

Jane Birkin in I’m Losing My Temper by Claude Zidi (1974

A pin-up taking her doggies for a walk. Art made by Harry Ekman

Ralph McQuarrie

Bruce when he was through his Leia Star Wars Period..

Jergens Atom Bomb Mini Perfume Bottle Empty 1/4 oz

The Great Ape’s Guide to the Wildest Job in Rail History!

Some jobs keep the trains running. This one involved literally sitting between the rails and hoping you didn’t get flattened.

Meet the Hot Box Inspector, a human early-warning system for overheating train bearings. In the roaring days of steam and steel, wheel bearings under high speed and heavy loads could overheat—sometimes to the point of bursting into flames. If left unchecked, a “hot box” could lead to derailments, destroyed cargo, and a very bad day for the railway.

Enter this brave soul, stationed in a tiny pit under the tracks, staring down thousands of tons of speeding steel like it was just another day at the office. His mission? Spot smoke, fire, or glowing metal, then signal the crew before disaster struck.

The Great Ape salutes this fearless inspector. He had nerves of steel, a front-row seat to doom, and a job description that basically read: “Don’t blink.”

Louise Cox, Vilma Strange, and Marilyn Angel at the Oak Ridge swimming pool in 1946.

Revell Deals Wheels 57 Chevy – It had a fiberglass body hinged like a funny car, a 265 with a fake blower and a 4 speed. As it turns out it was built by Jim Allen from Denver for Revell to tour the show circuit in order to promote their line of Dave Deal designed “Deals Wheels “ model kits.

Peggie Castle, Shawn Smith, Mary Ellen Kay and Dolores Donlon from The Long Wait (1954)

Gunmetal Gaze and Greased Lightning

Faster Than the Law, Tougher Than the Rest

She wasn’t some sidekick waiting for a rescue—she was already halfway to the border with a loaded gun and a stolen key. Whether in a ‘57 Chevy or a moon-bound starfighter, these dames never asked for permission. They just took the wheel and floored it.

Genius-Level TV Remote from 1957

The Smiling Cure: When Mental Health Treatment Was a Social Straitjacket

During the 1930s, the understanding of mental health was still in its infancy, and many treatments were based on controversial and outdated methods. One such practice was the use of “attitude adjustment” therapies for women who exhibited signs of depression or what was perceived as social nonconformity. Societal expectations for women were rigid, and any deviation from these norms was often labeled as a mental or emotional disorder. Psychiatric institutions of the time believed that by forcing women to adopt a facial expression of happiness—primarily by physically manipulating their faces into a smile—they could be “cured” of their perceived afflictions. The rationale behind this practice was that the act of smiling, even if forced, would eventually lead to a genuine feeling of joy and contentment—an idea rooted in a simplistic and later discredited view of psychology.

This treatment was emblematic of the broader societal attitudes of the 1930s, where women’s mental health was often misunderstood, and their autonomy frequently overlooked. The pressure on women to maintain domestic roles—especially as wives and mothers—was immense, and any signs of resistance or dissatisfaction were often met with institutionalization. These practices were part of a larger pattern of gendered medical treatment, designed to keep women “in line” with the dominant social norms of the time.

As women continued to fight for their rights in subsequent decades, these histories became a stark reminder of the challenges they faced in the pursuit of mental and physical autonomy. The so-called “smiling cure” serves as a disturbing testament to a time when medicine and misogyny walked hand in hand, highlighting the urgent need for reforms in both medical practices and societal attitudes toward women’s health.

And The Great Ape? He sees the forced smiles, the rigid expectations, the misuse of medicine as a leash, and he knows—this wasn’t treatment. It was control, dressed up as care. A world that feared a woman’s frown more than her suffering wasn’t curing anything. It was silencing, restraining, erasing.

The Ape doesn’t buy the lie that a forced grin could fix a broken system. He knows the truth—real healing starts with freedom, not force. And the only thing a fake smile ever cured? A man’s fragile sense of order.

Pam Grier as Sheba Shayne, 1975

Syd Mead

Steve McQueen as he meets Jayne Mansfield in the early 1960s.

So life like …

I’m sure that there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this situation, which was depicted on the cover of “Best True Crime Detective” for May 1947. Just ask Peter Driben.

Flash Gordon and his Martian 1965

Some kids had action figures. Others waged all-out cap-fueled warfare.

Kilgore Caps and Cap Grenades turned backyards into battle zones, filling the air with the unmistakable crack of burning gunpowder. A roll of caps in a toy six-shooter? Instant firepower. A cap grenade? That was battlefield supremacy. Load, throw, pop!—a harmless explosion, but in the minds of kids, it was pure cinematic glory.

Kilgore’s perforated roll caps kept the action going, delivering rapid-fire pew-pews in every showdown at high noon. No batteries, no screens—just gunpowder, imagination, and a total disregard for noise complaints.

The Great Ape salutes the warriors of the cul-de-sac. No WiFi, no DLC—just caps, chaos, and the thrill of backyard battle.

Excuse me Jim… Are you experienced?

Rick Sternbach

The Warriors 1979

‘Instants’ (1979) by Boris Vallejo

The Citroën Karin: When France Built a Pyramid on Wheels

In 1980, Citroën took a wild leap into sci-fi absurdity with the Karin, a concept car that looked more suited for an alien landing than the streets of Paris. Presented at the Paris Motor Show, this bizarre wedge-shaped vehicle didn’t just turn heads—it left people questioning reality.

The design was nothing short of lunatic genius. A truncated pyramid on wheels, it featured butterfly doors, a three-seat layout, and a centered driver’s seat, presumably for a man torn between his wife and mistress. The steering column stretched for miles, and the dashboard had an early attempt at what we now call infotainment—a tiny cathode-ray screen meant to relay driving data. But the real showstopper? That glass roof—a great way to bake everyone inside like a human casserole.

Under the hood? Who knows. Citroën never said, and since it only needed to move for a few PR stunts, it’s anyone’s guess if it had an engine, a hamster wheel, or just a few interns pushing it from behind. The Karin never made it to production, and for good reason—no sane person could drive this thing on actual roads. But as a pure fever dream of futuristic design, it stands as a glorious relic of an era when car companies still had the guts to go absolutely mad.

And The Great Ape? He sees the Karin and wonders—why stop here? Citroën should have leaned in harder, added a rocket booster, and aimed this thing straight for Mars.

The Venus Vixens and Martian Marauders

Intergalactic Pinups With a Fistful of Trouble

Beneath the neon glow of planetary backstreets and rocket-fueled hideaways, these ladies weren’t just looking for a good time—they were writing the rules for interstellar mayhem. The cosmos never stood a chance.

I find your lack of faith disturbing…

Debbie Reynolds with the ‘55 Lincoln Futura concept car (pre-Batmobile). Debbie & the car were in the movie, “It Started With A Kiss” from 1959.

An unstoppable force. Conan, Subotai and Valeria. Conan the Barbarian. 1982

Space Marine by Peter Elison

The Shrunken Head Of A Missionary, 1935

Bullet Bras, Bombshells, and Bare-Knuckle Brawls

They Weren’t Just Pretty Faces—They Were Warnings

For the ones who thought they were just eye candy—bad idea. They could kiss you senseless or knock you unconscious. Either way, you’d never see it coming.

Lee Van Cleef: The Face of the West’s Greatest Villains

Before Lee Van Cleef became the steely-eyed gunslinger of Spaghetti Western legend, he was just another suit, crunching numbers as an accountant. Then came the offer: Start Monday or don’t start at all. His boss made it easy—he fired Van Cleef on the spot.

By the mid-’60s, acting was behind him, painting in front. Then Sergio Leone called. For a Few Dollars More (1965) changed everything. Van Cleef went from forgotten to a superstar overnight. Hollywood came knocking. The following year, his cold, calculating Angel Eyes in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966) made him cinema’s ultimate villain.

And that missing joint on his middle finger? Not from a bar fight. Not from a duel. He lost it building a playhouse for his daughter. But on screen, that disfigurement became Western myth.

Van Cleef didn’t act like a villain. He was one. “I look mean without even trying,” he once said. “Audiences just naturally hate me on screen.” That’s why heroes fade, but villains live forever.

And The Great Ape? He tips his hat, squints into the sun, and grins—Van Cleef rode in and ran the whole damn town.

The Showdown That Defined a Genre

This is it. The Final Duel. Three gunslingers. One prize. A standoff so intense, it became the gold standard for cinematic tension. Sergio Leone filmed more than a gunfight—he crafted a symphony of sweat, steel, and sheer nerve.

Lee Van Cleef’s Angel Eyes is cold, calculated, and coiled like a rattlesnake ready to strike. Clint Eastwood’s Blondie stands unshaken as the desert wind. Eli Wallach’s Tuco? Desperate, dangerous, unpredictable.

The camera tightens. The Ennio Morricone score builds. Fingers twitch over revolvers. Seconds stretch into eternity. Then—

Pow. Pow. Pow. The music surges, the tension snaps, and the West is never the same again.

And The Great Ape? He doesn’t blink. He just watches, waiting for the bullet that changes everything.

Jungle Pam

New York City, 1998—the rain beads on chrome, the air hums with gasoline and quiet electricity. The man in the driver’s seat isn’t just a passenger in the Hollywood machine—he’s the one yanking the wheel, veering off-course, taking roads no one else dares to travel. Nicolas Cage. The unpredictable. The unstoppable. The cinematic madman who never read the rulebook because he was too busy setting it on fire.

Captured through the lens of Helmut Newton, this image isn’t just a portrait—it’s a prophecy. Cage stares down the camera with that signature intensity, the same manic energy that made him the ghost rider of Hollywood’s strangest highways. He’s part silver-screen outlaw, part existential gunslinger, an actor who swings between high art and pure chaos without breaking a sweat. The Coppola name? Left in the dust. The Hollywood mold? Shattered. He built his own legend, brick by brick, one unhinged monologue at a time.

In the ‘90s, Cage was at his peak—a rock star without a band, a movie star without boundaries. He wasn’t chasing blockbuster franchises; he was hunting down the wildest scripts, the roles that let him burn, unravel, and explode. Leaving Las Vegas, Face/Off, Con Air, Snake Eyes—each one a shot of adrenaline, each performance a high-voltage spectacle. No one else could walk that tightrope between brilliance and absolute mania.

And now? The legend endures. Cage never slowed down, never faded, never softened. He leapt from Oscar-worthy dramas to cult madness, from Renfield to Pig, from National Treasure to The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent. A career that makes no sense yet makes perfect sense—it’s a ride only he could take, and we’re all just lucky to be in the passenger seat.

The Great Ape sees this and tips his banana to the King of Cage. Some actors perform. Some disappear. But Cage? He burns. He shifts. He transcends. Always driving. Always chasing the next thrill. The headlights are on, the road is open, and the ride never ends.

Los Angeles 1978 Sigourney Weaver at Tail O’ the Pup

Burnouts, Banshees, and Bad Decisions

Pedal Down, Head High, No Regrets

Some call it reckless. They call it freedom. Whether it’s racing the devil at the crossroads or outrunning fate itself, these legends don’t look back. The past can’t catch you when you’re driving like you stole the future.

By the 1970s, Alice Cooper was more than a musician—he was a walking spectacle, a shock rock messiah wielding guillotines, snakes, and nightmares in front of sold-out crowds. He didn’t just play music; he unleashed full-blown theater, turning concerts into blood-soaked horror films where rock met performance art in a head-on collision.

But then there’s this photo. No stage. No macabre theatrics. Just Alice Cooper, dressed like he’s about to hijack the fashion world at 30,000 feet.

Cut-off shorts riding high, a crop top proudly displaying his own face, and a casual drink in hand. One leg crossed, leaning against a private plane like it’s just another Tuesday in the world of shock rock. It’s absurd. It’s brilliant. It’s peak 1970s Alice Cooper—effortlessly bizarre, impossibly cool. While other rock gods were drowning in denim, Cooper was redefining airport chic with the swagger of a man who had already staged his own execution and come back for an encore.

By this point, “School’s Out” was an eternal teenage riot anthem, Billion Dollar Babies was a juggernaut, and Alice Cooper had secured his throne in rock history. He wasn’t just a villain on stage—he was the showman, the ringleader, the puppet master of his own macabre circus.

And The Great Ape? tips his banana to Alice Cooper. Those shorts are an FAA violation. That crop top? A middle finger to in-flight dress codes. Some rock stars travel. Cooper struts through the terminal like he just bought the airline.

Speaking of Alice “Elected” – Rock and Roll’s Wildest Campaign Promise

Long before politics turned into performance art, Alice Cooper staged the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll election. In 1972, while politicians were busy making promises they couldn’t keep, Cooper stormed in with “Elected”, a satirical, swaggering anthem that mocked the entire spectacle. He didn’t just write a song—he launched a campaign, complete with staged rallies, giant banners, and a platform built on louder guitars and bigger explosions.

A leather-clad battle cry backed by pounding drums and razor-sharp riffs, with Cooper dressed like Uncle Sam’s cringy brother. His signature snarl made “Elected” more than just a song—it turned the race for power into a stadium-sized circus. The message was clear: if the system was a joke, Alice might as well be the punchline. His campaign promises? More booze, more chaos, and more rock ‘n’ roll.

And The Great Ape? He sees the song, hears the speech, and knows—some leaders inspire, some deceive, but only one shows up covered in snakes, wielding a microphone like a sledgehammer. Alice didn’t just run for office—he gave politics the rock star it never deserved.

The other Alice Cooper

The Day War Changed Forever

The atomic bomb ended one war and redefined every war that followed. Before August 6, 1945, nations fought with bullets, bombs, and brute force. After Hiroshima and Nagasaki, warfare was no longer about firepower—it was about the power to erase entire cities in seconds. The world had crossed a threshold, and there was no going back.

With the detonation of Little Boy and Fat Man, humanity entered an era where war was no longer fought on battlefields alone, but in laboratories, political war rooms, and missile silos buried deep underground. Power was no longer measured by the size of an army but by the weight of uranium and plutonium in a warhead. The Cold War didn’t start with spies or speeches—it started with a mushroom cloud rising over a city that would never be the same again.

And The Great Ape? He doesn’t glorify war, doesn’t cheer for bigger bombs or deadlier weapons. He knows the second the atom split, the world did too—between those who understood the horror and those who saw only power. Because when war means extinction, victory means nothing.

The expanding fireball and shockwave of the Trinity test explosion, seen 0.025 seconds after detonation in the New Mexico desert on July 16, 1945.

Following the July 26 Potsdam Declaration, where the Allies outlined the terms of surrender for Japan and promised “inevitable and complete destruction” if they failed to comply, preparations were secretly underway to make use of the newly-tested Atomic Bomb. Here, the first nuclear device to be used as a weapon, codenamed “Little Boy”, rests on a trailer cradle in a pit, ready for loading into the bomb bay of the “Enola Gay” in August 1945.

The U.S. B-29 Superfortress bomber “Enola Gay” took off from Tinian Island very early on the morning of August 6th, 1945, carrying “Little Boy”, a 4,000 kg (8,900 lb) uranium bomb. At 8:15 AM, Little Boy was dropped from 9,400 m (31,000 ft) above the city, freefalling for 57 seconds while a complicated series of fuse triggers sought a target height of 600 m (2,000 ft) above the ground.

At the moment of detonation, a small explosive initiated a super-critical mass in 64 kg (141 lbs) of uranium. Of that 64 kg, only 0.7 kg (1.5 lbs) underwent fission, and of that mass, only 600 milligrams was converted into energy—an explosive force that seared everything within miles, flattened the city below with a massive shockwave, set off a raging firestorm, and bathed every living thing in deadly radiation.

At the time this photo was taken, smoke billowed in a column 20,000 feet above Hiroshima, while smoke from the burst had spread over 10,000 feet at the base of the rising column.

Only days after the bombing of Hiroshima, the second operational nuclear weapon was readied by the U.S. Called “Fat Man”, the unit is seen being placed on a trailer cradle in August of 1945.

When the Japanese still refused to surrender after Hiroshima, U.S. President Truman issued a statement saying in part:

“If they do not now accept our terms, they may expect a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on this earth.”

“Fat Man” was dropped from the B-29 bomber Bockscar, detonating at 11:02 AM, at an altitude of about 1,650 feet (500 m) above Nagasaki. An estimated 39,000 people were killed outright by the bombing, and a further 25,000 were injured.

The scene aboard the battleship Missouri as the Japanese surrender documents were signed in Tokyo Bay, on September 2, 1945. Here, General Yoshijiro Umezu signs the Instrument of Surrender on behalf of the Armed Forces of Japan, while Foreign Minister Mamoru Shigemitsu (behind him, in top hat) had earlier signed on behalf of the Japanese government.

Both men were later tried and convicted of war crimes. Umezu died while in prison, while Shigemitsu was paroled in 1950 and later served in the Japanese government until his death in 1957.

American servicemen and women gather in front of “Rainbow Corner” Red Cross club in Paris, France to celebrate the unconditional surrender of the Japanese.

Blondie – “Atomic”: When Disco and Punk Collided in a Supernova

When Blondie’s “Atomic” dropped, it detonated. A fusion of disco, punk, and new wave, this track pulsed with Debbie Harry’s hypnotic vocals, Giorgio Moroder-inspired synths, and a rhythm that could set a dancefloor on fire. Released in 1980 on Eat to the Beat, it was Blondie at their most fearless—melding the grit of CBGB’s with the neon glow of Studio 54.

“Atomic” was apocalyptic cool before the world even knew it needed it. The pounding bassline, the haunting guitar riff, the way Harry slinks through the lyrics like a femme fatale in a dystopian dream—this was the sound of a band that could do anything and get away with it. Whether blasted in underground clubs or echoing through Cold War-era airwaves, “Atomic” hit like a detonation of sound that still reverberates through music history.

And The Great Ape? He’s slipping into his disco pants, strutting through the ruins, and boogying down the de-evolutionary path like he was born for it.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Straightjacket Escapes!

Houdini didn’t wait for a key—he made his own way out. If you ever find yourself strapped in, whether for a daring escape or just a bad bet, here’s how to pull off a trick worthy of the legend himself.

First, create slack before they buckle you in. Tense your muscles, take a deep breath, and keep your arms slightly away from your body. The tighter they think it is, the looser it will be once you relax.

Next, work your arms free. Start by shifting your right arm up and over your head, using every inch of hidden slack. Twist, struggle, and squeeze until one arm is loose. From there, it’s all about working those fingers into the straps and undoing your restraints.

Finally, make it count. Houdini didn’t escape quietly—he made it a spectacle. When you break free, do it with style. Arms up. Jacket flying. A triumphant smirk that says, “Nice try, but I answer to no restraints.”

The Great Ape salutes your escape artistry. Some get locked in. Others break out. You? You make it look easy.

ATOM TRANSISTOR RADIO – Japan 1950’s-1960’s.

Syd Mead

The Last Dance on a Road That Never Ends

When the Ride is the Destination

The asphalt stretches forever, the stars flicker like an old neon sign, and the wind carries the echoes of engines long gone. The road never ends—not for the ones who refuse to slow down.

The Shigir Idol: The Oldest Wooden Enigma on Earth

Long before the pyramids, before Stonehenge, before written history even had a chance to begin—someone carved this.

11,500 years ago, as the Ice Age was retreating, an unknown culture in what is now Russia shaped a towering wooden figure, standing nearly five meters tall. Buried in a peat bog, it was preserved for millennia until its rediscovery in 1890. And what it reveals is unsettling.

The Shigir Idol is covered in mysterious geometric markings and eerie faces—eight of them, stacked like forgotten gods watching from the past. What do they mean? A warning? A story? A map to something we’ve lost? No one knows. But one thing is certain: this idol rewrites what we thought we knew about early civilizations.

Carved twice as old as the Egyptian pyramids, it’s proof that complex spiritual or symbolic thought was alive and thriving long before we ever imagined.

And The Great Ape? He sees this and wonders—who carved it, and what were they trying to tell us? The message is still there. We just haven’t learned how to read it.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Slipping the Shackles!

So, you’ve found yourself in a tight spot—literally. Whether it’s an extreme survival scenario, an unexpected run-in with overzealous mall security, or just a party trick that gets you free drinks, knowing how to defeat handcuffs is a skill worth having in your back pocket.

Don’t think of this as an escape act—it’s about precision, technique, and understanding the weak spots of the world’s most common restraints. A little ingenuity, a small tool, and the right know-how can turn a locked wrist into an open door.

From picking the lock with a bobby pin to shimming the ratchet with a sliver of metal, or going full brute force and snapping the rivet, there’s always a way out. Even the best cuffs have a flaw—it’s just a matter of finding it.

The Great Ape salutes your resourceful defiance. Just make sure your next move is smarter than the one that got you locked up in the first place!

Death Rides a Horse – Lee Van Cleef’s Cold-Blooded Revenge

Vengeance doesn’t knock—it kicks the door in.

When Lee Van Cleef steps into a western, you already know what’s coming. Death Rides a Horse (1967) is brutal, relentless, and soaked in revenge—the kind of gritty, no-nonsense western that made Van Cleef a legend.

He plays Ryan, a gunslinger with a past that won’t stay buried. When he crosses paths with Bill (John Phillip Law), a young man seeking vengeance for the massacre of his family, their fates intertwine in a relentless hunt for the killers. Betrayal, bullets, and blood debts—this is the Wild West in its most ruthless form.

Sergio Leone may have made him famous, but this? This is Van Cleef unleashed. The icy glare. The steady trigger hand. The kind of presence that makes the deadliest men in the West think twice.

And The Great Ape? He tips his hat, loads his six-shooter, and settles in—because when Lee Van Cleef rides, somebody’s riding straight to hell.

Iron man

Syd Mead

Chrome Hearts and Rebel Souls

Because Ordinary Was Never an Option

They weren’t built for picket fences or playing nice. Their blood ran thick with gasoline, their hands were scarred from adventure, and their names were whispered long after they were gone.

Frederick Barr

Heavens to Murgatroyd!

AMC Cuda +44 Concept Car (1959-60) by George S. Lawson

Old Black: The Battle-Scarred Warhorse of Rock ‘n’ Roll

Some guitars are just instruments. Some are legends. And then there’s Old Black, Neil Young’s war-torn, road-battered, snarling six-string beast—a Gibson Les Paul that’s been through more sonic battles than most rockstars ever will.

This 1953 (or possibly ’52) Gibson Les Paul Goldtop started its life gleaming, but that factory shine didn’t last long. Somewhere along the way, it got the full Neil treatment—repainted black (roughly, because finesse isn’t the point here), battered by decades of on-stage fury, and hot-rodded into one of the most ferocious tone machines in rock history.

Neil didn’t walk into a store and buy Old Black—he stole it from fate. In 1969, Jim Messina traded it away for one of Young’s Gretsch 6120s, an exchange that seemed innocent at the time. Little did Messina know, he’d just handed over a guitar that would become the backbone of Neil Young’s sound, a feral instrument that could moan, scream, and cut through an amplifier like a jagged piece of obsidian.

Of course, Neil couldn’t leave well enough alone. The original bridge pickup didn’t snarl the way he wanted, so it got yanked and replaced with a Gretsch Dynasonic single-coil. But that still wasn’t enough. Eventually, the need for more firepower led to a Firebird mini-humbucker, a pickup known for its meaner, nastier bite. The neck pickup? Still the stock P-90, but now covered in a hand-fitted aluminum cap, as if to warn anyone foolish enough to think this guitar was still factory standard. The old wraparound bridge was tossed for a Tune-o-Matic, because sustain and control were the name of the game, and if you’re gonna bend a note into the next century, you need a bridge that can take the abuse.

Then there’s the Bigsby B-7 vibrato, because Neil’s sound isn’t just about distortion and fury—it’s about control and chaos, bending notes into warped, howling echoes that sound like a freight train crashing into a canyon. Somewhere along the way, an extra aluminum plate appeared on the back. What’s it for? Nobody knows. Maybe even Neil doesn’t know. But it’s there, a metallic scar on a guitar that’s taken more than its fair share of punishment.

And then there’s the extra toggle switch—an unassuming little flick that turns Old Black into a fire-breathing demon. No volume. No tone controls. Just straight-up signal routed directly to Young’s late-’50s Fender Deluxe. Nothing between the strings and the tubes. Nothing but raw, undiluted Neil.

Old Black has lived a rough life. The black paint has been worn away from the mahogany neck. The binding has peeled off, exposing jagged scars along the body. The strap knobs have been replaced with an ungodly combination of screws and washers. This thing isn’t a collector’s item—it’s a survivor, a warrior, a relic from a time when rock ’n’ roll still had dirt under its nails.

And through it all, it’s been strapped to Neil Young with the same peace symbol and dove-adorned guitar strap, as if to remind the world that even when he’s making his amplifier cry for mercy, there’s still some kind of beauty in the madness.

**The Great Ape sees this guitar for what it is—a weapon, a relic, a snarling beast that refuses to die. Some guitars get retired. Some get locked away in glass cases, waiting to be admired. Old Black? It keeps screaming. It keeps fighting. It keeps rolling down the road, leaving a trail of splintered stageboards and melted amplifiers in its wake.

Some guitars were made to be played. Old Black was made for war.

Neil Young’s Old Black doesn’t play notes—it summons ghosts. Through the overdriven snarl of a ’50s Fender Deluxe, it doesn’t sound like a guitar anymore. It sounds like something buried beneath the dirt, something clawing its way back to be heard. And in Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man, it becomes the voice of the frontier—haunting, restless, whispering through the fog like an echo of things long lost.

No orchestras. No grand arrangements. Just Old Black, raw and wailing, bending time, stretching moments, drifting through the film like a dying breath that refuses to fade. Every note crackles, lingers, bleeding into the silence like a final warning. It’s not just music—it’s the sound of a world unraveling, a prophecy told in static and distortion.

And The Great Ape? He doesn’t just hear it. He feels it. Old Black doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t explain. It haunts. It lingers. It doesn’t leave.

Skid Shoe…

‘Le Troupeau Aveugle’ (“The Blind Herd”) I and II, 1981 by French artist Philippe Caza

The Great Ape’s Guide to Clean Paws and Pure Survival

Listen up, primates—filthy hands are a one-way ticket to sickness, and in the jungle of modern life, hygiene is survival. If you’re gonna shake hands, steal snacks, or wrestle a rival ape for dominance, you better know how to wash up right.

Forget the antibacterial soap. Regular soap works just fine, and overusing the fancy stuff just breeds stronger, angrier germs.

Thirty seconds of scrubbing. Warm water, a good lather, and two rounds of Happy Birthday—or just count like a sane person.

Get in the nooks and crannies. Fingertips, between the fingers, under the nails—because germs love to hide where you least expect.

Dry like you mean it. Air dryers are best, but if you must use paper, don’t leave the bathroom like a soggy amateur.

No raw door handles. Use a sleeve, a paper towel, or your least favorite knuckle. Civilization is a dirty place.

Hand sanitizer in a pinch. It’s not a shower for your hands, but it’s better than nothing—and it beats shaking hands with disease.

The Great Ape salutes your commitment to not being a walking biohazard. Now go forth with clean paws, and for the love of hygiene, wash up before eating those bananas.

Thirst for Hurst!

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: High School, Hellmouth, and Heroism

Some shows entertain. Buffy changed the game.

Sarah Michelle Gellar brought Buffy Summers to life—a cheerleader turned monster-slayer who redefined what a TV heroine could be. She wasn’t waiting to be saved—she was the one doing the saving, armed with a stake, a razor-sharp wit, and the weight of the world on her shoulders.

This cast? The Scooby Gang in its earliest form. Willow, the book-smart best friend destined for power. Xander, the lovable goof with a heart of gold. Giles, the mentor with a library full of secrets. Cordelia, the queen bee who would soon prove there’s more to her than perfect hair and cutting remarks.

This photo captures the moment before the legend took off—before Buffy became a cultural touchstone, before the show revolutionized TV storytelling, before high school hallways became battlegrounds for the forces of darkness.

And The Great Ape? He knows one thing—Sunnydale High had bigger problems than bad cafeteria food, but with Buffy on patrol, even the Hellmouth had to watch its back.

Startle the Men and Scare the Gals!

The 1958 Ford Nucleon concept car – the closest we’ve got to a nuclear-powered car so far.

The Ford Nucleon was a scale model concept car developed by Ford Motor Company in 1958 as a design on how a nuclear-powered car might look.

Henry Richard van Dongen

Donna Summer and Giorgio Moroder

Donna Summer – “I Feel Love” (Produced by Giorgio Moroder): The Future of Dance Music

When “I Feel Love” hit the airwaves in 1977, it rewired the sound of disco and reshaped the future of music. Donna Summer’s ethereal vocals floated over a pulsing, hypnotic synth-driven groove that sounded like it had been beamed in from another dimension. Giorgio Moroder and Pete Bellotte didn’t use a traditional rhythm section. No live drums. No funky bass guitar. Just pure, pulsating electronics.

This wasn’t disco as the world knew it—this was electronic dance music before the term even existed. The relentless synth arpeggios, the mechanical precision, and Summer’s sensual, almost otherworldly voice combined to create a track that laid the foundation for everything from house to techno to synthpop. David Bowie later recalled that Brian Eno heard it and declared, “I’ve heard the sound of the future.” He was right.

And The Great Ape? He slides into his high-waisted flared disco pants, throws on his Elvis glasses, and boogies till the dancefloor runs out—because when the groove is this good, there’s nowhere else to go.

When Trouble Wore Red Lipstick and Drove a Fast Car

Danger Looks Best at Full Throttle

She didn’t need a hero. She was the hurricane ripping through the city, the warning light on the dashboard, the storm on the horizon. And when she left, all that remained was the scent of gasoline and a dare to chase after her.

Jeff Easley

Julie Newmar: Hollywood’s Timeless Enchantress

Julie Newmar was beauty, brains, and mischief wrapped in one unforgettable force. She didn’t just leave a mark on entertainment—she became part of its DNA.

Born Julia Chalene Newmeyer on August 16, 1933, in Los Angeles, California, she was destined for the arts. With a foundation in classical ballet, she carried a dancer’s grace into every role, gliding across Broadway in Li’l Abner (1956) as the impossibly leggy Stupefyin’ Jones and commanding the screen in The Marriage-Go-Round (1961)—a performance that earned her a Golden Globe nomination.

Then came Batman (1966–1967). Newmar’s Catwoman was the definition of unforgettable. Witty, dangerous, and hypnotic, she redefined what a female villain could be. She didn’t just go toe-to-toe with Adam West’s Batman—she twisted the game in her favor, leaving audiences wondering if she wanted to beat him or just keep him under her claw.

Newmar’s impact stretched far beyond a single role. She left her fingerprints all over television history, appearing in The Twilight Zone, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Star Trek—proving she could slip seamlessly between comedy, sci-fi, and psychological drama. Off-screen, she was just as inventive. She patented the first-ever “cheeky” shaping pantyhose, blending innovation with style in a way only she could.

Later in life, Newmar became an icon of unapologetic beauty at every age, carrying herself with the same elegance and confidence that made her unforgettable. Fashion designers, drag performers, and entire generations of artists saw in her a blueprint for sophistication, humor, and individuality.

And The Great Ape? He sees the legacy, the style, the brilliance—Julie Newmar lit up the screen, and that glow never faded.

I want to believe?

Bad Luck ….

Burt Munro: The Mad Kiwi Who Bent Time on Two Wheels

Some men chase speed. Burt Munro hunted it down, wrestled it to the ground, and made it beg for mercy.

Born in the Land of the Long White Cloud, Munro wasn’t just another gearhead—he was a backyard engineer, a self-taught speed demon, and a maniac with a wrench. In 1920, he got his hands on an Indian Scout, a fine machine for its day, but not nearly fast enough for a man who refused to accept limits. He rode it stock for a few years, then decided it needed “a few adjustments.” What followed was a lifelong, grease-covered obsession.

He spent decades modifying the thing—hand-machined parts, homemade pistons, and enough busted knuckles to fill a scrapyard. By the time he hauled it to Bonneville Salt Flats in 1963, it was a 43-year-old machine that had somehow been transformed into a rocket on two wheels. Munro strapped on a helmet, pointed it at the horizon, and set a world record of 178.95 mph (288 km/h) in the 883cc class.

Most men would have retired on that. Burt wasn’t most men.

He came back in 1966 with even more mad-scientist magic under the tank. This time, the Indian was pushing 920cc, and he set another record: 168.07 mph (270.47 km/h) in the 1,000cc class. Yes, he went faster with a smaller engine. Because physics was just another thing he refused to obey.

The Great Ape contemplates this and knows one thing—some machines break records, but this one shattered time itself. Munro cracked open the throttle, tore through history, and left the future scrambling to catch up.

Joan Jett and members of Cheap Trick backstage, 1980s – Ooooh Boy!!!

Trevor Webb

Huh?

Robert Johnson: The First Member of the 27 Club

Robert Johnson was more than a musician—he was a phantom, a whispered legend, a deal inked in the shadows that still echoes through time. His slide guitar didn’t just sing—it moaned, wept, and wailed like a soul in torment. His voice carried the weight of things better left unsaid. The blues weren’t a style. They were his language, his curse, his legacy.

Born May 8, 1911, in Hazlehurst, Mississippi, Johnson carved his name into the backroads and juke joints of the South, playing with a fire no one could explain. Some swore he met the devil at the crossroads and struck a bargain for his talent. Maybe it was the way he vanished for a year and returned with a skill no man should have. Maybe it was the way his lyrics felt less like stories and more like warnings. Maybe it was the way he moved—restless, reckless, always chased by something unseen.

His legacy fit on two records—29 songs recorded between 1936 and 1937—yet those tracks redefined American music.
“Cross Road Blues,” “Hellhound on My Trail,” “Me and the Devil Blues”—they weren’t just songs. They were confessions, prayers, omens. A man running out of road. Then, in August 1938, he was gone.

Poisoned whiskey? A jealous husband’s revenge? A debt finally collected? No one knows. What’s certain is he died at 27, the first name etched into what would become music’s most infamous roll call. The 27 Club didn’t start with rock and roll. It started with a man, a guitar, and a night at the crossroads.
Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse—they followed, but Johnson walked that road first.

And The Great Ape? He hears those haunted chords, feels the weight in every note, and knows—Robert Johnson lived the blues, breathed the blues, and left this world with nothing else.

Belka A50 (Squirrel) compact car prototype. Designed by Yuri Dolmatovsky, Vladimir Aryamov, Zeyvang K, K. Korzinkin and A. Oksentevich, 1955-56 USSR

The Discovery of Kelsey: A Legend in the Making

For years, Kelsey’s work was a North Shore secret, known only to those deep in the custom motorcycle scene. That changed in 1971, when Tom McMullen, the powerhouse behind Street Chopper magazine, discovered his work.

McMullen had already built an empire—his custom motorcycle parts business was booming, and Street Chopper had become the Bible of the chopper world. When he and his crew stumbled onto Kelsey’s creations, they saw more than just custom builds. They saw artistry. A match made in motorcycle heaven.

Kelsey’s custom Triumph chopper, “The Ghost,” became an instant icon, gracing the cover and center spread of Street Chopper in 1971. From that moment, his name was everywhere. Cycle Guide, Easyriders, Big Bike, Hot Bike—every major motorcycle magazine of the era gave him multi-page, full-color features. The underground legend had gone mainstream, and the world of custom motorcycles would never be the same.

“Long Gone” – Kelsey Martin’s Masterpiece

“Long Gone” is a Triumph 650cc twin, transformed into a radical chopper that embodied the wild excess of early ’70s custom bike culture. Built with precision and an eye for extreme detail, this machine pushed the limits of design and engineering.

The original 1953 Triumph frame was extended four inches and dropped two inches at the rear. The steering head was raked three inches, giving it a stretched, low-slung stance. A 1930s Velocette girder fork was extended 36 inches, adding to the bike’s aggressive, elongated look. Up front, it rolled on a 3.00 x 21-inch Avon tire with a special spool hub, while the rear featured a 16-inch Harley rim, laced to a Triumph hub.

The bodywork was where Martin’s artistry truly shined. The custom gas tank, seat pan, and rear fender were seamlessly molded into the frame, creating a smooth, flowing design. The multi-layered tangerine orange metalflake lacquer, accented with sky blue, yellow, and red striping by Ray Smith, turned it into a rolling masterpiece—as much a showpiece as it was a machine.

Performance and flair went hand in hand. The four slash-cut exhaust pipes screamed rebellion, while the acetylene gas carbide headlamp and eight-track stereo system built into the gas tank pushed the envelope of functionality. Every inch of the bike was fine-tuned, from the flawless chrome plating to the meticulous metal shaping.

At an estimated cost of $4,000, “Long Gone” went on to win “Best of Show” awards across the East Coast, cementing Martin’s reputation as a master of the craft. Future plans for the bike included a sidecar and a supercharger, proving Martin wasn’t done pushing boundaries.

And The Great Ape?

He sees the metalflake glisten, hears the pipes roar, and knows the only thing this beast is missing—a set of ape hangers. Of course

Syd Mead

Eric Clapton’s 1964 Gibson SG ‘The Fool’ Sells for $1.27 Million

Eric Clapton’s legendary 1964 Gibson SG, known as ‘The Fool’, is one of the most famous guitars in rock history. Its vibrant psychedelic artwork, designed by the Dutch art collective The Fool, made it an instantly recognizable symbol of the 1967 Summer of Love. More than just a striking visual, it was Clapton’s go-to guitar during Cream’s peak, shaping the band’s sound and defining an era.

Clapton used The Fool to create his signature “woman tone”, a warm, rich distortion heard on Sunshine of Your Love, White Room, and I Feel Free. The guitar played a crucial role in recording Disraeli Gears, the album that cemented Cream’s legacy as one of rock’s greatest power trios.

In late 2023, the legendary instrument fetched $1.27 million at auction, setting a new record for a Clapton-owned guitar. The winning bidder, Jim Irsay, added it to his prestigious collection of rock memorabilia. With its history, influence, and unmistakable style, The Fool remains one of the most iconic guitars ever played—a true piece of rock history.

And The Great Ape? He’d love to plug in, crank it up, and let The Fool scream like it was born to.

Voodoo Fuel and Velvet Gloves

The Soft Touch of Chaos Wrapped in Steel

She could be your last mistake or your greatest adventure. Either way, by the time you realized it, she was already gone—leaving only the burn of whiskey and the roar of an engine fading into the night.

And strictly hush hush…

Dave Hill: Glam Rock’s High-Heeled Hurricane

The early 1970s detonated like a glitter bomb, and Slade stood at the center of the blast. Glam rock hit like a riot, a neon-drenched revolution with Dave Hill leading the charge.

This photo says it all. Platform boots built for altitude. Denim flares wide enough to catch a breeze. A jumpsuit studded, sequined, and screaming for attention. And that hair? A helmet of pure glam defiance. The man didn’t dress for the spotlight—he dragged it behind him.

Slade cranked the volume past destruction, stacking amplifiers like monuments to noise. Every show exploded in a blast of glam excess with no mute button. “Cum On Feel the Noize” hit like a thunderclap, shaking the walls and rattling eardrums.

And The Great Ape? He tips his banana to Dave Hill. You don’t lace up a pair of space boots and a rhinestone jumpsuit unless you’re ready to own the planet. Some rock stars wore fashion. Dave Hill turned it into armor.

This wonderful buggy-like automobile never made it into a working concept, only existing as a scale model:

Love Potion Number 9

Surreal scifi painting by Rick Sternbach (Star Trek) 1979

The Great Ape’s Guide to Classic Coin Magic!

Some tricks require props. This one only needs sleight of hand and a flair for the dramatic. If you’re looking to impress a kid, dazzle a party, or cement your status as the cool uncle, here’s how to pull off the classic “coin from the ear” illusion.

First, sell the switch. Hold the coin in your left hand and act like you’re transferring it to your right. Rotate your palm down, keep the coin tucked, and let the audience’s eyes follow your empty hand.

Next, keep them guessing. Hold your right hand like it contains the coin, but let it rest casually. Distract them. Ask for a magic word. Make them focus on your right fist while your left hand, coin still hidden, hangs loose.

Then, spot the impossible. Suddenly, you “notice” something behind their ear. Drama. Suspense. The reveal. Your left hand sneaks up, palm hidden, coin locked between your fingers.

Finally, make the magic happen. Grab the coin, flash it with a triumphant grin, and hold it high like you just pulled reality apart. The trick isn’t just in the hands—it’s in the showmanship.

And The Great Ape? He’s tried this trick on every tourist at the zoo and still hasn’t found one with actual gold behind their ears. Disappointing. But if you do find a rich uncle, The Great Ape suggests pulling a Rolex from their wrist instead.

Backstreet Kids and the Sound of Rebellion

The 1980s kicked the door down and left the walls shaking. It was a decade of riot, rebellion, and raw street energy, and no one took up the charge harder than the skinheads and punks. Born from the working-class fire of Britain, these subcultures lived and breathed music, movement, and defiance. Braces, boots, and shaved heads marked their loyalty. Every thread, every stomp on the pavement—it was a message: We’re here, and we own this.

Punk hit like a grenade to the system, an explosion of sound and fury that refused to be ignored. The Sex Pistols snarled their way through the wreckage. The Clash turned rebellion into anthems. But for the real diehards, Oi! was the war drum, pounding through the backstreets—harder, grittier, pure working-class defiance. Cockney Rejects and The Business didn’t cater to arenas; they gave the streets a voice. These weren’t fans—they were a movement. Fists up, pints raised, sweat dripping from the ceiling of every basement gig where the volume hit like a riot.

The streets weren’t borrowed—they were claimed. No one handed these kids a place in the world, so they carved one out with steel-toed boots and a soundtrack of rebellion. “Backstreet kids” and “Jack the Lads” weren’t labels—they were bloodlines. Bonded by music, attitude, and the pure thrill of belonging to something bigger, they burned their mark into history. And the echoes? Still ringing. Rebellion doesn’t fade—it waits. The next riff, the next boots on the pavement, the next generation ready to take up the fight.

And The Great Ape?

He hears the echoes, smells the stale beer, and knows one thing: this was a battle cry with a backbeat. The fists, the fights, the roaring choruses—it wasn’t about looking cool, it was about standing your ground. Oi! wasn’t made for the charts—it was made for the gutters, the pubs, the backstreets, the real world. The kids today might have Wi-Fi and streaming, but let’s see if they’ve got the boots, the attitude, and the guts to carry the torch. Because the music’s still playing, and there’s always another riot waiting to happen.

The Khanjar: A Blade Fit for Kings and Conquerors

Some daggers serve a purpose. This one commands respect.

The Khanjar is more than a weapon—it’s a statement, a legacy, a blade forged for those who carved history. The curved Damascus steel slices with precision, its edge honed to perfection. The horse-head hilt, sculpted from deep blue lapis lazuli, stands as a mark of power, a warrior’s grip crowned with gold.

A blade like this belonged to rulers, warriors, and those who left their mark in steel.

And The Great Ape? He sees a dagger fit for legends. Some weapons fight battles. This one wins them.

The Last Rebels of the Open Road

No Maps. No Masters. No Brakes.

When the world gets too quiet, listen closer. There’s always the sound of an engine, the hum of a highway, and the ghosts of those who refused to slow down.

Let’s ride.

Douglas Chafee

The real ticking time bomb of classic VW Beetles sat right above the distributor—the fuel line.

Which, in case you were wondering, was exactly the worst possible place.

Old, brittle fuel lines cracked or slipped loose over time. When that happened, fuel dripped directly onto the distributor, a component that—by design—produced sparks. One unlucky arc, and suddenly, your beloved Bug was belching flames like a dragon with indigestion.

The engine’s cooling fan made things worse, fanning the flames and ensuring the fire spread with impressive efficiency. And if the engine case was magnesium? That was a whole new level of disaster, burning so hot that even firefighters had to think twice before getting too close.

And The Great Ape? He sees this and wonders—was the Beetle designed for transportation… or spontaneous combustion?

In 1975, Elvis was at a car dealership in Memphis to buy a new Cadillac. While choosing his car, he noticed an elderly woman observing the cars with great interest but with a sad expression. Elvis approached her and asked what she was looking at. The woman replied that she was simply daydreaming since she couldn’t afford a new car.

Without hesitation, Elvis decided to buy a gold and white Cadillac for her. The woman, incredulous and overwhelmed with emotion, burst into tears of joy. Elvis paid for the car entirely from his own pocket and made sure all the necessary documents were in order. The rock star also told an aide to write the woman a cheque for an undisclosed amount to buy some clothes to go with the car.

This spontaneous act of generosity became one of the most famous episodes in Elvis’s life, demonstrating his kind heart and his desire to help others.

His friend and bodyguard, Jerry Schilling, recounted,
“Elvis was not only an extraordinary entertainer, but he also had a heart of gold. He loved to see the happiness in the eyes of the people he gifted.”

TV Tommy IVO

“I do know the effect that music still has on me – I’m completely vulnerable to it. I’m seduced by it.” Debbie Harry – Blondie

1948 Tucker Torpedo Concept – Check out the “Cyclops Eye” on this early design rendering from 1946!

Which later evolved into the legendary Tucker “48” production model, and also spawned weird Carioca, 1955 design.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Escaping the Frosty Tongue Trap!

So, you thought it’d be hilarious to lick a frozen pole? Congratulations, you’ve joined an elite club of regrettable decisions. Now, let’s get that tongue unstuck before the neighborhood kids start taking bets on your survival.

If you’ve got a true friend nearby (not the one who dared you in the first place), get them to pour warm water over your tongue. This isn’t the time for hesitation—tell them to pour, not drizzle. The goal is freedom, not a slow thaw.

If you’re riding solo in this disaster, time to huff and puff like your dignity depends on it—because it does. Cup your hands around the pole and breathe like you’re trying to inflate a hot air balloon. The warm air will work its magic, and after a few minutes, you can slowly pull away. If it still won’t budge, contemplate your life choices and keep breathing.

And for the love of all things sacred, remember Rule #3: Never accept triple-dog dares again. You’ve learned the hard way—now pass on your wisdom to the next poor soul before they end up in the same frozen predicament.

When the pilot started shooting in early-October 1965, the Batmobile wasn’t finished and was delivered to the studio with only the primer coat applied. “In the first shots the car was in the black primer, which really didn’t come on so strong,” said George Barris. “They wanted to get more of a gloss on it. We then airbrushed white highlights around the outside edges, but that didn’t come out as strong either. That’s when we went into the 3/4 inch red fluorescent glow edges to accentuate the Batface and fins. It made it much more dramatic.”

Syd Mead

I wanted every single thing on this page…

Mechanix Illustrated, 1951

Chrome and Catastrophe

Where Elegance Meets Annihilation

It wasn’t just about speed. It was about control. Power. The kind of confidence that comes with a bulletproof smirk and an engine that screams louder than the sirens chasing it. They weren’t passengers—they were the storm.

Ormond Gigli’s Girls in the Windows—A Moment Stolen from Time

Ormond Gigli’s Girls in the Windows stands as a moment frozen in time, a collision of beauty, chaos, and fleeting opportunity. In 1960, as New York’s relentless march of progress threatened to erase a row of brownstones on East 58th Street, Gigli saw possibility where others saw rubble. With an audacity that matched the city itself, he assembled 43 women, dressed them in their finest gowns, and placed them within the skeletal remains of the building.

Timing was everything. The shoot had to happen fast—during the construction crew’s lunch break. Permissions were rushed through, models were given their spots, and the countdown began. A Rolls-Royce gleamed below, a silent counterpoint to the exposed bones of the structure. The women, luminous against the crumbling facade, balanced between elegance and collapse—a living monument to a city that never stops moving.

Girls in the Windows stands as Gigli’s greatest heist, a stolen sliver of time before the wrecking ball hit. New York builds, destroys, rebuilds—but this moment stays untouched.

And The Great Ape?

He sees the shot and knows one thing—this is how you steal a moment before the city swallows it whole.

Soyusz Rock

The Birth of the Quad Skate: The Wheels That Never Stopped Rolling

Did you know James L. Plimpton, a New York City furniture dealer, patented the first modern quad roller skates in 1863? His design revolutionized skating, trading the instability of inline wheels for a square four-wheel formation that delivered better balance, smoother rides, and total control. Skating evolved from a passing fad into a full-fledged movement.

Plimpton built the foundation of modern roller skating. He founded the New York Roller Skating Association, determined to make skating a structured, safe pastime for young people. In 1866, he leased a hotel in Newport, Rhode Island, transforming its dining room into the first public roller rink in the United States. That move cemented roller skating’s place in American culture, paving the way for rinks, competitions, and an entire skating movement.

Skating thrives as a culture, a rhythm, a way of life. The pulse of the pavement, the glow of neon-lit rinks, the charge of the crowd at a derby match—each spin of the wheels carries a legacy. Were you a skater back in the day? Maybe it’s time to lace up, hit the floor, and let the wheels spin—because some things never stop rolling.

The Birth of the Quad Skate: The Wheels That Never Stopped Rolling

And The Great Ape? He knows the truth—real legends roll forever. The rink rats, the derby warriors, the street skaters carving through the night—they’re still out there, still moving, still chasing that rush. The world changes, but wheels? Wheels never stop turning.

Astra Gnome: “Time and Space Car”, 1956

Fuel, Fire, and Femme Fatales

When Glamour Packed Heat

Pinup perfection with a steel spine and a loaded revolver. The dames of this world didn’t wait for a white knight—they burned their own path, fast and unapologetic. If you heard heels clicking, you were already too late.

Don Dixon

The Great Ape’s Guide to the Ultimate “Wait, What?!” Trick!

So, you want to freak people out, blow some minds, and maybe get a few screams for good measure? Well, congratulations—you’re about to master the ancient and highly sophisticated art of shoving a pencil in your ear and nose… without permanent damage to your social life.

It’s all about angles, sleight of hand, and selling it like you just made a terrible life decision. A well-placed pencil, the right hand movement, and a face of pure “Oh no, I’ve made a huge mistake!” will have people losing their minds.

The Great Ape approves of high-level trickery, but if you actually get a pencil stuck up your nose? That’s on you, buddy.

Django Reinhardt has his palm read by Edith Piaf circa 1947 in Paris, France

Friedrich Gustav Maximilian Schreck (1879 – 1936), known professionally as Max Schreck, was a German actor, best known for his lead role as the vampire Count Orlok in the film Nosferatu (1922).

Nosferatu (1922) – The Original Nightmare

Before Dracula had a cape, before vampires sparkled, before horror had rules—there was Nosferatu. Silent, eerie, and utterly relentless, this 1922 masterpiece set the foundation for vampire cinema and changed horror forever.

F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu is pure nightmare fuel, a twisted shadow lurking in the corners of film history. Max Schreck’s Count Orlok isn’t a suave aristocrat—he’s a gaunt, clawed predator, creeping through doorways and staring with dead, soulless eyes. This isn’t a monster that seduces. This is a monster that haunts.

The film’s expressionist visuals, creeping shadows, and unnatural movements make it feel like a fever dream trapped on film. Nosferatu doesn’t need blood to chill its audience—just silence, shadow, and the slow, deliberate march of something unstoppable.

And The Great Ape? He dims the lights, cranks up the grainy film reel, and watches as cinema’s first true creature of the night rises from the grave. Now you can too!

Crime Zone (1988)

“Anybody can jump a motorcycle, the trouble begins when you try to land” Evel Knievel

Neon Queens and Cosmic Runaways

The Future Never Looked This Wild

When the universe turned boring, they cranked up the chaos. They weren’t waiting for tomorrow—they were hijacking it, hotwired and heading for the stars.

50c a pic with THE Batmobile…

Houston, we’ve found something

“Clay has a million dollars’ worth of confidence and a dime’s worth of courage. He can’t punch; he can’t hurt you; and I don’t think he takes a good punch. I’d rate him with Johnny Paycheck, Abe Simon, and Buddy Baer. A lot of guys would have beaten him if he was around when I was. I would have whipped him.” – Joe Louis

“What’s this about Joe Louis beating me? Slow-moving, shuffling Joe Louis beat me? He may hit hard, but that don’t mean nothing if you can’t find nothing to hit. What’s he gonna do when I’m jumping and sticking and moving? And don’t say I can only do it for a minute, because I can keep it up for fifteen rounds, three minutes a round. Now how is Joe Louis gonna get to me? Would I just quit dancing that night and stand there and let him hit me? Joe Louis, you’re really funny.” – Muhammad Ali

Painting by Arthur Sarnoff.

C-3PO: A Droid Deserves a Break

Tatooine might be a sun-scorched wasteland for the likes of Luke Skywalker, but for Anthony Daniels back on the 25th of January 1977? It was a metal-clad endurance test in the middle of nowhere. Filming Star Wars: A New Hope in Tunisia meant blistering heat, relentless sun, and a costume that turned its wearer into a walking solar panel.

The C-3PO suit was pure torment—hot, heavy, and impossible to escape. The rigid shell locked him in, making every movement a chore, while the heat inside soared past unbearable. Breathing was a challenge, visibility was limited, and the desert sand had a nasty habit of sneaking into every crevice.

So here he is, in a rare moment of relief, reclined like a king of the dunes, umbrella in hand, holding court in the middle of nowhere. Even protocol droids know when it’s time to cool down. The contrast is ridiculous—C-3PO, the ultimate worrier, looking downright regal in the most hostile conditions. It’s both absurd and perfect, a glimpse behind the curtain of one of cinema’s most grueling productions.

The Great Ape salutes this—because even a protocol droid knows when to sit back and let the galaxy wait.

From way back in 1917 – Behold the Golden Submarine in its “Silver” incarnation!

How to use a 1951 Buick Selectronic Radio – Tap the bar or foot switch to scan for a station, and tap again to select the next one

19-year-old Ava Gardner photographed for her MGM employment questionnaire (1942). She was married to actor Mickey Rooney at the time.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Thumb Detachment: Fool ‘Em Like a Pro!

Some tricks require years of skill. This one? Just a working thumb and a straight face.

The ol’ detachable thumb trick has baffled kids and mildly entertained drunk uncles for generations. With the right hand positioning, a well-placed grimace, and just enough theatrical “OH NO, MY THUMB!” energy, you’ll have your audience questioning reality—or at least your commitment to the bit.

Execution is everything. If you rush it, they’ll see right through the trick. But if you play it just right? You’ll leave a room full of wide-eyed believers.

The Great Ape salutes your sleight of hand. Now go forth, baffle children, impress boomers, and wield your newfound “detachable” powers responsibly.

Somedays you just gotta lean into it!

The Silence of the Lambs (1991)

It was at this moment little Timmy had a feeling he could not explain. Miss TV Times 1971

Originally 1936 Buick/Chrysler ‘Topper Car’ (built for “The Topper” movie to be driven by Cary grant himself), then converted into Mobiloil /Gilmore Special.
Designed by Bohman & Schwartz (also known as Bohman & Son) who also came up with extremely beautiful aerodynamic designs – see more here, for example this modified 1938 Phantom Cosair (owner Herb Shriner)

Lee Harvey Oswald stood at the center of history’s most scrutinized crime, a man framed in the crosshairs of a story bigger than himself. The lone gunman theory? A fairy tale fed to the public before the smoke even cleared. Oswald, a former Marine with intelligence connections, defected to the Soviet Union, waltzed back into the U.S. with barely a raised eyebrow, and conveniently landed a job along the exact route of the president’s motorcade. The setup was clean, airtight—too perfect. When the time came, he wasn’t pulling strings; he was caught in them.

Before he could mount a defense, the walls closed in. Arrested, interrogated, denied legal counsel, then paraded in front of cameras—Oswald never had a chance. He barely got the words out—“I’m just a patsy!”—before Jack Ruby stepped out of the shadows and delivered the final silencer. No trial. No deeper questioning. Just a loose end neatly tied off in the basement of the Dallas Police Department. The official story locked itself into place, and anyone who dared pull at the threads was labeled a conspiracy nut. Case closed. Move along.

And The Great Ape? He’s seen this act before. A convenient villain, a too-perfect conclusion, and a cover-up wrapped so tight it’s still suffocating the truth. Oswald wasn’t the shooter—he was the fall guy. But history has a funny way of cracking open sealed boxes. The patsy might be buried, but the questions? Still standing.

The Great Ape’s Guide to Escaping the Grave!

So, you wake up and find yourself six feet under. Not ideal. But before you start panicking, listen up—staying calm is your first step to seeing daylight again. Air is limited, and freaking out burns through it fast. Breathe slow, think smart, and get ready to claw your way back to the land of the living.

If you’re in a cheap pine coffin, congratulations—you’ve got a shot. If it’s a modern, reinforced casket? Well, let’s just say The Great Ape wishes you luck. But if there’s room to move, start fighting. Kick, punch, smash—do whatever it takes to crack that wood. The second it splinters, the real battle begins.

Dirt is coming, and it’s coming fast. That’s where the trick comes in—cover your face with your shirt, keep your airway clear, and start shifting the earth down and away from your body. Gravity is your best friend here—push the dirt lower, create space, and inch your way up. It’s slow. It’s brutal. But survival is about grit, not grace.

Keep moving. Keep pushing. Keep clawing. The surface is up there, waiting for you. And when you finally break through, gasping for air under the moonlight, take a deep breath—you just pulled off the ultimate comeback.

The Great Ape tips his hat to you, the undead escape artist. Now, maybe avoid mysterious benefactors with suspicious wills next time?

Rocket Girls and Riot Gears

They Took the Fast Lane to the Apocalypse

They could drive anything, outrun anyone, and set the sky on fire with nothing but a knowing grin. If the world was ending, they were making damn sure it went out in style.

The Soldier Who Wore the Truth—The Story Behind War is Hell

One photo, one helmet, one haunting message. On June 18, 1965, AP photojournalist Horst Faas captured an image that would become one of the most iconic photos of the Vietnam War. A young soldier, smiling, yet bearing the weight of war on his helmet—“War is Hell” scrawled in bold, hand-lettered defiance. The soldier was Larry Wayne Chaffin, a 19-year-old with the 173rd Airborne Brigade, stationed at Phouc Vinh airstrip in South Vietnam.

The contrast is what burns the image into history. Take away the helmet, and this could be a high school yearbook photo. A fresh-faced kid, full of life. But war had a way of stripping that away. His face holds onto a sliver of innocence, but his helmet tells the truth. That truth is carved into the experiences of thousands of young men sent into the jungle, many drafted, many barely out of school. Graffiti on helmets became a soldier’s way of speaking when no one else would listen. Their own war stories, written in ink, sweat, and blood.

Chaffin returned home, but war never let him go. Adjusting to civilian life was a battle of its own. He struggled, as so many Vietnam veterans did. The jungle came home with them in ways no one could see. In 1985, at just 39, Chaffin passed away—complications from diabetes, likely caused by exposure to Agent Orange. His moment of wartime defiance lived on, but he never saw the fame or fortune he joked about. “That picture is going to make me rich sometime,” he once laughed to his wife. The world remembers his face, his message, but the cost? That was his to bear.

And The Great Ape?

He sees the helmet, sees the kid beneath it, and knows the truth—history calls it a war, but for the ones who lived it, hell was always the better word.

Mark Hamill with his wife Marilou York, with their son Nathan in Yoda`s house during the filming in Empire Strikes Back.

1954 Pontiac Bonneville Special

Lemmy Kilmister: The Last Rock ‘n’ Roll Outlaw

Lemmy Kilmister stood like a monument to rock ‘n’ roll—louder, harder, and meaner than anything before or after. The gravel in his voice, the Rickenbacker rattling like a war machine, the snarl that could strip paint off a wall—he was the sound of rebellion. Every riff was a war cry, every gig a battlefield, every bottle drained another notch in the legend.

Before Motörhead, Lemmy was hauling amps for Jimi Hendrix, watching the master rewrite rock history from the side of the stage. He tore through Hawkwind, took a detour with The Damned, and then built something the world had never heard before. Motörhead hit like a sledgehammer—speed-fueled, sweat-soaked, and louder than God. It had one setting: full-throttle.

Lemmy lived fast, read hard, and tore through life like a tank with no brakes. A war historian, a sci-fi obsessive, a man who turned pages as fiercely as he played. His collection of military relics told stories of battles long past. His love for Philip K. Dick ran deep. And in his later years, even the most infamous hellraiser made a switch—trading whiskey for wine and meat for greens.

And The Great Ape? He raises a glass, cranks the volume, and lets the bassline shake the walls. Lemmy didn’t leave quietly—he left in a blaze of distortion, forever roaring down the highway to Valhalla.

Incoming Air Raid: The Great Ape Drops the Hammer with Motörhead’s “Bomber”

Lemmy Kilmister played music like a detonation. Every bassline hit like a cannon blast. Every drum strike sent shockwaves. Every riff turned the volume into a battlefield. Motörhead erased speed limits, shattered eardrums, and left nothing but wreckage in their wake.

“Bomber” was more than a song. It was an air raid. Released in 1979, it hit hard, fast, and without warning. Inspired by WWII dive bombers, fueled by amphetamines, and driven by pure defiance.

“Fast” Eddie Clarke’s riffs ripped through the mix like gunfire. Philthy Animal Taylor’s drums pounded like anti-aircraft cannons. Lemmy’s bass snarled, roared, and flattened everything in its path. No mercy. No retreat. No survivors.

On stage, the “Bomber” lighting rig swooped over the crowd like a war machine diving in for the kill. A full-scale attack set to the soundtrack of Motörhead’s pure, unfiltered carnage.

Crank it. Let “Bomber” fly. Rock ‘n’ roll isn’t a genre. It’s warfare.

And The Great Ape? He’s locked, loaded, and raising a glass—because some legends never land.

Oh the Pain the Pain….

The Great Ape’s Guide to the Ultimate Belt Loop Prank!

Some pranks cause mayhem. This one causes pants-related panic.

With nothing but a sneaky hand, the right flick, and a well-timed “Oh no, dude, I ripped your jeans!” you can send friends (and fashion-conscious strangers) into a full-blown wardrobe crisis. The snap, the shock, the desperate back-check for damage—it’s all part of the magic.

Timing is key. Play it too early, and they’ll catch on. Play it just right? You’ll have them checking every seam in horror.

The Great Ape salutes your prankster prowess. Now go forth, snap belt loops, spread chaos—but don’t blame The Great Ape when someone actually rips their pants.

A bowling ball beauty. Pin-up art by Ellen Segner.

1961 Chrysler Turboflite

Check out how the automatic canopy lifted every time the door is opened!

Turbocharged Trouble and High Heeled Havoc

They Didn’t Play the Game—They Made the Rules

From the streets of neon cityscapes to highways carved into the cosmos, they weren’t following maps. They were rewriting them with every tire mark, every burnt bridge, and every getaway that made history.

Charles Fracé’s art.

Art by Romas Kukalis

For a second I read this incorrectly…

Ford Aurora, 1964 – Car Seat Extravaganza!

The variety of front- and rear- seat arrangements was called “a compartmentalized interior designed for family travel in utmost comfort and convenience.” This family pre-SUV “dream on wheels” was complete with polarized sunscreen glass roof and an “Aerohead” cooling system. Indeed, an epitome of cool for 1960s family travel.

Vegas heat, rock ‘n’ roll swagger, and a love story set to a revved-up backbeat. The photo says it all—Elvis and Ann-Margret, caught in a moment so effortlessly cool it could only exist in 1964. The King, dressed to kill in a sharp suit, guitar in hand, flashing that signature grin. Ann-Margret, leaning in, eyes locked, a playful spark dancing between them.

The chemistry is undeniable—electric, effortless, and impossible to fake. On set, their connection was legendary, spilling over into reality and sending Hollywood gossip mills into overdrive. The film thrived on that energy, turning their every glance, every duet, every high-speed flirtation into something unforgettable.

Viva Las Vegas was full throttle from the first note, a race that never hit the brakes, fueled by hip-swiveling rock ‘n’ roll, high-octane romance, and the kind of cinematic magic that doesn’t come along twice.

And The Great Ape? He looks at this photo and sees one thing—some couples smolder, but these two could have set the whole strip on fire.

Soyuz 2.1A Launch Vehicle

The Loneliest Man in the Universe: Michael Collins and the Forgotten Triumph of Apollo 11

One photo, one astronaut, one impossible perspective. While the world watched Armstrong and Aldrin take their historic steps on the Moon, Michael Collins floated alone, orbiting in the command module, unseen and unheard. He was the pilot, the guardian, the only soul in existence not captured in this legendary frame—because he was the one who took it.

For 21 and a half hours, Collins drifted above the lunar surface, waiting, watching, and wondering if his crewmates would ever return. With each orbit, radio contact vanished as he disappeared behind the Moon—alone, utterly alone, the most isolated human in history. He later wrote:

“I am alone now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life. If a count were taken, the score would be three billion plus two on the other side of the Moon, and one plus God knows what on this side.”

History remembers the footprints, the flag, the first words spoken on alien ground. But without Collins, there would be no return, no triumphant splashdown, no heroes’ welcome. He wasn’t the third man—he was the bridge between the Moon and home. And when he snapped this photo, every human that had ever lived, and every human yet to come, was in the frame—except him.

And The Great Ape?

He looks at this shot, sees Collins alone in the void, and knows—some men chase history, but the real legends carry it home.

Pictured above, top to bottom: 1960 Ford Predicta, 1960 Ford Levacar, 1961 Ford Gyron, 1962 Ford Seattle, and 1962 Ford Selene. All ready to be shipped to some outer space colony, or a futuristic City Dome and obviously to be driven by the Great Ape o some Paranoid Androd!

Velvet Revolvers and Vinyl Dreams

The Playlist of Rebellion Never Ends

The soundtrack to this chaos was pressed in neon grooves and played at full blast. Every song a battle cry, every beat a rebellion, every chorus a middle finger to the ordinary.

The X-Files: The Look That Launched a Thousand Theories

Some partnerships shape a show. Mulder and Scully cracked the case wide open.

Gillian Anderson became Dana Scully. The red-haired force of reason who made every shadow, scream, and government cover-up feel real. Not a sidekick. Not a love interest. The scalpel-sharp mind who cut through the supernatural with nothing but science, sarcasm, and sheer willpower.

This image? Pure Scully. That look could disarm a room full of skeptics, expose a conspiracy, and make Mulder rethink his life choices—all before breakfast.

And The Great Ape? He wants to believe, but even he knows—Scully already solved the mystery. Besides, he’s got a massive crush on Scully too!

Another rocket-like automobile is 1969 Buick Century – a true Jetson’s family ride, if there ever was one

Futuristic art by Robert McCall

Original painted cover art for Vampirella #19, which was also used for the 6-foot-tall door poster offered in all of the Warren magazines a few months later. Vampirella cover & poster by Jose Gonzalez / Enric in 1972.

According to Enric:
*”Warren wanted Pepe (Jose) Gonzalez to paint the image of Vampi since Pepe was at that time known as THE Vampirella artist. The only problem was that while Pepe was a master with pencil and colored pencil, he felt very out of his element with oil painting. So Pepe did a beautiful drawing of the poster image, but alas, could not execute it as a full-blown oil painting.

So, being that he and Enric worked out of the same studio at the time, it was decided that Enric would create the oil painting. To avoid complications, Pepe would sign Enric’s finished painting, and it would be delivered to Warren without a second thought.

There was some justification at the time—Pepe could and should sign it because, while Enric painted the finished poster image, Pepe designed the figure and completed it in pencil form. Enric followed Pepe’s drawing extremely closely, and while the painting is all Enric’s oils, it certainly has a ‘Pepe Gonzalez feel’ to it.”*

Debbie Reynolds with the ‘55 Lincoln Futura concept car (pre-Batmobile). Debbie & the car were in the movie, “It Started With A Kiss” from 1959.

The Great Ape Merkinologist – What else do you do with excess beard!?!?

1953 The High and Mighty

Who else thinks these 70’s conversation pits need to make a comeback

Dual Pontoon Buick by Arthur “Art” Ross

Edward Hopper, Western Motel, 1957

The Great Ape’s Parting Shot – One Step Closer to the Lobotomy Lounge!

Congratulations, you fine furry finks!
You tore through the wreckage, howled at the void, and left skid marks on the walls of reason.
The Great Ape salutes you—not with some limp-wristed clap, but with a full-throated, chest-thumping roar.

DE-EVOLUTION IS REAL, AND YOU’RE LIVING IT

This ride wasn’t about staying on the rails—it was about jumping the track and taking the whole damn circus with you.
The music blasted, the engines burned hot, and the brakes? Never even touched ‘em.

You’ve officially taken one step closer to the Lobotomy Lounge, where the weak fear to tread and the strong embrace the madness, the mayhem, and the pure, unfiltered anarchy.

THE MANIFESTO NEVER SLEEPS – NEITHER SHOULD YOU

This is your last stop before the next detonation.
The next issue? Bigger, louder, and dripping with even more nitro-fueled rebellion.
Think you’ve seen it all? Think again, fink.

So keep your engines roaring, your fists pounding, and your chaos levels in the red.
The Great Ape doesn’t demand loyalty—he demands defiance.