THINKING FUGLY: by Ro McGonegal VOLUME 1, ISSUE 3

1997 Hot Rod Power Tour: Sucker had a 6-71 on the big-block under that lump in the hood. The suede paint didn’t look too cool, either. It was more a matter of mechanical obsession than cheek. Jim Forbes could have cared less that his ‘55 didn’t shine. He didn’t shine. He was lumpy and down-in-the-dirt humble. He didn’t call it a work in progress, or a Fugly, either. Jeff Koch came up with that name to describe a different genre, one that nobody cared about. That was the beauty of it. We got Pro this and Pro that, Street & Strip, and Street Fighter, so why not Fugglies?

What defines a Fugly (fast and ugly)? How would you know one if you saw one? Attitude. You’d sense the functionality emanating from its dusky surface, but the cues wouldn’t be pouring out if it like water. Fugly owners sink all they got into that righteous, coveted casting chatting in the engine bay.

Sheetmetal, as always, is purely subjective. Anything can be a Fugly. The signs include a distinctly unfinished appearance, but not like parts are hanging off it. There’s not a whisper of billet. Polished surfaces are okay, but chrome plating is Devil’s candy. Slick, expensive paint is money that could be spent on function; any number of primer (suede) hues is available. Hell, at one end of the Fugly spectrum, the car could even look like a beater.

In most people’s catalogs, a Fugly is a merely work in progress, and until they get closer, certainly not an estimation of the owner’s will or of his (or her) Fugly philosophy. Emotionally secure people usually drive a Fugly. Jeff Angeleri, now a higher-up in Chevrolet truck design, was once a Fugly-ista. His statement was a ‘64 Buick Skylark wagon—dirty-white primer exquisitely offset by polished Americans.

Seasoned wheels, bigger tires in the back than in front, a sanguinary stance, maybe something poking through hood, and honkin’ big exhaust pipes sticking out the back, might make it a Fugly. But a Fugly’s insides are always collections of the owner’s imagination, personality, and handiwork, ones that often decry mail-order stuff in lieu of a custom-made piece. When I drove Hot Rod and Chevy High Performance, the management freaked when I put a Fugly or near-Fugly in the magazine, corp-speaking about how it was not polite to the advertisers to use junkyard cull and to feature cars with little or no discernable aftermarket parts. I excused their ignorance but not the fact that they’d so willingly sell their honor if they thought it would make the client cream.

Yikes, I just looked at the clock. That business is going on ten years old. The Fugly movement, which was largely in our own minds (because we weren’t able to support it for “political” reasons), never became a household utterance. But by design, the theme has persisted, just as it always has. It needs a champion, a voice, a chance to mature. Or has it already? The minimalist Street Fighter sub-culture probably comes closer to the original Fugly than anything extant.

Here’s my two cents: Maybe the Fugly (now a euphemism for fun and definitely not ugly) has morphed into a well thought out reader’s ride. My Biscayne and a few hundred thousand cars of the same caliber could well be a Fugly. Though it’s a body-off job supplemented by a raft of new and revised components, I didn’t smooth the firewall, stretch the wheel tubs, massage the body, blow out the interior, or even repaint it.

An utterly smooth epoxy surface is demonic. It invites you to clean and dares you not to, so I covered the car’s underside with black DP-90. My car is a driver. Drivers squeeze out scuz. Suffice that I won’t be underneath my B-body with a rag and solvent anytime soon. The drivetrain is where the bucks are. The satin-finish aircraft-quality Fikse wheels and state-of-the-art Goodyears are the only tip-off that the business sedan might not be a 283 ‘Glide car after all.

Rides that were once extraordinary are now considered ordinary. Cubic money has pushed the bar way too high for mere working mortals. The proliferation and the publication of cars built by the “professionals” as seen in the spreads of popular print magazines and more importantly on a TV series has spiraled expectation out of control. Can anyone really build a quality piece in one week? And the crazy money these renditions are capturing defies logic. Sadly, very sharp, very nicely done cars are left to rot in the reader’s ride envelope.

But this shouldn’t disturb you. You are the core of the market. Concentrate on what you got. Make it the best you can. Drive the wheels off it. There’s nuthin’ Fugly about that.--RM