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Posts Tagged ‘cars’

[Note: This week’s story for 52 stories is here: Happily]

Unlike the rich friends I had in high school, I was not afforded a brand spanking new BMW upon receiving my license in 1980. No, I had to purchase my very first car on my own. It wasn’t easy to save money on my four dollar an hour salary I got for slicing lunch meats at my uncle’s deli, but I scrimped and saved and cut down on my drug and alcohol expenditures and soon had enough to get myself a decent used car. I had these visions of getting a used nice car, like a Chevelle or Mustang or even a souped up Nova like my neighbor had, but my dreams were crushed when I realized exactly what kind of car $800 would get you in 1980.

I became the proud owner of a 1973 Oldsmobile Omega. Maybe it wasn’t sporty or fast or sexy or brand new, but let me tell you, that car was one solid piece of machinery. When I was behind the wheel of that thing, I felt invincible, like I was driving a tank.

Soon after I got the car, my younger sister got her learner’s permit. She begged me daily to take her driving, but I kept blowing her off with the excuse that with her permit, she was only supposed to drive with someone over 21. Sure, at that age traffic laws are meant for breaking. Unless not breaking them is convenient for you. I just did not my sister driving my car, so I feigned obedience to the law.

And then one fateful day, her constant begging and nagging wore me down. I picked her up from school and decided to let her drive home, just to get her shut up. Oh, you see where this is going, don’t you?

She pulled out of the school parking lot, made the left at the light, did all the right things like turning on her directional and checking her side view mirror. It was going good. I relaxed a bit. She accelerated as we hit the main road and got it up to 50 before I reminded her that the speed limit was 40. But she wasn’t paying attention to me. She was waving out the window to get the attention of her friend who was standing on the corner.

“Jo….” A traffic light was approaching. She kept waving at the friend.
“Jo…..” That traffic light was red. The friend on the other side of the street was waving back.
“JO!” The light was not just turning red, not briefly red, but red as if it had been yelling “Stop, you moron!” at us for the past ten feet.

By the time I actually got the words “Fucking brakes!” out of my mouth it was too late. I saw the car coming at us on my side. It was barreling through the intersection at a good clip and, well, it had the green light. I’m sure as that driver lazily sped through under her green light, she wasn’t expecting to see a car zooming in front of her. But there were were.

I braced myself for impact, which is what you are not supposed to do, in theory, but what your body automatically does, in practice. The sounds of the Clash’s Brand New Cadillac coming from my cassette player gave way to the sound of metal upon metal and screeching brakes. The other car slammed us broadside, so hard that its license plate became embedded in my back passenger door. The Omega spun and turned and ended up on the median, a “No U Turn” sign inches from my face in front of the windshield.

When the car stopped moving, I took stock of the situation. I was alive. My sister was alive. In fact, we were both kind of sitting where we had been at moment of impact even though neither of us were wearing seat belts. The engine was hissing, the woman who had hit us was screaming something, and Brand New Cadillac was still playing. I heard voices outside the car “Holy shit, did you see how hard they got hit?” “They have to be dead!'” “I’m afraid to look in there!” “Dude, that was sick!” There were people milling around the car. Finally, someone poked his head in the driver’s window and was surprised to find two young girls, very much alive and not the least bit hurt.

I turned to my sister, trying to be a bit compassionate since she was probably very shaken up. I resolved to save my abject anger at her until later.

“Are you ok?” She looked up at me, nodded, and then:

“I broke my fucking nail!”

That’s when I started punching her.

That the car completely wrecked and we escaped unscathed, is quite the testament to the strength and tank-like qualities of the 1973 Oldsmobile Omega. They don’t make them like they used to.

To this very day, my sister will insist that her light was green, maybe yellow, but not red yet and the lady that hit us was in the wrong. I have given up pointing out the obvious, like the fact that the other lady got nary a ticket, or that she couldn’t get her license until she was 18 because of the accident, or that there were several witnesses that refute her story of innocence. She can believe what she wants to believe. In my world, she wrecked my first car and, while I’ve forgiven her for it, I make sure to never let this story rest.

So, what was your first car?

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5 cars i’d have sex with

Todd has his helicopter porn, I have my cars.

1. 70 Chevelle SS

Mine would be in black, but you get the idea. That right there, ladies and gentlemen, is the ultimate in automobiles. It’s the car I’ve been dreaming about since I first got my license back in the dark ages, and the car I will some day own. Mark my words. That’s not just any muscle car, kids. That is a piece of art. You know how some guys feel when they see a picture of some big breasted chick with her legs in the air and a “take me” look on her face? You know how some women feel when they see a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes on sale at Neiman Marcus? That’s how I feel when I see this car. No, I don’t want to fuck it, but I just might rub up against it in a sexual fashion, given the chance. Oh hell, if it had a dick, I’d fuck it.

2. 74 Dodge Challenger

Make no mistake, I know very little about what lives inside the guts of a car. I couldn’t tell a hemi from a semi. But give me a car that looks like this and I’ll be making moves on it within seconds. I don’t need to know what it’s made of. I just need to know that it goes fast, roars loud and looks like the equivalent of a Victoria’s Secret model in boy shorts and a black lace bra.

This car is almost menancing. Maybe that’s what I like so much about it. Much like my fascination with Boba Fett or my love of any of Gary Oldman’s bad ass charactes, my taste in cars I wish I had runs toward the dark side. If cars were movie villains, this Challenger would be Drexl Spivey.

3. Ford Galaxie 500

I learned how to drive in one of these babies. Same colors, too – fire engine red with a snow white top. The car was old by then, in car years – this was a 68 in 1979 – but still looked factory clean. It drove like a dream – well, when you are 17 and gripping the wheel for the first time even a station wagon would ride like a dream – and I felt immediately comfortable behind the wheel. I was learning to drive in style. The 500 was a beauty of a car; slick, sexy, the kind of car supermodels with white framed sunglasses and deep tans drove.

4. 1970 Ford Mustang

Unlike the previous cars I’ve talked about – where I envisioned myself driving them – this one is pure testosterone. It’s a guy’s car. If cars were dicks, the Mach I one would belong to John Holmes. It’s the kind of car I might not drive, but would keep in my driveway and spend every Saturday afternoon lovingly soaping it up and hosing it down while entertaining the neighborhood with Mach I worthy tunes.

5. 1969 GTO – The Judge

Normally, I don’t do orange, but somehow the color looks hot on this car. Hell, this is the kind of car you could roll out in some hideous shade of puke green and it would still look good.

If cars were guys, the ‘69 GTO would be the guy your mother warned you about; the one you are not supposed to look at, let alone talk to, because one stare from him would turn your chastity belt to dust. Yea, if this car were a guy, I would be standing in front of it, leaning down low, wearing the lowest cut shirt I own whispering something about checking the dipstick.

Except it’s gotta be the hardtop, not the convertible. Convertibles are nice on some cars, but when you are riding a bad boy like this, soft just won’t do.

So there’s the five car’s I’d bang.

Speaking of car bangers:

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sweet rides and fast rides

Spent the day at a classic car show and a street fair.

best car ever - 72

There is something about a 72 (or ’70 or ’71) Chevelle SS that really gets my motor running, to make a weak pun. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: “You know how some guys feel when they see a picture of some big breasted chick with her legs in the air and a “take me” look on her face? You know how some women feel when they see a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes on sale at Neiman Marcus? That’s how I feel when I see this car. No, I don’t want to fuck it, but I just might rub up against it in a sexual fashion, given the chance. Oh hell, if it had a dick, I’d fuck it.” I will own one some day. Mark my words.

save ferris

On the other hand, that is one ride you will never get me on. I’ll take pictures of things that go round in the sky, but I won’t board one.

Pictures from today here, if you are interested in fast cars or random pictures of carnival rides. I think I took a good batch of shots today.

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The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. I’m pretty sure I’m not done doing stupid things. Which is fine, as it will make for interesting future columns, I guess. Or stories to tell my kids when I’m on my deathbed and want to leave them with some kind of lasting legacy. And by legacy, I mean stories they can tell at Christmas dinner about me after I’m gone that will get a laugh out of the grandchildren. What the hell, everyone laughs at me now. Might as well keep that mockery train running after I’m dead.

Do people hitchhike anymore? You know, stand on the side of the road, stick your thumb out and wait for someone to pull over, offer you a ride and maybe kidnap, strangle and mutilate you? That’s how I got around back in the day. Either we were very trusting as kids or very stupid. Given the title of this article, I’ll let you figure that out.

spideysaysdonthitch.jpgEven after being picked up by a neighbor, a friend of my aunt’s, a co-worker of my father’s and a teacher, I still didn’t give it up. Lecture on top of lecture did nothing for me. This was the 70’s. We were fun-loving, caution-to-the-wind, free spirited kind of people! Read: stupid. There wasn’t a whole lot of abductions in the news back then, and most scary hitcher stories had to do with ghosts rather than serial killers. And, being the naive, fantasizing young teenage girl I was, I always held out hope that some hot guy in an old Chevelle (with mag wheels, of course) would pick me up and we’d fall madly in love and drive off into the sunset and I’d call my parents from some romantic beach in Florida to tell them I wasn’t ever coming home (but please send my stuff, thanks).

Right.

The last time I hitched a ride was in late 1979 when I was headed to the mall with two friends. Stuck my thumb out, tried to appear as sexy and alluring as an awkward, stoned, 16 year old girl in a denim jacket and torn jeans can appear. Actually, we weren’t going for sexy and alluring. We found pathetic and needy worked better.

A station wagon pulled up alongside the road. That was a good sign. Despite my romantic notions of a hot guy in a muscle car, we knew that a station wagon was our best bet. Getting a ride from a suburban mom who picked us up just to save us from getting picked up by an insane madman was always the best scenario, lecture notwithstanding.

I leaned into the passenger window of the station wagon to see if the nice lady could get us all the way to the mall.

Staring back at me was a 30something man with an unsettling look in his eyes. A look that I didn’t know then, but would recognize later as “lonely, desperate and insane.” I glanced over at my friends. We were hesitant. Rain started to fall. We were about four miles from the mall.

We got in.

Stupid is, as stupid does.

I got in the front. My two friends got in the back.

About thirty seconds into the ride, the automatic door locks went down. Our driver smiled as he pushed the button.

My mind took about four seconds to come up with 7,000 scenarios, most of them involving torture, screaming, pain and grieving parents who stood in front of teenage-sized coffins shaking their heads and saying “I told her not to hitch hike!” I turned around and looked at my friends. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Faces white. Like little dolls frozen forever in terror. I could see it was going to be up to me to get us out of this.

I had a plan. I would talk to this guy. Be nice to him. Don’t act afraid of him, just act like nothing at all is wrong and you just want to make small talk and find out a little about this nice, caring man who is driving three girls to the mall so they don’t have to walk in the rain. It will catch him off guard. Yes, that was my entire plan. Again, stupidity.

I took a deep breath and slowly turned my head toward the guy. I was going to say something like “I had no idea it was supposed to rain today, thanks so much for saving us from walking four miles in this weather!” I put my fake smile on.

“I had no……”

The guy was smiling. A weird, creepy smile. He only had one hand on the steering wheel. The other hand was in his crotch. Where his dick hung out of his pants.

I blinked. Speechless. I actually watched for about two seconds as the guy carressed his rather limp and unimpressive ween. Not out of curiousity or anything like that, mind you. I watched because I wanted to make sure that’s what I was seeing.

We stopped at a red light. He started to really go at it. I tried to signal to my friends what was going on but the dude was staring at me the whole time with a “don’t say a word” look on his face. Torture, screaming, coffins……..

ogsvr.jpgThen he made this weird face. I was a good little girl. I had no idea what an “O” face was. Had I known, I would have realized that the guy was about ten seconds away from a money shot on his steering wheel. But not knowing exactly what was going on, I started to giggle. I mean, he looked really funny. Sitting there with this twitchy, spastic look on his face while furiously stroking his little dick. My one friend leaned over toward the front to see what I was laughing at. When she saw what the guy was doing – and the look on his face – she gasped and then started laughing.

The guy stopped what he was going, I’m sure about one stroke away from finsishing his deed. The safety locks popped open.

“Get out of my car.”

I blinked again. What?

He pointed at the passenger door.

“All of you. Out. Now.”

I guess we embarassed him. We got out of the car and stood on the side of the road in the now pouring rain, laughing until our guts hurt.

And then we got serious. Maybe it wasn’t all that funny. The guy was deranged. A predator. Sicko. He should be locked up. He’s a menace to society. A danger to children everywhere.

Oh. My. God. Did you see that face he made? And we went on laughing.

Not only did that event scare me off of hitching every again, but it made me afraid of sex for a while. Is that the face all guys make when they’re about to blow their load? How would I ever keep a straight face?

I got over that eventually.

skitching.jpgBelieve it or not, hitch hiking was not my stupidest car trick. That belongs to skitching (well, maybe it belongs to drunk driving, but we’re not going to get into the more sordid aspects of my early adult years yet).

Skitching is the fine art of grabbing onto the bumper of a car, bus or truck when there is snow or ice on the ground, and riding along with the vehicle until a) it stops (and you better know how to dig your heels into the snow to keep yourself from ending up under the car); b) you fall off (and you hope no other cars are behind you) or c) the driver realizes there is a stupid kid attached to his vehicle and he either yells out the window for you to get the fuck off his car or he starts fishtailing on purpose in which event you start remembering every prayer you ever learned in catechism and you make some kind of deal with god that if he lets you live you will never stick a firecracker up a frog’s butt again.

And then you wait for another car and do it again.

Never underestimate the stupidity of youth or the addictive nature of the adrenaline rush.

[originally posted at FTTW a while back]

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