The Majestic Mustang - 1988 Ford Mustang.

            After losing my battle with the brown Mothra, I was approached with the very idea of horse trading. I have never swapped one object for another, let alone a car, and I couldn't believe that a man who wasn't a mental patient escapee from the hospital would ever want a battered up Japanese prostitute. Luckily for me he was roped in by her painted beauty as I was when I first saw her and traded me straight across for a grey mustang. How could I say no? The gauges all worked, it pretty much ran on the price of hay, and it actually got me from point A to point B. Marvelous.

            The joy having a car that looks like a thoroughbred (but runs like an ass), could trick young, naive girls into going on a trail ride at the drop of a hat. Enjoying this newfound attraction makes me forget the Japanese monster (who by the way feel in love with the new owner and never gave him one damn problem the entire length of ownership, that C***), But no matter, the new horse is doing just nicely. And as a reward I decided to sink some extra cash flow into her. Some new body work, tinted windows, a fresh coat of paint, cool racing stripes, and a bass sound system that could project the very resonance of a young man’s throbbing loins to all the local mares in heat. Yes. I was proud of my new prized pony (let’s face it; it was only a four banger). But with her midnight blue exterior   gleaming in the dazzling sunlight, any gambler that saw her would admit she would be a sure thing getting girls up on the saddle!

            Breaking her in was the easy part. Unfortunately, breaking parts was a part of her way of life as well...sadly. Being a ford owner also meant costly breakdowns which mean my ride wouldn't get to stretch her legs as often I liked. Just like Mothra, but with a twist of domestic violence. Most notable occasion was a road trip with a couple of good friends on the way to the Grey Cup. At first I thought she seemed a bit lame. On the way back what we thought would be a victory lap, ended up leaving us stranded on a bridge. In the middle of Calgary. During rush hour. We were able to bring here home limping, but like all horses who break their ankles you have to put them down. So unfortunately this is the end of the trail for this here nag, she'll end up back in the stables for quite some time before I end up horse trading her for an orange 1973 Dodge Charger.

Warui Onna (The Bad Girl) - 1984 Mazda RX7.

    Growing up with my parents there was one thing you could always count on and that they would always be late. Very Late. So late you could call it by my new name - punctually retarded. To be waiting only a few minutes for one to show up would be a cataclysmic phenomenon of epic proportions that would have kittens and baby seals mating in harmonious fashion producing a world of cuteness that would be fueled by rainbows and summer daises. But alas this was not my world. My world then was spent with my eyes grazing over minute and hour hands wondering if my parents remembered if they even bared children.

    Determined to rid these chains of this oppression, and despite my best efforts at winning the lottery, I entered the workforce.  Working 2 jobs 7 days a week for minimum wage that summer I had just had enough to buy my first car, or a round trip plane ticket to Tijuana, just. One would think that such an individual who's worked so hard for so little cash,  would do some research about the car he wants to buy. Nay I say. Back then thinking was not my strong suit and my brain barley had 10% control of my thoughts which it needed to support basic motor function and any diseases I may encounter in my travels.

    So where does one even begin? Unlike today where a simple stroke of a keyboard you get over a thousand results of cars for sale or girls looking for a good time in your area, back then it was spread by word of mouth, the local buy and sell, or seeing a "for sale" sign on the windshield. Barely able to complete full sentences when talking to the opposite sex, I decided to ask for my parent’s advice on the topic. Naturally like all good parents they try to steer you towards the "safe" domestic cars such as a Dodge, Ford, or GM, you know, the girl next door - the one who may go to your local church, get straight A's in class, and who wears Sunday dresses. I do fancy Sunday dresses on women, but being 18 with hormones and booze making the majority of my decisions for me, I picked up the first pretty girl that caught my eye, and took her home that night. A 1984 Mazda RX7. In metallic brown.

    There is something mysterious about Japanese girls, an X-factor, something sexy, some might even say taboo. Being a small town Canadian teenager their Asian beauty is even more tempting. One might argue that it’s not hard for one to standout if they are the only koi fish in the pond. True, but like all men it’s in our genetics to be attracted to things that bounce, dangerous extracurricular activities, and flashy/foreign objects.  One cannot deny nor turn away from their petite size, smooth body lines and great rear end that calls out to you and says "com'on big boy, you know you wanna go for a ride!" She would be the girl you bring home to meet the parents wearing nothing but a low cut tank top, a plaid miniskirt, with knee-high stiletto boots sporting colored sex hair. The type of girl your parents would just love to hate and the one they would warn you about...trouble. And she was all kinds of it.

    Now a rookie to the game, and like all first relationships you tend to ignore the early warning signs, look past their imperfections and quirks, and for a short while enjoy pure, utter, blissful ignorance.

Sure she has a dent here and a little bit of rust there - nothing some surgery couldn't fix.

Low Ride height? I like crawling on my hands and knees to get out, plus the neighbors already think I'm an alcoholic.

Gas gauge doesn't work? No problem. There's always a gas station nearby and she'll let me know when she is upset with me by not moving.

Engine makes a little noise? Bah, it’s her just whispering sweet nothings in my ears.

Check oil light always on? She just needs more loving.

Hard to start? She’s just playing hard to get.

Blows a little bit a smoke? She’s just letting off some steam; I should take her out more often.

Or so I thought.

  

    After a couple of months the beer goggles were off and I soon realized that the Asian beauty I have fallen in love with was really Mothra out to destroy my heart, and my wallet. My wallet (Godzilla) wasn't big enough to take her on. Every time I decided to take her for a spin, they would have an epic battle of prehistoric proportions to see who would win. Caught in the middle, would be me, poor Tokyo, who, with every confrontation between the two, gets demolished. They started fighting once a month, then once every two weeks, then every week, soon sadly every time I went out. And just like the movies, in the end Mothra wins and Godzilla gets dragged out to the sea, and the hard earned money soon washes away.  Nobody tells you that you have a high maintenance girlfriend until you can no longer afford to keep her. Breakups are hard but the first one always hurts the most. With all trials and tribulations, I cannot say anything bad about her though. After all, she was my first manual gearbox experience, she drove me to my first year of college, picked up my first long term girlfriend and because she broke down so often I fell in love with working on cars. So it wasn't all bad. There's plenty of fish in the sea... 

Rio or Bust - The 2004 Kia Rio.

    With the Pregnant Roller-Skate out of commission, and no car yet for the old powertrain, I am forced into the world of the rental cars. Such a wonderful idea thrashing about in someone else's vehicle without the fear of breaking something. And if something did break, they provide you with a new car for a second go. All of this is grand if you’re the one choosing the car. But being a 24 year old male with Molson Canadian flowing through my veins, I opted for the 2004 Mustang, having owned the previous fox body. Denied. Well how about the Mitsubishi eclipse? Denied. Or the Subaru Imprezza WRX? Denied. Apparently it seems that the insurance company of the girl who turned my car into a Picasso had a say in what I was renting. The new Chrysler 300? Sure, But all are rented. Blast. What do I get? We have a new 2004 Kia Rio for you. Well that’s just ducky.

    Now born and raised under a roof of Mopar or no car, my parents over the past few years just barely let in a Japanese vehicle under the roof.  Just. I too was just as suspicious of a new Korean car as I was of eating raw fish. So with my guard up, and coat buttoned, I headed down the winter roads Canada is known for. My first reaction was to test the brakes, or the lack of. My grandmother of 75 could apply more pressure on the front end of this turtle to slow it down than it could under its own power. This is fine, because the second you try to step on the throttle to give her more gas, the season has changed to spring. This quality made it equally important because if someone were to walk out in front of you, you would have a better time steering a Dutch barge than you would the Rio.

    To distract you from the cataclysm that has presented itself in your lap, you’ll also notice like in Rio it’s hot - Very hot. At one point you’ll think the very engine has caught fire beneath your feet, thereby preventing you to step on the gas pedal or brakes and in turn starting the chain of events all over. You will also be the only one on the winter roads with the windows rolled down and AC on to prevent yourself from being roasted like a stuffed pig.  Too bad my old Dodge diesel doesn’t have this problem.

 

    Also I wasn't aware that we were at war with the Koreans. It was a silent attack upon our shores and before we knew it, they were here...in numbers. Just like bird flu the numbers seem to spread although I have a hard time understanding why. Surely you can blame it on madness, or a brief moment of insanity. Although it must have affected enough of the population that now it’s a common sight amongst the sea of sedans. After one go in the car I felt like driving it through the very front window of the rental place from which it came,  which I could have done, if it weren't for the fact they have 10 others there waiting for me when I got out of the car. So, to all those that currently own a Kia Rio, or are thinking of buying one, I suggest you go see a doctor for a checkup.

The Pregnant Roller-Skate - 1991 Pontiac Firefly.

    Back when I was going to college I worked three jobs to support my partying habit. Most of it as you would suspect was spent on booze and women but I did manage to save up enough money to buy a car that was both fun to drive and economical but in my budget of fewer than 5 grand. Two out of three ain't bad. It was a 1991 resale red Pontiac firefly but in a convertible format. Now you might say I was mad and blame it on the hormones and copious amounts of alcohol and I couldn't agree more. I couldn't imagine how bad it looked until I let my best friend take it for a spin down the street and realized that my brother in law was right. Laughing how it was a "chicks car" He coined the car (like he does with all my cars) the pregnant roller-skate. No matter. It was my first convertible I had ever owned and I wouldn't let him take all the fun out of my car. But it got worse.

    To defeminize the car I did what all adolescent adults do - I stuffed her with two 12" subs and fed her 1200 RMS of pure pulsating bass. This combined with the metal symphonies of Metallica and Guns and Roses would deliver a message of saturated manliness. The new plan worked until I realized not only did no one notice my car, but now it has everyone's attention.

    It came with a great safety feature on it as well. You could go to work, hop out of the car, leave it with the top down, and it still will be there to greet you out the door, like that neighbor kid who always wants to cut your lawn - even if he had just cut it yesterday. And to add to that fact, any man that dared to mess with your car wouldn't bother as he too out of fear, might be the one blamed for owning such a feminine car just by standing next to it.

    She had a 1 point slow liter engine in it, but with the top down, and the cool wind blowing in my long hair, I felt like Thelma and Louise, without the lady parts. Like all my great ideas at the time happened at the end of happy hour, I decided to not cut my hair until I got my Journeyman ticket. In hindsight this just added to the overall picture I was projecting on the road. It did however attract a large portion of the male population to speed rapidly to my side, only to speed twice as fast when they realize the brunette they have been chasing sports a goatee.      

 

    Just like Undergrads TV series my convertible days would be short lived. One night driving about, a 17 year old girl decided she would improve the roller skates behind by smashing the front of her car into it. And she was right. There is no better way to end my delusion than rendering the car inoperable. Without a car and a minor payout from her insurance company, I am forced to transplant the drivetrain into something with a little less estrogen...  

1990 Dodge Caravan - The Nightmare that Started it all.

Like most 16 year olds, the very thought of owning your own car and breaking away from your parents bosom, brings about a sweet euphoria of life without parental supervision. But like most 16 year olds funds of producing this thought is crushed by the economic reality of not having the means of buying your own car. This may be due to the fact that those of us who never had an allowance had about as much change in his pocket as an adult in Burundi. Picking up a part time job washing semi-trailers may help pay for a tank of gas, but it still doesn't make you enough to avoid driving your mom's Dodge caravan. If I had cool parents I could have been learning how to drive a stick in a classic 69 Dodge Charger or maybe cruising around the streets of LA in a new (at the time) Lexus sc300. But believing my parents could no longer punish me like they use to when I was a child, found a whole new punishment befitting my rebellious years. Enter the 1990 Dodge Caravan.

Normally I would be appalled and detest the very idea of being seen in such a pathetic excuse of a vehicle. But at 16 and full of vinegar it provided me the one thing I never had experienced until then. Freedom. Pure uninterrupted freedom. But like with all freedom it comes a price, and this price was leaving your Manmarbles in the driveway before stepping into the van. No matter, this new luxury abled me to go and do things I never could before. Up till then my previous boyhood expansion of the known universe was limited by peddle bike and how much sugar and caffeine I had earlier that day.

To say the van was a flying death trap would be an understatement. It had more shakes than a Turkish belly dancer, The windows would randomly fall off, and the steering wheel even committed suicide in mothers lap one afternoon. Can't say I blame it. It could have been steering a F1 driver around Monaco, or chasing a bad guy in the streets of San Francisco. But no, it had chauffeur soccer moms around the suburbs instead. Our Caravan was the color of duct tape and had an aerodynamic efficiency of a lead casket. This too is good news, because they won't have to look hard to find one to bury you in. Too bad that no one would be caught dead seen in it - that is, until the next time you and your pubescent friends want to go out on the town, and this meant parading the strip. 

Now "the strip" should be considered a sociological experiment in itself. Those of us, who haven't snuck into the bars by 9pm, are now subjected to the animalistic calls of the night life on a strip of paved depravity. This may be the only time in recorded history where one could get away picking up the opposite sex in unfashionable manner, because both she knows and you know that you’re driving on borrowed time. The whole idea of picking up girls on the strip is complete and utter nonsense. Your style is terrible, your face is breaking out, you’re neither a boy nor a man and your changing voice proves that. I found it hard enough to talk females without all these challenges going on - but add matching the speed of your vehicle with that, the adolescent girl is driving, and trying to say something witty enough for them to smile at you, is like juggling Dobermans on fire while shaving blindfolded - apocalyptic failure. It never did have the romanticism of American Graffiti, but despite all obstacles and handicaps, you conjure up a wink, or maybe a smile, or *gasp* her phone number. Too bad that too will be called from your parents borrowed house phone...

So it begins...

        Some nights while the wife is out working her shift on my days off (of course), I sometimes find myself reading up on something I heard about or an idea I had earlier that day. This one day in particular left me reading about car magazine writers. Sounds like fun!  I read how some writers stumble across these jobs, with no journalistic qualifications, get to fly halfway around the globe (free) to drive and review the latest and greatest car on the market. Right. But being a car nut myself tinkering on my cars, and I'm always on multiple car forums, blogs like Speedhunters, I thought I'd give it a go and see what happens.

        The first website looking for writers I came across were into exotics. Now having only seen a few in museums and never actually sat in any I decided the best thing to do was to make fun of them and their poorly designed website. Naturally it promoted a response but not what I thought. They were favorable. So favorably that they were asking for more of my work, schools I went too, journalistic qualifications, etc., etc. Now I have about as much qualifications as writer as I do performing neurosurgery on pygmy monkeys. But fortunately for the monkeys, I have had some published poetry in the past, so the only brain surgery I'll be doing is on my own mind.

        Sadly my inexperience of exotics has curbed my writing career from their web page to this uncharted territory of blogging. It’s too early to say if this a step up or down in the evolution of my writing. Little to me is known about this world and what lies within it. I do know that from the 5 minutes of browsing the interwebs of other bloggers, I realized that they have a nice theme to their blogs - they are about as exciting as shoving sand in my eyes and using rubbing alcohol to wash it out. Sadly this is not what I have expected, but this does provide me with the creative outlet I need to share my thoughts, feelings, ideas, frustrations, things I should say out loud, things I should not say out loud, viewpoints or anything I may or may not be held accountable for.

        Rather limiting myself to one topic, I will be posting anything and everything I feel I need to share. Although I do love certain subjects more than others (cars for example) but I'm always working on poetry, songs, and shit I find funny or interesting. I will try to post at least one thing a week and go from there. Lookout world, Dano is here...