Upon arrival, discovers that GM and Cerberus have already cut a sweet deal, due to having arrived 2 days earlier. Finds nothing left for Ford and starts the slog back to the motor City with only a 10%-off coupon for Motel 6 and Congress' sincerest thanks for stopping by.

Ponders future, considers driving all the way to Northern California and taking up glass blowing in a small sea-side town that doesn't kin to strangers and where he could change his name and start anew.

Changes satellite radio station from NPR to the Hemp Channel, throws on some old Varneys and grabs the 70 west.

Like my Meth lab.

Speaking of Tulips; You know what's better than roses on my piano? Tulips on my organ!

Wakka, wakka!

If GM were to go out of business, or even not be able to have their executives travel in their private jet with the striper pole and the foxy cabin crew, then that essential childhood right of passage would go the way of Oldsmobile and the entire fabric of our wholesome, apple pie way of life will be torn asunder.

So, Tatum O'Neal, George Michael, and this 914 seller: passing the crack pipe.

Now, if you really, really want to drop $300-large on a mid-engine lap whore, how about this:
[content.onsmash.com]

Silly name, insane specs, death by torque. What's not to like?

The scissors-doors and wide sill mean that you could suffer the same fate as lard-lad here: [www.sasklan.com] providing your fat ass with the same kind of Cyberlebrity.

And you likely won't be able to negotiate the price down either, as the seller is probably another sword-wielding cracker, and serious debate over sale price might result in your looking like Mensa local 368 ward captain Bobby Joe Overbay II. BTW; take a look at Bobby there, see he's the second, apparently sharing his dad's name? That means they're breeding. If that doesn't scare you, then buying a kit car built by people missing chromosomes won't ether, so go nuts.

So, other than a trip to the land of the klan, some buick wrenching, work on its headlights rivaling the work done on your Ex's headlights, and the ignominy of being a fat guy in a little car, your only major issue with a Con-tauch is ending up looking like a D-bag everywhere you go. Showing up at Lambo events and being shunned and reviled. Looking like a total poser and only being able to pick up the ungainly, mannish women at bars, sex with whom always seems to involve a "strap-on" and causing you not to be able to look at yourself in the mirror afterward.

But that Blackhawk calls to you. Tufted leather seats, birdseye maple appliqué IP, free-floating headlamps and lakepipes, this may be Virgil Exner's greatest achievement. Your passion for all things Elvis seals the deal, as he was the owner of the first Blackhawk sold, and liked it so much he bought four more. The man knew class when he saw it.

This example is in Portland Oregon, and that green patina you see on the seat is a healthy Northwestern moss, which covers not only a good portion of this car, but most of the coastal region north of Coos Bay. That shouldn't be a problem as the car appears to need damn-near everything to return it to its glory days of providing a vivid example of its owner's flamboyant individualism and refinement.

Back in the day, (and by "the day" I mean those post-hippie, pre-disco days of the 1970s when cocaine and sexually transmitted diseases were traded in night clubs like Pogs on the playground 20 years later) these cars were the ultimate expression of a lifestyle of excess and new money. When a Roller seemed d'classe , a Cadillac too plebian, and a Porsche too subtle, the Stutz Blackhawk, with its sturdy Pontiac Grand Prix underpinnings, and its tasteful design execution would have been the choice of the discrimination motorist.

You'd need to have the car brought home on a flatbed, and while waiting, you'd want to find out more about the brand, and the specifics of the car that would allow for a proper and accurate restoration. Your first stop is trusty old Google, although the results are only questionable Wikipedia pages and a picture of a heavy set woman in lime-green stretchpants and matching blouse standing next to an example of the marque. Doing a little more digging you discover who the expert on the brand is, and that he lives close by.
The man for whose lifestyle the Blackhawk was built is a former teaching assistant for developmentally handicapped kids. He also had a second, lengthier career. Ron Jeremy is a porn star. He spent much of the '70s and '80 naked and aroused. Although hailing from the Brox, Ron has made a name, and a home for himself in the Porn capital of the world; California's San Fernando Valley, which is where you are headed today after setting up an interview to discuss his other passion, Blackhawks.
Pulling into the driveway of Jeremy's hill-side home, you notice another Stutz, black, somewhat dull chrome and gold, and sagging on one side. It sports personalized plates which read DGNR8, and you think to yourself that you'll have to ask Ron what that means.

The large double doors of the mid-century contemporary home have faded gold escutcheons mirroring the one on the bell button, which you push, and then hear the tones of the doorbell from inside the house: chicka-chicka-wow-wow. "Hmm," you think to yourself, "that's a catchy and erotic sounding bell."

The door is answered by Ron himself, wearing a red silk bathrobe, which strives to cover his middle age gut and amazingly hairy body. You had expected him to be cold, standoffish due to his celebrity, but he is instead gregarious and welcoming, putting his arm around you and escorting you into his shag-carpeted living room. "Come on in, come on in!" he says, and offers you a scotch and soda. You beg off, saying you don't usually hit the hard stuff at 9:30 in the morning.

The house is a buzz with activity as lights and reflectors are being positioned outside next to the pool. "I hope you don't mind," Ron says, with a twinkle in his eye, and a subtle twitch of his moustache, "but we're filming here today, I thought we could talk between takes." You see three naked women and a fat, bearded cameraman drinking coffee and comparing tattoos by the pool cabana. Ron introduces you to the film's producer; "I'd like you to meet Bob Guccione, from Penthouse magazine." He says, and a man with graying hair and smoked aviators sets down his tumbler and rises to shake your hand. "It's a pleasure to meet another aficionado of the Stutz make." He says gripping your hand in his two firmly and sensually. You stutter awkwardly about having "loved his magazine, and having spent many a night with his "pets" in you bathroom." He nods, "Yes, that's what they are for, whacking off. I whack off to them too, in fact I was going to go have a whack just now, would you care to join me?" Before you can answer, the scene is being called, and attention turns to an intricate diving board set up involving a woman on her back, and another pulling herself up from the water by the board's edge, her enormous, almost cartoonish breasts displace enough water on every lowering that waves are traveling all the way across the pool.

Ron says "excuse me, we'll talk right after this." He drops the robe, and walks outside to the back of the diving board. "ACTION" the camera man shouts, and Ron leaps onto the board, his manhood flopping up and causing him to utter a grunt as it strikes his chest. He does a handstand, and, spinning so he's now facing the pool, falls forward on top of the prostrate actress in a bizarre form of 69. At the same time, the big-boobed girl in the poll starts coming up for Ron who is hanging out over the edge of the board.

It all looks very uncomfortable in person, but you think that it'll all be okay in the editing. The scene goes on for about 20 minutes, and there are at least 7 position changes. At one point, it looks like the girls have excluded Ron from the action, but he, seemly spy for his age, manages to jump in and pleasure them both in a rapid-fire manner.

Guccione comes up and puts his hand on your shoulder, "Ron tells me that your Blackhawk needs work." He says in a deep, sultry tone. "Yes," you reply, "it's pretty rough, and missing some parts. I thought Ron here could help me figure out what needs to be done." Bob nods, "I once owned a Blackhawk myself," say says taking a sip from his glass. "It was sublime." "Really? I didn't know that about you." He leads you to the bar to refill his glass. "I had always read about such things, but I never expected it would happen to me." He plunks two ice cubes into the glass and pours a wheaty dram in pursuit. "I was young, inexperienced in the ways of the automobile, having only ever driven plebian vehicles, when I saw her on the lot." You nod appreciatively. "It was a deep azure, like the sky at twilight, and it had the most magnificent set of headlights you have ever seen. The little bump on the back was so erotic I almost lost control right then and there, but I was able to keep it together. Through seven hours, and 9 climatic rounds of negotiation, eventually, I was totally spent, and the blue beauty was mine. It took several more weeks to master her, but eventually we were like one, two souls, moving in tandem, man and machine. I tell you, it was beautiful." You are both silent for a minute as the sensuous depth of Bob's story sinks in, and then you ask "So, do you still have it?" "No," he sighs, "eventually I outgrew her limited repertoire and moved on to Subarus, you know?, the lesbian's cars.

Ron come in and grabs a Zima from the bar fridge. He's sweaty and naked, and apologizes for taking so long, "but hey" he says, "that's his thing."

Then he hits on a great idea, you can be in the porno too, and the two of you can talk during the shoot! Your eyes grow wide "You, you want me, ME? To be in a porn film?" "Why not?" he says, and we'll have lots of time to chat, I really want to tell you about the headlight mounting reinforcement plates. I know I've got the plans here somewhere.

You agree, and head to the bathroom to be fitted with your costume, which is comprised of a mesh thong and a pair of nerd glasses. Coming out, you shuffle sideways to the sliding door to the pool so as not to let anyone see your hairy ass.

The scene has you and Ron getting serviced by the two girls while sitting in lounge chairs and you start by having the girl with the Hollywood hooters rip off the prop glasses and through them into the pool. You say your line "Hey now I can't see!" and she pushes you back onto the lounge, ripping off the thong, and setting your boys free. "I'll bet old one-eye can still see" she says and sets to work. Ron falls back with a huff, and his partner starts on him like an ear of corn. The camera is focused below chest level, so you and Ron can talk."So like I was saying," he says turning to you "I know this guy, over the hill, who can make us some new badges. And that missing pipe you've got? Totally not a problem, I may even have one in the garage I can give you." But your mind is no longer on the Blackhawk. Ron's telling you about the "history of the marque, the unique prospects of the engine choices, the historied ownership: Frank Sinatra, Lucille Ball, Evil Knievel . . . " it's all lost on you. Your eyes are wide, your mouth agape as you watch the blonde between your knees bob her head up and down. Even the comparison between Ron's mighty wand and your hairy potter don't seem to matter because you are in Project Car Hell. That's right, this is HELL!

That Blackhawk has lead you to the front door of the seediest business this side of auto blogger porno actor. And while you will fit right in with your new burgundy coupe, you can never go back to your old life. That's right, no more going to church on Sunday, no more delivering hot meals to the elderly and teaching knot-tying to the boy scout troop in that at-risk neighborhood, you are now unclean. That cute checker at Trader Joe's, with the turned-up nose and the funky hipster specs you were working up the courage to ask out? Gone. Going to your mom's and having her ask what you've been up to lately? Buh-bye. Ever being able to settle down with a nice wife and kids in a suburban neighborhood, enjoying the little league games and sipping a cold one over the Weber in the back yard? Gonzo.

It's all gone, that life. And while you lay there, and think about it, while Ron goes on and on about what the buttons on the tufted seats are made from, and has someone bring him a sandwich while the shoot is going on, and holy jebus, don't these girls ever get tired? They must have the neck muscles of a giraffe.

It's all you can take. You jump up, throwing your attendee into the pool in your flailing, and run for the house. Jeremy yells after you "wait! I didn't tell you about the special jack mounts yet!" You race to the bathroom and throw on your clothes. Opening the door, Bob Guccione blocks your path. "Get out of my way Bob." You growl. "I never thought it would happen to me, but here I am a inexperienced porn producer having my first . . . " Your fist gets him under the nose and sends his Ray Bans and Johnny Walker flying. Stepping over him, you make for the front door and out onto the driveway. You stop for a minute and address the Blackhawk in the drive. DGNR8, "Ha! I get it." you exclaim, and run to your car.

Heading down the hill, you grab some KFC handi-wipes from the console and wipe frantically at your crotch. You make plans to put the Stutz back up on craigslist NO! ebay, and then to take your mom some flowers. Maybe you'll even stop by Trader Joe's, and ask that cute cashier out on a date. You gun the engine, and head out onto Ventura. The sooner you're out of the Valley, the better, and you turn onto the 101 and head home as fast as you can.

Oh Project Car Hell, why do you tempt me so
My meager savings is not what I wanted to see blow
But some late-night knob-gobbling
Done fast, fast then slow

Now my lust will not leave me
And this car won't relieve me
As the tailpipe won't fit
Despite my attempts most unseemly

The Sceptre now sits in my driveway like a cancer
And my sceptre's needs are still unanswered
I'd do it myself, rub one out nice an neat
But my heart just isn't in it, I want lips on my lancer!

Now a Rootes car is nice and its smooth ride may tame us
Its storied history is really most famous
But it wasn't my goal
To undertake a project most lamest

No, I wanted satisfaction that only
Comes from telling someone to blow me
And now at full mast
My trouser snake is now most lonely

So I'll take on the project
Of the Humber with respect
Because I now have no choice
As my pleas have all been reject

So I'm left with my manhood a swell
And no money for a hooker to tell
That I can't pay for mouth music so sweet
Now that I'm living in Project Car Hell

My first automotive memory is of our 1965 T-bird. Black forest green with a stylish black vinyl top and black and chrome interior. Man, I remember loving the sequential turn signals in the back and the fender-mounted repeaters in the front. Geez, remember when turn signals were cool like that?

Thanks for bringing back the good times Murilee!

[www.imdb.com]