I think that is a very good reason why the ARO is better than the GAZ. ;)

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If only for the fact that you or I would never buy the GAZ. Even if we intended to.

If you show up at Volo Auto Museum with $20k to spend, that's not the car you would buy. There are just way too many better choices for $20k there.

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You know your not going to be content with just getting one running. You will go for all three. Once frustrated with the third. It will most likely become a hyabusa engine transplant victim

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Hey, look, it's the Gaz. Awesome.

So what happens, you buy yourself a Gaz from Indiana Jones. The logical assumption is that you gradually become Indiana Jones-obsessed. You start wearing a fedora, carrying a bullwhip, wearing a leather jacket. But no. Oh no. That's what you expect will happen, but it doesn't.

You see, this GAZ has been rebuilt by... I was going to say "professionals", but they're movie people, so it's been rebuilt by some gay men from Sacramento. At first glance, that seems like a bad thing, but it's not. In fact, you notice as you drive it, the damn thing's actually pretty comfortable. It runs well, and you discover that the engine has been so carefully tuned that it's not only smooth-running, but actually economical. And, you notice, it runs quite cleanly. Baffling, but you can't help but think how things might have been different if only the Soviets would have had gay men from Sacramento at their disposal.

So where's the project car hell? Indeed, there isn't one, except that the damn thing runs so well that you start to get a bit of a reputation. You have the Indiana Jones Soviet jeep. Your internet cred on obscure car-blogging websites grows, surpassing even some guy in LA with a Galaxy wagon who once campaigned to be a PCH Poster Child. While your fellow commenters might eventually tire a bit about hearing how marvellous the GAZ is, it's tolerated, because at least you're not singing the praises of British cars. Or Volkswagens. Jeebus Croost, doesn't that guy ever shut the fuck up?

So as this internet cred builds, you begin to attract a bit of attention. George Lucas, in his ever-expanding quest to milk every film he's ever made, has decided, thanks to the resounding success of American Graffiti VIII, to make another Indiana Jones movie before Shia The Beef's voice breaks and he can't play the rebellious teenager anymore. He contacts you out of the blue, and tells you he simply must have the GAZ back. He offers you stupid amounts of money, and you accept.

And there's where PCH starts. With the funds you receive, and with your new-found love of Soviet military equipment, you invest in an old Soviet tank. It looks great parked in your driveway and your neighbours love it. Or, they say they do, because they're not quite sure if that cannon on the top actually works.

Now to find those gay men from Sacramento to help you get it running...

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You'd been looking for a suitable off-road vehicle for a while now, half-heartedly sifting through beat up Jeep Wranglers and the handful of FJ40s for a truly unique vehicle to ferry you back and forth from your cabin in central Minnesota. You're tired of checking out the other guys in their Land Rovers, Wagoneers and FJ40s, and you hate your neighbor down the lane with the restored WWII-era Jeep. You need a proper off-roader to assert your manliness, and you need to show up that SOB with the Jeep. You need MILITARY GRADE badass. And a Hummer H1 is just too cliche. You spot the set of ARO 244s, enticing-- you could have a fleet of Romanian off-roaders, but you hesitate, realizing that everyone will compliment your nice Land Rover and ask you if it has an all aluminum body. You spot the GAZ and you're in love. It's perfect. Nobody will have a clue what the fuck it is, but it will look fucking badass.

You eye the ad, and hesitantly call the seller. He answers the phone, and speaks with a Ukrainian accent, referring to you as comrade again and again. He tells you, "was used in Indiana Jones movie." This sounds OK on paper, but sounds clunky when spoken. He tells you, "You stop by today, I am in shop and show you GAZ. You bring 19,000 cash."

"I'll give you $17,500." You counter offer.

He hesitates for a moment. "Ok, you make deal. Is 17,500."

He doesn't really give you the option of saying no. You show up at the address he gave you, an old warehouse in lakeside Chicago with the windows covered with black soot from some long-ago fire.

You show up, and scope out the car parked just inside the hangar-like entrance. It Looks good. Hell, it even runs and drives great. You are greeted by a tall, yet stout man with a beard and white-blond hair and striking blue eyes. He's got a bit of ponch, and smells like cigars and spilled vodka, and wears a beige trenchcoat-- it's as if nobody told him the KGB doesn't exist anymore. He asks you if you like the car, and begins to tell you about the fundamentals of Karl Marx' teachings-- and they don't sound all that bad. The idea of being paid for the amount of work you do sounds fantastic. You love the red star emblazoned so proudly on the doors. It is a GLORIOUS piece of machinery. The Ukranian demands cash for the GAZ. "Unmarked bills." he tells you. You hand over a leather suitcase full of twenties in the agreed upon amount.

You begin to think to yourself, it wouldn't be proper to drive this vehicle without the right gear. You ask, "Can you get access to any of the Red Army costumes?"

The Ukranian pauses and thinks, appearing lost in thought-- a strange thing to see from a man who looks he could have just stabbed someone for blowing smoke in his direction. "No. I cannot get movie costume...." he pauses, but continues "...however, I can get you USSR surplus. You are interested?"

You nod. A Soviet Army coat would be the perfect accessory to drive around in, and given the northern cold back home, you need a warm coat.

"Yea. I want a Red Army coat..." You begin, but suddenly feeling bolder, you continue, "...and cap, trousers-- I want a whole military-issue uniform, boots to cap."

The Ukranian grins.

"I am having what you want, you wait here."

He disappears off behind several rows of storage racks, each one packed with pallets of various goods, the collection of materials ranging from video equipment to clothing to military hardware. You note the distinct presence of cases of ammunition with indecipherable Russian letters stenciled in white onto their matte, forest green cases.

After some rustling and a crash, the Ukranian returns with the goods, all boxed up neatly, the uniform shirt on top, pressed neatly.

"Is Military Surplus."

"So, how much do you want for it?"

"Military cost is 200 dollar, US. You pay 150. Is deal, yes?"

You quickly agree and fork over another 150.

You take the keys and the paperwork for your GAZ and drive proudly onto the street. Nevermind the period-correct expired license plates.

You pull over and eye the uniform.

It begs to be worn. You can almost hear it screaming "Glory to the proliteriat!"

"The working class is strong!"

You run your finger over the slightly coarse material... it is a bit cold out... you could definitely use the warmer clothing. You pull into an alley, and decide to put on the uniform. It feels great, and you suddenly understand clearly about what Karl Marx really intended. You're in Chicago now, and it's just a day before the Presidential election. People are chomping at the bit for change.

You can be that change. The economy is tanking, people are hungry. You now understand that a higher power has drawn you to the GAZ. People cannot afford to go to the doctor-- Socialized medicine would fix it. Detroit's big three, the United States' symbol of automotive nationalism are in danger of passing. You know what you have to do. The GAZ roars into the heart of the Obama rally. You drive into the center of the crowd, and stand on the hood of your glorious Soviet GAZ. "We need CHANGE!"

And the crowd chants back, "Change we can believe in!"

"We need Healthcare for all!"

"Change we can believe in!"

"The change we need is not a change of president, but a change of government! The Government should take care of the people, not business!"

"The UNITED STATES is the greatest country in the world! We should be proud to be Americans! But we need a government that is truly for the people!"

"YEAH!" the crowd returns.

"We need CHANGE, we need A REVOLUTION!"

Your sudden mastery of oration has whipped the crowd into a frenzy, and they're surging around your GAZ like a herd of cattle. You step back into the cab and feel something clatter out from beneath one of the seats.

A Kalashnikov.

You grab the gun, and thrust its barrel skyward. It was glorious. It felt so natural. So right.

"REVOLUTION!" You cry. The people scream with you.

"The pigs of democracy have run the country for long enough, we shall retake the country for the people and establish a government truly FOR the people!"

The men in black suits that have been standing at the edge of the crowds suddenly look very agitated, and whisper in unison to each other, 'gun.'

You hear a shot ring out, and then everything goes black.

You never saw the sniper on that rooftop a mile and a half away.

It never occurred to you that picking that Kalashnikov up would be your demise.

You never saw any of it coming. Your last thought is a glorious vision of a socialist America, of all the happy children playing, of people able to go to the doctor.

And all the fault of the GAZ, turning you into a nationalist revolutionary...

You float above your body, seeing the blood pool around your head, your body sprawled over the back seats of your GAZ. There went the fucking interior, you think to yourself. It takes you a moment to realize that you are dead. You will never again walk the earth.

you wonder to yourself.If only I'd bought the AROs... I could have been a vampire. I could have had life eternal... if only I'd bought those AROs instead

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BTW... the Volo Auto Museum is a must see if you ever feel like venturing to the north west suburbs of Chicago.

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Geez Murilee, why don't you just shuffle on over to East Bay Toyota and grab a couple of shots of a 2 year old Scion xB on the lot, and maybe some Volvo V70 on the walk home?

What will it be, a the box it came came in from Gothenburg or the rolling phone booth from Toyota City? Today's PCH for folks not so good with their hands . . .

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