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Detroit, 4:14 PM
Sat Nov 7
15 posts in the last 24 hours
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10/19/09
10/18/09
I have no desire to sing rock and roll, be know chronoligocally as the "fat" version of me or the "skinny" one, and am not fond of rhinestones.
However, i would LOVE to become a race car driver simply out of will and enjoyment, own my own team and endorse and monopolize the tasty salad dressing market as we know it.
So I'm gonna have to vote Volvo. #24hoursoflemonsohio
10/18/09
It was the craziest Volvo I have ever seen, and it was fast as well. #24hoursoflemonsohio
10/19/09
10/18/09
10/18/09
10/18/09
10/18/09
I'm going to. #24hoursoflemonsohio
10/18/09
10/19/09
10/19/09
10/18/09
For any guy, anyhow, it won't be a problem with the girlfriend or wife I'm sure -- every girl loves pink wheels and leopard print anything, right? So I guess you can't go wrong with either. ;) #24hoursoflemonsohio
10/18/09
I know of a green Coupe deVille of the same vintage for parts, even though it appears to move.
Almost traded my '95 W124 sedan for it, even. Then commuting logic stepped in. #24hoursoflemonsohio
10/18/09
10/18/09
10/18/09
So I've seen lots of cute Volvos. I don't think I've ever seen a pink racing Caddy vintage 61. #24hoursoflemonsohio
10/18/09
10/18/09
10/19/09
10/18/09
09/06/09
The suspension looks good and the cuts are straight. There are a couple of holes in the drivers side floor pan (from the Corolla) and sheet metal needs to be added between the outside frame rails and the toyota floor pans.
I decided to pass in favor of a Maserati BiTurbo. I'm a special kind of masochist.
09/06/09
Everything looks the same: the grey paint, now faded and rusty; the year, the same as that fateful encounter with Francesca; that fiery twin-cam motor, now lying dormant, but ready to be coaxed back to life. You want this car. You need this car. And at that price, it'd be worth the drive from Taos and that $500 paycheck burning a hole in your pocket.
After speaking briefly with "Matt," you hitch up a U-Haul trailer and hit the road. His directions were a little unclear, mostly due to the intermittent coughing, but also because of the strange static hissing and popping, as if he was calling from a Soviet surplus satellite phone while standing next to a microwave tower.
The drive is uneventful, except that soon after the sun drops below the horizon on your way through Albuquerque, your truck's headlights begin to flicker and fade. "Damn Chinese junk alternator," you mumble to no one in particular. But as you pass through the town of Los Lunes and head on the rural route towards your prize everything seems to work again.
After a few wrong turns you manage to find Matt's property, which is strewn with junk cars of various vintage among the scrub brush and semi-feral goats. A knock at the door of the derelict trailer brings Matt to the door.
It's hard to tell in the flickering light of the single exposed bulb hanging from the porch roof, but it seems that Matt has seen better days, much like the jalopies currently gracing his yard. Walking with with a hobbling limp, he begins to show you the manifold features of your beloved Lancia with a growling, gravelly voice punctuated by deep, hacking coughs.
"Yeah, *cough, cough,* the car is in great condition. All it really needs, *cough,* is a few spare parts to get running." Something about how he says "spare parts," with a little high-pitched giggle at the end, makes you uneasy.
Closing the deal, you hand over your cash and begin to load your treasure on the flatbed trailer when you notice a strange, slightly bent figure standing on the brow of a nearby hill. He seems to be holding something long and heavy in one hand. In the distance, you hear the distinct clatter of an idling two-stroke.
"Oh, *cough* don't mind him. That's just my son, *cough* out cutting some firewood. Yeah."
Funny, you think, there don't seem to be any trees around here. Distracted, you jam a finger in the come-along hitch and blood drips down to the sand. Matt lets out a weird sniffing sound, another dry cough, and another nervous giggle. Looking up, you see other figures on the surrounding hills, one carrying what appears to be a pickaxe, another brandishing something long, thin, and sinisterly curved, glinting in the moonlight.
"*cough, cough,* Spare parts! Spare parts, *cough, wheeze, giggle, cough*" is the last thing you hear before a crudely fashioned arrow connects with your leg and you fall to the ground. Strong, six-fingered hands grab hold of you and drag you to what looks like a cage behind the mobile home, right next to a crude wooden frame where some kind of jerky is drying in the desert air.
And half-buried in the sand you now see a jumble of bleached bones, and a weathered red leather Prada handbag. It seems that you've not only discovered your long-lost automotive love object, but the reason why Francesca never wrote back to you all those years ago.
09/07/09
09/06/09
[rustybuttrusty.com]
If you check out the rest of his site, you'll probably bookmark it as quickly as I did.