Jay-Z, Your Car Is Ready

We just had the Boat Show in Miami Beach last week, but the one I look forward to is the Auto Show later this year.

I just better not see this Mercedes-Benz SL600 there, at least as it appeared in the Tokyo Auto Show in January. It's customised with over 300,000 Swarovski crystals.



Ugh, hideous ratty paste job. I'm surprised they didn't use a Be-Dazzler.

So That's What Happened To Elvira

I tell you, there are some strange finds online, especially hanging around all-guy forums.

I have decided to increase my knowledge base about automobiles, which currently stands at exactly "What does that knob thingie do?", since I was raised by a completely car illiterate dad. It was inevitable then, that these hyper-macho sites would centre around that other male hobby: women.

One post certainly caught my eye, though. In the "for sale" area, a buxom Bronx babe of ironically similar name to me (!), was selling this.



Frankly, I could look at this photo all day, although not exactly for the same reasons why male Sundries readers might do.

It's just that I'm fascinated by (a) her sales pitch background (b) her artful presentation of the sale items (c) her iced out "jewelry" and general demeanour (d) her nails, and lastly (e) her potentially real boobs. Let's take that last bit first, shall we?

-- And there was great cheering throughout the land... --

First, I think they're real, but I'm such a duffer about such things. They have the naturalistic "smush" that err, mine have *blush*, so I'm fairly sure they're real and not the watermelon freakshow variety.

But her nails raise my antennae, since they are acrylic jobbies, not to mention that suspicious tan-in-a-can orange glow she has.

And would I want to buy a Ford Taurus door handle from George Hamilton? No, no I wouldn't.

I've been trying to figure out what her background is, by using deliberately obnoxious and rude stereotypes about ethnicities in New York, which I've carefully culled throughout the years by watching television shows like Kojak and The Sopranos.

Consequently, I've narrowed it down to Italian, Iranian or Russian. It's gotta be a people who make long black tresses into a fetish, but aren't afraid to look ridiculous even if they aren't fully aware they are ridiculous.

Like, you know, the Gotti boys.



The ice she's wearing is also fascinating. Fascinating because it's so fake, and therefore she must be aware that is bad sales practise. Rather like going to Saudi Arabia to close on a multi-billion dollar deal, wearing a fake Rolex from Guangzhou.

We can tell, get over yourself, sweetheart.



-- Actually, my mother wears paste jewelry because it's a time-honoured female way of mix-and-matching a fashion look. This gal, however, looks like she really thinks she's a female baller, like that delightful Kimora Lee. And by delightful, I mean utterly repulsive and venal. --

What is that charm around her neck anyway?

It looks like a cornucopia, or maybe even a leprechaun slipper? Who goes out wearing a leprechaun slipper around their necks! Sheesh. I ask you.

Having explored her jewelry, let's touch on the actual items she's trying to flog. It's like, instead of rummaging at the Goodwill store like normal middle-class people do, she decided to head to the local junkyard and solder off bits from Chevys.

What the hell kind of person does this! Sheesh. I ask you.



My God, is that a cigarette lighter? What is that! I must know.



In this last picture, we're even given insight about her surroundings. That's a mighty expensive Italian leather sofa...from Rent-to-Own.

Clearly, this vendor person decided to choose black because it would make a good background for her accumulation of car parts. But she added some Daisy Dukes for good measure.

That's George Michael territory. Dayum!

I also like how she's daintily holding the items out for the viewer, like one would with a fragile orchid or a truffle. Voilà! she seems to be saying silently with her ginormous boobs, I mean, outstretched palms.

Careful, fellas. It's Crate-and-Barrel rules: you break, you buy.



Just so that you know, she doesn't have a good word-of-mouth from the guys in the forum, at least not about her stuff. She's forgetful, listing items long since sold to some sucker, I mean, buyer.

Somehow, though, I don't see a lot of men complaining. That used Volvo clutch isn't what is making their pulses race.

It's the certain knowledge they will get a sexually ambitious woman's digits cheaper than a dinner and a movie would've cost.

And if for nothing else, I applaud her and them both for their business acumen. A+++.

Redneck Memories

From the fine folks who brought you the "redneck timeout"...



...comes the "redneck windshield wipers".



Once I had a boyfriend who was from Louisville, Kentucky. He was as smart as a whip, made me laugh, and had an old-fashioned Southern sensibility that melted my heart.

But he had a horrible secret: he was ashamed of his background. No amount of tut-tutting made him feel like he could share certain parts of his life with me.

After much pulling of the arm, however, I convinced me to let me visit the family homestead. Family to me is everything, and I cannot judge or perhaps even love a man fully until I meet his kin.

I arrived in Louisville just a fortnight before the Kentucky Derby (one of my lifelong dreams is to attend the races at Churchill Downs one day), and prepared to meet his 5 older brothers and sister, and most importantly, his parents.

His father was one of those Army drill sergeants who are deadly on parade, but big fluffy marshmallows outside of it. His mother was a sweetheart, who absolutely adored me. I'll never forget how, though my boyfriend was in his 20s, everyone called his mother, "mommy". Meanwhile, his father was "daddy", but said in that unforgettable twang, it was rendered as "deddy".

I was treated like a cross between Priscilla Presley, Mrs. Adolph Rupp and the Queen.

I was very very humbled by their warmth.

Now you may wonder why I am recounting all of this. It's because I was not allowed to go anywhere near their modest home located some miles outside of the "big city". Yep, you guessed it, it was a trailer home.

Try as I might, my silent, upstanding chap would not allow me to go anywhere near his home.

Inside his dad's old car, I was though. It was anything but new, and looked like it was held up by a fair amount of skill on his dad's part, which included homemade repairs.

It was when reading an Instapundit link to the 1969 Dodge Polara (apparently, a great favourite of American coppers) that I was immediately jolted back to this moment in time, when I got to ride inside a vehicle very similar to this car. I never did ask what it was, because honestly, until recently I hadn't a clue about anything car-related. I want to say it was a Dodge Challenger, like my own father had when he first set foot in this country, but I cannot be sure. It was manual, though, and I was impressed by that in the land of the automatic.

But when I read this:

With 375-horsepower, 440-cubic-inch muscle car big block engines and taut heavy-duty suspensions, Polaras inspired awe, fear, and respect.

I did remember the cocooned feeling of raw power, combined with a rather transparent sincerity which seems to be so effortless in this country. It inspires respect.

Not just in your cars, but in your people.

If fossil fuels are a limited commodity, and one day the muscle cars we enjoyed, not just in the 1960s, but now during our very own Golden Age of Escalades and Chrysler 300s, the memories we will have of those cars will be like the Gold Rush oldtimers remembering the smallest nuggets of gold.

No matter how humble a double-wide home, or a rustbucket old car, just remember, they're beyond precious when they only exist in our memories.

Rather like my boyfriend, really.

P.S.: We're not in touch, but as with my other boyfriends, we parted as friends.

Paris Has A New Ride

As revealed to Sundries' readers earlier this month, Miss Paris Hilton has ordered a specially-made car for herself, to echo the famous pink Malibu Barbie car every girl of a certain age remembers having:

A shocking pink Bentley...



You know, I was prepared to like it, just because I was lured by the quaintness of the impulse, but I confess I hate it.

Not only do those all-pink hubcaps make it look utterly rubbishy, but the interior takes away from all the charm of the enterprise.



It's a neurotic car much better suited to an aged bimbo like Zsa-Zsa Gabor, than the relatively youthful Angeleno airhead dangling her own handbag (literally, her own handbag. Check out what it says).

I see this on eBay within year's end.

Transport Me

As you have read, Monday was a crazy day for me, which culminated with me actually doing something I've never done before in my life -- I cleaned and waxed my own (new) car.

The days of me forking over $189 to my favourite detailer are over, you know. There's a recession on, ain't you heard?

(I use Belgium's Zymöl products, and they are fantastic, incidentally. I love the smell of the banana "Leather Treat", as well as the piña colada "Field Glaze". It's a luau in a bottle!)

Just now, I was researching auto forums for waxing tips and the like, when I came upon the new 2009 Bugatti Veyron, which I found out is currently featured in Jason Statham's "Transporter 3" film.

Oh. My. Goodness. Come to mama! Wow.



(Oh please, spare me the "too flash, too Arab, too shiny" references. To quote Zero Mostel in The Producers, "if you've got it, flaunt it baby!")

I can't relate, but I'm sure a lot of the male Sundries readers echo what one Youtube commenter wrote:

G*D DAMN*T id almost cut my **** off for that car.

Which being Youtube and all, prompted another one to add:

I wouldn't go that far... though maybe I'd cut off a b*llock for it.

Having launched my budding detailing career today, I can only imagine the muscle needed to keep up this chrome papi.

Which brings me to the best ever pictorial on detailing a car -- in this case, a pearly iridiscent beauty, the Lamborghini Gallardo. (Via Renato)

You will NOT believe the attention and precision by this detailer in Scotland. Click on the link to see the Lambo go from this:



To this.



Obviously, I love womanly things like shopping, clothes, and days at the spa; indeed, I am convinced pedicures are God's gift to women to compensate for epidurals -- but sometimes, just sometimes, I can appreciate the finer points of being a chap.

I still don't know what a caliper is, though. And that's okay.

IN THE COMMENTS: Chickenlittle remembers what to me, is an astonishing bit of mechanical skill (and an even more astonishing bit of wifely tolerance).

Ha! These days, cars are far too utilitarian for me to get that excited--I drive a Golf diesel that gets ca 45 mpg. I did once rebuild the motor of a '63 Thunderbird-now that was a motor--390 ci. Not having a garage at the time, I did this on an engine stand in our living room (my wife was very tolerant). We discovered that the engine block made for an excellent FM radio antenna.

Wow, 45 mpg. That is outstanding, as mine is only 21/28 (still pretty decent for a foreign jobbie).

What I find fascinating is the FM radio antenna reception. What is that all about?

Ron dances other goodly visions before us in his comment. Check out the Top Gear lads' episode where the Veyron takes on the Euro Fighter. Sadly, no embedding allowed.

By the way, if you can ever watch or download the episode where Top Gear go to the North Pole, do. It's outstanding.

Selling Like Hotcakes

And about as thin as hotcakes too...

Meet the lowest car in existence, the recently released "Flat-Mobile", standing at just 19 inches tall! That's Spanish model, Marina, looking as if she just hitched a ride in Tomorrowland's Speedway at Disney World.



It's cute though, but so is a kitten and I'd no more drive a kitten on I-95, as I would this car.

Speak Of The Devil

We were just talking of them, and I recalled that I had taken this photo once near Ft. Lauderdale, on I-95, last year.

Let's hope she was just coming from a Code Pink wedding, or that her Prius was in the shop.

UPDATE: I've three photos to show you, regarding Code Pink membership.

These are not representative members of this organisation. They can't be, can they? But nevertheless, they are members or sympathisers, and an indication of the type of person who is drawn to this organisation.

Are they workplace safe? Yes.

They won't make you lose your job, but they just might make you lose your lunch.

First: Code Pink in a rally

Second: Code Pink member

Third: Code Pink member #2

NOTE: Renato, who has a keener eye than I do, for this sort of thing, says the very last photo was Photoshopped. The signs were duplicated from the first photo, and upon closer inspection, I think you'll agree that's correct.

I'm not sure then, if this is a Code Pink supporter, or not, but their organisation is hardly one to complain. They've doctored an image before. And badly.

360

Years ago, I had an automobile accident which still haunts my dreams.

In slow-motion, I can see my car being broadsided by the right (another lady driver, an illegal from Colombia, without insurance...).

I can hear that awful c-r-u-n-c-h of glass imploding and metal collapsing.

And I can conjure up visions of me inside the car, desperately and yet with an ethereal calm that still fascinates me, manoeuvering the steering wheel to safety towards the shoulder OF THE LANE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ROAD, alive, but aged a decade in experience, in seconds.

I remember thinking to myself, even before I got out of the car, God, it's rush hour on an extremely busy road. How did I not hit or get hit full on, by an oncoming car?

There I was, today, sitting in my car on the 878 ramp going east, about to enter the weird residential highway we call South Dixie Highway (better known to other Americans as US-1).

The light changed green, I slowly accelerated and with no traffic coming behind me, I did something I have never done, and hope never to do again.

My car did a complete, utter 360 turn, for no reason at all.

I just sat holding the wheel with a death-grip, trying to steer it "right" again.

Having watched The Fast & The Furious: Tokyo Drift, I should've known not to panic and overturn, since the wheels overcompensated, almost flipping me on one side...

As soon as I righted the car, I pulled over and checked the tyres. Nothing. Three of them, at least, are brand-new. I pulled in meekly into a full service garage, and had them check the automatic steering fluid. Full up.

To the moment that I am writing this, I have NO idea why my car decided to go postal on me; even the fact that it was piddling down today, and cold, doesn't explain how one can do a 360 turn, going from 0 to 20 mph, just like that.

But I still had chores to do for my parents, going here and there, as my mother is too busy taking care of my father, to do what she normally does for him -- so I drove on.

That was around one in the afternoon.

Later that day, around five, I happened to find myself on the opposite side of the 878 expressway, watching the cars turn as I did, just a few hours ago.

It was then that I realised...



...I was damned lucky not to have had this traffic behind me, at the moment that I spun around.

Else I surely would've totaled my car -- or worse.

P.S.: No, those aren't my skid marks. Obviously, there are some other blogposts out there, telling a similar tale.