car of the night: big pimpin'
by Michele Christopher

Tonight, we talk about Cadillacs. Oh, not just any Cadillacs. See, I had one of those cars, but it was a ‘93 and, let’s face it, a ‘93 Caddy is just not the same as one of those 1970's pimp mobiles.

Back in the 70's, the “luxury” part of luxury cars meant the car was wide and long and more akin to a boat than an auto. People drove them the way they drive Hummers now. They were the equivalent of flashing a wad of hundred dollar bills in the face of your neighbors who only had fives. You know what I mean. Mr. Campo in his ‘72 gold Caddy with whitewalls driving slowly past your house like he’s in some fucking pimp parade, honking his horn (La Cucuracha) and waving smugly at you as you wash your 1967 station wagon. Mr. Campo was big pimpin'.

Tonight, my co-blogger the turtle takes the reigns on the storytelling:

Have you ever woken up in the morning and felt like life has hit you in the gut one to many times and maybe it would be better if you just stayed at home and play pool? Well, I was having one of those days. I woke up and just screwed my cue together, trying to forget the day. Hey, it happens some days.

Just as I was going for the break, my window shook. I heard a noise out side my door that was not only an engine, but a big fucking engine. Sounding like thunder or someone in the bathroom who ate at Wendy’s the night before. Either way, it was loud.


That’s a 71 Cadillac. That's a car that could probably hit a tank in WWII and still keep going. Not only going, but drive right thru it. Pure Detroit steel. That is the car all the parents want their kids to have because it was made like a brick shit house, even though they were terrified of the power under hood. It's a trade off.

I "borrowed" a ‘71 Caddy from a friend one night. It was shit white with the paint fading and the electrical system shot to shit. No light and no radio. Two bad things. No bueno, guys.

I was driving down the road with all the windows open just trying to get to a show. The car felt like a tornado inside. The wind ripped through but it was just too much fun. The cruising style of that car was like you are on an ocean. The feeling you get when you pull up next to an SUV. Them looking over at you. Wondering why you have this gas guzzling car and why you are slamming a beer at a stop light. And you are feeling so cool you can barely muster a middle finger but you do anyways just cause, well, cause you can. So fuck them, lets push and go, I don't have the time for your details.

The feeling of that car and the power of that car died one night. Everything went wrong. We tried everything to get it to live once again. But fate looked on it the wrong way. We pushed it too far too many times and it just gave up. Not for lack of trying, but from sheer exhaustion. We left it to die in the front of someone’s house and always talked about fixing it. The transmission, steering, electrical and suspension.

But we never did. Now she is screwing the cue together. She took too many to the gut.

Rancid - Time Bomb

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