Category: cars

New transmission or new old car? Help!

Don't let the adorable bunny hat fool you. This car is being a dick right now.

Don’t let the adorable bunny hat fool you. This car is being a dick right now.

Apparently Mini Coopers have this problem where the transmission fails a LOT earlier than, oh, every other car (except for Smart cars). There’s even a class action law suit about it in the works.

My car has 60k miles (which is really good for a car that’s eight years old I may say) but I just found out that it needs to have it’s transmission replaced. Which I suspected, when it refused to shift into a higher gear as I was merging onto the 101 the other day.

That new transmission will cost me about $3500. And that’s on top of the belt issue that needs to be corrected, and any charge for labor. FUCK!

So my options are thus:

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Damn it Gen!

The Bug
Did I ever tell y’all about how I inherited a ’71 VW bug from my grandfather? The car used to be my mother’s when she was college age and then, when my dad (her brand new husband) surprised her with a new car, her father took over the VW and kept her running and in good shape until he got too old to work on her anymore. So she’s been sitting on my grandparents driveway dying from neglect for about 3 or 4 years now.

When I inherited her I decided to name her “Gen” after my grandmother. I did so because when it breaks down I can yell “damn it Gen!” just like my grandfather yelled at my grandmother. It kind of became his catch-phrase. (My cousin likes to tell the story of how it took him a while to realize that my grandmother’s name was actually just Gen and not “Damnitgen.”)

Exactly two months ago my father and I had her towed to a body shop that specializes in Volkswagons. Good ‘ol VW Joe has been fixing her up and getting her running again. We went to pick her up yesterday, but my dad drove her around and said he wasn’t happy with a noise coming from the engine, and Joe said he’d keep at her. So I’m still VW-less.

I’m both excited to inherit this car as much as I’m frightened because, well, Aaron and I don’t need a fourth car to take care of (we already look after his car, my car, and the car that my parents leave at the apartment). AND it’s a stick… and I don’t drive stick… in fact I’m TERRIFIED of driving stick.

Sitting at the body shopping signing my name to a check of over a thousand dollars I started to think “mayyyybe this isn’t such a good idea.” Perhaps, once again, my sentimentality was outweighing my logical mind. But then my dad started up the car and when the sound, the smell, and the sight of this little green bug combined, I swear it was like seeing my grandfather again.

It was right then that I realized, there was never was any other choice. This car was and is going to be mine. No matter what, I’m not letting the story of this car die with my grandfather.

2007 L.A. Roadster Show pictures

This Father’s Day I went to the L.A. Roadster Show in Pomona.
I took some pictures of the cars.
please to enjoy…

ghost flames, me & my family

me, my “crew” behind me (mom, aaron, grandpa & dad) and ghost flames infront of us.

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POS Camry

Here I am, in sparkly silver flats, pushing a dead Toyota Camry down Beverly Blvd. My boyfriend Aaron is at the helm, running along side of the car and turning the wheel with all his might as we try to push it down some side street and out of the way of rush hour traffic. His Sonic Youth t-shirt is soaked with sweat and I can’t see the expression on his face but I’m sure it’s not the same as mine. I’m actually smiling and alternately laughing as my oversized beaded necklace bounces up to smack me in the mouth. I laugh then, because it’s better than screaming.

I should have been in Palm Springs by now. I should have been watching my estranged friends play jazz and then eating a fancy meal paid for by Erik’s parents. As we round the corner onto a side street Aaron jumps in the car and attempts to push start it. It works! And I start to think that maybe Palm Springs will happen after all. I run towards the car that has taken off in a straight shot, tires screeching, down the street. I can’t help but feel the eyes of the witnessing pedestrians on me. I just know their staring in incredulous, and justifiably outraged, disbelief. It’s true, he didn’t REALLY need to screech off like that, but he’s pissed. And I am still laughing.

But my dreams of the tranquil desert are cut short when the engine dies again, this time on Santa Monica Blvd, about 3 city blocks away from my apartment.

By the time we get the car home, alternately driving and pushing, Aaron has assumed full “angry bear” status. I resigned myself to an observer by the time he pulls open the door and then, gripping it with two hands, slams it shut as hard as he possibly can. This, however, is not enough to quell his anger-induced appetite for destruction. I sit in the car and watch as he stomps to the front of the car, fumbles around trying to open the hood, finally it gives. He props open the hood. And then jumps on the grill. That’s when I get out of my car and hurry over to him.

“What are you doing!?”

His response is to jump down off the, now broken, grill. He surveys the damage. Apparently there is not enough because he proceeds to pull the broken grill entirely off the car. It comes off in dirty, plastic pieces which he then uses to assault his engine. He throws all the useless pieces at his car engine. As they bounce off the metal with a tiny ping he says,

“You said you wanted to see me mad right? This is it.”

Then he walks around his POS Camry and methodically rips off all of his hubcaps

I can only laugh because even when he’s mad he still seems calm.

And it’s then that I realize, that I’d rather be here with him and his p.o.s. Camry, then in Palm Springs with them and their free food.

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