The cars

I bought a new car over the weekend. I'll keep you in suspense until I actually take delivery, at which point I'm sure there'll be a post about it. But it got me thinking about a couple of things.

One is that no matter how faux friendly the salesman is with their mimicing technique-"You have a German Shepherd? I grew up with German Shepherds." "You used to live next to the beach? I live a block from the water." "So you like Breaking Bad? Best show ever!"—the car buying experience is awful.

Again, details for another post.

The other thing it reminded me of was all the cars I've owned.

Like the 1965 Plymouth Fury. It was my first car and it was an eight-cylinder beast. It ran great when it ran, which was usually about ten minutes at a time before something broke on it and had to be fixed. My parents bought the car for $500 from my cousin Mark, who I don't think I ever saw again after that. Wonder why?

By the way, the Fury was my first and last American car. Sorry Detroit, you had your chance.

Then there were the VWs. First was a 1971 Orange Super Beetle. I can still hear the gas sloshing around over my lap when I came to a stop since the gas tank was in front. That car got wiped out in a bad accident which left me with a little souvenir you can read about here.

Anyway I swore I'd never own a VW again, much less an orange one. That was right up until my 1973 Karmann Ghia called to me from the showroom floor. I loved that car, but what I didn't know is that it had originally come from the east coast. I found that out when the rocker panels started disintegrating. Rust never sleeps.

Just as a side note, when I met the wife she was driving a 1972 orange VW convertible, fully restored. Coincidence? I think not.

With my 1980 Celica, 1986 Supra, 1999 Land Cruiser and 2010 Lexus ES350, Toyota was well reprensented in my garage over the years.

Of course I speak metaphorically. There hasn't been room for a gnat's ass in my garage since the wedding. I'm not naming names.

There was the 1986 Mercedes E190 we bought from the wife's grandma in 1994. It was eight years old and had 12,000 grandma miles on it. There was a four and a six-cylinder model, and grandma had the four. It was like driving a brick, but the car didn't have the power to get out of its own way. Neither did grandma.

Then there was the 1995 Volvo 960 Wagon, which despite being the longest car I ever owned, could turn on a dime in the middle of the street. Volvo made its chops selling safety. They should've been selling turning radius.

My second experience with a Swedish car brand was the Saab 90 I bought off my friend Rob. It was a stick shift, and was technically my son's first car. But I was the one who wound up driving it the most, zipping around town and reliving my VW days when I learned to drive a stick. You know, real driving.

My 2000 Audi A6 was great right until it caught fire, which actually was a more pleasant experience than having the oil changed at the Audi dealer (there may be a hint there as to my new car).

Now you're up to date on my wheels. Or you will be when I post about the newest addition soon. And if you're keeping score on colors, it's one blue, two orange, two silver and six black.

They say the car you drive says a lot about you. Mine say, "Oh yeah, I'll have one of those."

The daily grind

Like the ability to make change and cursive writing, the fine art of driving a stick shift is rapidly disappearing.

As I mentioned in this post, most people couldn't name three kids who can drive a manual transmission. The real shame is because of that, they'll never get to experience the thrill of what I like to call "real driving." The speed at your beck and call. The precise control and coordination between foot and hand. The shame of being with your high school friends and stalling out on La Cienega just before Sunset and rolling into the car behind you.

Of course I made up that last one. Yeah, that's it. Made it up.

My first few cars were manual transmission, and I used to look for any excuse just to drive. At every red light, I felt like Andretti waiting for the green, revving the engine, giving the nod to the car next to me, ready to leave him in my dust.

Of course, it was a '71 Super Beetle so there wasn't a lot of dust. But you see where I'm going here.

Eventually, time takes it's toll in the form of children, and as any parent knows you always want to have one hand free to reach in the backseat and remind them where they come from. So inevitably the day comes for all of us where we give up the thrill of a stick shift for the convenience of an automatic transmission. We convince ourselves it feels almost as fast off the light. That's it's not so bad, which it's not (I'm good at fooling myself). Automatic really is a lot better at rush hour on the freeway, and that becomes sort of a mantra.

But if I'm ever stuck at a Hertz counter at a regional airport in farm country somewhere in the midwest at midnight - and why wouldn't I be - and all they have left is a beat up Ford Focus with a manual transmission, I'll be able to drive it.

Sadly, the 2015 graduating class of Driver's Ed can't say the same.