According to my insurance agent, the average American car is driven some 15,000 miles a year. Considering that automakers brag when their cars can last 100,000 miles, we can assume that modern cars aren't built to last much longer. Put those two numbers together and you get a car that is expected to last just a little more than six and a half years. That's pretty sad, actually, that people would spend as much as my grandfather paid for his four-bedroom home on a piece of metal that is only expected to last 6.6 years.
Any-who. The average American lifespan is 78 years. That means that one human year is 11.8 car years. Thus, the 1983 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale that I bought Thursday is about 260 years old.
I can't say the age doesn't show -- there is no front grill, the body has a fair number of dents and some rust, the front is grey and the rear is tan, the tires are worn (I may even have to replace one or two), the right front tire is missing a lug nut, the brakes are suspicious, the steering is loose, the automatic door-locking system does not work, the driver's side window won't roll down (mental note: don't drive into a lake with this car), the driver's side power window console will close the front passenger's window but not open it, the passenger-side mirror does not exist, the driver's side mirror is cracked and cannot be manipulated so as to be useful for doing anything other than looking at the door handle, the air conditioner does not work (who thought it would, though?) and air does not come out of the vents, the cloth from the roof hangs down and touches my head, the cigarette lighter does not work (I am planning to throw it out the window as soon as someone is in the car with me that will understand the line, "Fix the cigarette lighter"*), the radio (it's got a dial!) works but mysteriously works best when listening to classic rock or country or sports-talk radio, only two of the five radio pre-set buttons function, the cover for the trunk (aka "boot") must be propped open, and I haven't had the guts to really explore under the hood (aka "bonnet") yet.
But, oh Lord, is she a beautiful car. I have named it "Y Bwystfil."
You should hear this thing at idle. It has that deep rumbling that comes from an old carburetor engine. This is the sound made by all the cars of bad guys in 80s and 90s action films. I feel as if I should carry a baseball bat and terrorize some innocent single mother (Where's the fuckin' money, Demi Moore!? Give it to me before I smash some random glass home accessory with my baseball bat -- the stock of which has been wrapped in hockey tape!).
And there's so much room. I can comfortably seat at least six, and there's room for about four more in the trunk.
I'll try to take pictures this weekend.
This is brilliant. For some reason, I'm thinking that Thomas will appreciate this application.
The best fucking softball player you've ever met.
Are you pathetic? I mean, really, really, really pathetic? Cheer up -- you're not this pathetic.
You can tell the deaths of four people really affected Davis Tamano: "I've never really had that happen before. But other than that, I met some cool people, and I got a lot of cool, free stuff."
God hates 3 Doors Down. God is great.
*C'mon, you've got to know that reference. Three points to the first person who gets it.