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Everyone who visits my house always says
the same things.
"Damn you have a lot of Hot Wheels" and "That is so cool".
I am a certifiable car nut. I have been since the day I was born. Even before
actually. My mom loves to tell the story of being 7 months pregnant with me
digging under the hood of my Aunt's brand new 1970 Monte Carlo because it
wouldn't start. And the Shopping center security guard who nearly fainted when
he saw her doing this. She brought me home from the Hospital in her 1964 Mercury
Comet. Much to Dad’s chagrin, actually. Seems he had just bought a station
wagon. Mom said no. She had gotten the Comet on her 18th birthday and
was NOT about to let it rust away. Dad wound up driving the Wagon to and from
work. He finally won and the Comet was gone for good in 1976. I don’t have many
tangible memories of that car, but I do know that when I see one, something
inside stirs.
In my early years, through a car crazed family I was exposed to some fine autos.
Uncle Morris' 1957 Chevy. Uncle Bill's 1961 Impala. Uncle Al's long line of old
ford pickemups and sedans. Uncle Tom's 1957 Saab. Uncle Morris' best friends
1969 Camaro. I learned an appreciation for cars not just as transportation, but
as rolling works of art. I learned to drive in a 1959 VW Beetle with a bad third
gear. As long as I can remember I have been obsessed with cars.
In fact, cars even play a major role in negative relationships. One of the
things that my father supposedly did when I was born was put a down payment on a
1970 Jaguar XKE. (Something like this one:
http://www.cars-on-line.com/70jag5309.html He intended to drive it and then
give it to me on my sixteenth birthday. He then apparently changed his mind and
got his money back and bought a bunch of crap to go hunting with. Even then, as
an infant, I should have known I couldn't trust him.
So naturally, as I progressed into kid-dom, toy cars were my favorite. Hot
Wheels, Matchbox, whatever. I had hundreds. And some of my fondest memories are
of sitting in my room on a rainy day while the "Poison Pinto" went down the
track racing against that pesky "King Kuda". Hours at a time, vrrrooom vrrrrooom.
"Patrick, it's time for dinner" "But mom, the Mighty Maverick is still
undefeated! Something has to beat it!"
I didn't know then, but I was doing more than just playing. I was receiving
therapy. I was living pure escapism. There is something very calming about
sitting at your desk with all the worlds pressures pushing down on you and
breaking out a 1:64 scale representation of a Dodge Viper or BMW Roadster. Yeah
the world may be kicking you in the teeth, but for that time you are running
that thing around your desk you are driving on some twisty mountain road or
cruising the beach boulevard. The fantasy is up to you. But that quick break
from reality is always exactly what the doctor ordered.
In my study at home I have about 200 cars in display racks on the walls. Many of
them from my childhood. They are beat up, axles bent. Rusty, scratched remnants
of another world. And on my desk, right in front of my monitor is a VW Beetle
and a Lamborghini. One for pleasure cruises, the other for quick escapes. Here
at work I have a Dodge Viper, a Shelby Cobra and a Formula one race car. Seems
quick escapes are needed more often here.
A lot of times when I get down, I get in
my "real car" and just drive. Living close to farmlands gives me a lot of twisty
winding roads to shoot down with the sunroof open. But I can't always get away,
and these 99 cent toys help get me close to there.
And now I am passing along this to my daughter. Just the other day she decided
to spend her allowance on a case to carry her cars. We have a HUGE track set up
in the basement, and she loves to race. Especially when she wins. She is
parlaying this into a finer appreciation of real cars. She never wants to go
anywhere in the Dodge. "Daddy, let's take your Volkswagen". I asked her why she
never wants to go anywhere in the Dodge. She just shrugs. “The green car is so
much cooler, daddy”.
Oh yeah. I forgot. 16 years after that old Beetle and those shaky hands, I have
come a full circle of sorts. I have a new VW Passat. It's considerably more
refined than that cursed beetle, but somehow it seems to feel the same
sometimes. I just want to drive it because I can. I don't need a reason or even
a destination, I just want to get in and drive it. My first order of business
when I have some extra cash, go get me a Beetle. A real one.
The other side of my obsession with these toy cars is rooted in my obsession
with real cars as works of art. No one who has looked down the side of a 59
Cadillac, has stared into the "eyes" of a Dodge Viper, sat behind the wheel of a
Porsche 911, heard the rumble of a Dodge Charger, or looked over the detailing
of 57 Thunderbird can tell me cars are not art. Not all are, granted. A lot are
just produced by soulless companies to serve one purpose: make money. But every
so often someone builds something from the heart. Some companies build
everything from the heart. And there are a lot of die cast makers out there who
have a passion for faithful representations of the real cars they model.
Then there are the fantasy cars. The ones
that you can’t see anywhere on a real road. They are true art. To look at them
almost forces you to look at the process of creation starting with the concept.
To look at a Maelstrom car has no less effect on me than looking at “Starry
Night”. Knowing the creative process from concept to reality from my writing
experience, I have a keen appreciation for when others put forth the effort.
When I look at a painting, hear a song, or hold a toy car the same thought
envelops me: “How did they come up with that?”
And since I am not yet as rich as Bill
Gates, I cannot afford to collect them in 1:1 scale. So I must settle for
thousands of these little ones.
I can live with that.
--43Goalie
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