Week 71: Morgan Aeromax

The Morgan Aeromax -- even looking at its Matchbox facsimile wakes me from my stressed-out stupor as if the image of the car was some type of visual smelling salt for the soul, some type of cold water face splash for a tired mind. Seriously, I'm looking at the picture (taken by photographer Phil Pekarcik), and even a blog image of a photograph of a tiny toy of a real Morgan is enough to resuscitate me from whatever weariness has descended upon me.

Brothers and sisters, I fear I got a little bit of kid overload today.

Now you know I cherish my kids, and while I'll spare you the multiple paragraphs I could write telling you how much they mean to me, suffice it to say I embrace that I am a lucky guy to have such great kids.

If you're a human parent, than you already understand the reason for the preceding disclaimer and where I'm going with this. Kids are exhausting, even though saying so might cause one guilt.

Is it cute that my two year old is fixated on Modest Mouse's song "Float On" and asked me to play it first thing in the morning, at lunch, during dinner, and at all points in between?  I can't tell anymore. The same with his discovery and obsession with the game Hi Ho Cherri-o and the way he followed me around all day asking if I wanted to play, and then, if I said no, asking, "Later?"

Or is it a big deal my preschooler has a fascination with mixing multiple types of cereals in one bowl and must always ask  if there is a different kind in the cupboard, even though he knows I won't even check until the boxes that are out are used up? Sob -- he KNOWS I won't look, but yet he asks.

And how can the two youngest crack themselves up when they are riding in the car simply by shouting non sequiturs at each other (PIZZA! Heeheeehaa Blue House! HAHAHAHA. Mailbox! SQUEAL!!), and why doesn't the oldest son realize his telling them to stop only encourages it. Why?

*Sigh* -- it is useless. No matter what I type, any of the pieces of the collective kid stuffs that have worn me out will sound at worst mildly annoying, with most of them sounding charming and funny. Because, in fact, the things that drove me bonkers today were at worst mildly annoying, and were mostly charming and funny. I know that.

I know that.

Really. I know that.

I don't want any of it to go away (well, the kid bickering and arguing, yes, but not the rest), I just needed to recharge. My wife has been laid up from a recent surgery, and, because I am unemployed, I've been in the house a whole, whole lot.

Forgive me. All is good. Tell me you haven't felt like this at some point. Or, if you haven't, then please don't tell me.

And if a tiny diecast of a hand built English sports car is all it takes to help me recharge, then I'm cutting myself some slack by saying I think I'm doing okay.

 And maybe now, late at night as I type this, I can finally acknowledge that the two-year-old's earlier joke of climbing into a booster seat normally at the kitchen table but today on the ground in the other room, after I barked an exasperated dinner command at him of "Get into your seat!!", was actually kind of funny.

A delayed laugh is still a laugh, right?

Float on.


As mentioned earlier, pic of my Morgan Aeromax courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 70: 1971 Maverick Grabber

The Maverick Grabber -- holding this great little Hot Wheels car fully reminds me of how I became entranced about these toys in the first place. I love this car.

In parenting circles, however, grab is not the most positive of words. From frustrated commands, Don't grab that toy from him! to harried and hurried plans, I'm going to try and grab some lunch before I leave to go pick up the kids from _______, grab as a word makes me nervous. Having three kids in the house, I wouldn't want a car called the Grabber anymore than I might want one called a Pooper or a Tantrum SE.

Pre-parenting days I doubt the word would have had much emotional resonance to me. Grab bags, while sounding vaguely dirty, generally were fun things, and the word could have romantic intonations if I wanted to grab you and give you a big kiss. Even the previous mentioned lunch/dinner wasn't so ... busy. Grabbing a bite to eat was a good thing to be anticipated and not something to be hectically done between deadlines with preschools and pediatricians.

I think the word grab is so corrupted for me because when my kids grab, they grab with all their might. I'm remembering one instance when Baby G and Racer A got in an argument over a paper towel tube -- apparently there was some disagreement on ownership of this coveted toy -- and G grabbed onto one end. Neither kid would capitulate, however, and in the few seconds it took for me to reach them that 10 inch cardboard tube had unraveled so it resembled a three-foot cardboard Slinky, with both kids still holding on as if that tube could ever again be used as a sword or spyglass. I had once seen a nature special with two eagles fighting midair, locked by their talons in a death grip, plummeting to the ground. That cardboard tube showdown reminded me of that, except the shrieks from my kitchen were louder.

Listen, I'm okay losing the word grab -- it's not like I was all that fond of it, anyway. It is certainly not the only word I've lost -- if wet was ever a sexynaughty porn star of a word, it is not anymore -- wet now means put a plastic bag down in the car seat because there has been a diaper malfunction.

Things change, we get older, and sometimes words are the collateral damage. I'm okay with that.

Nonetheless, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll just call this week's featured car a Maverick.


Photo of this week's GRABBER courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 69: 1963 Studebaker Champ

This week's tiny car introduces the first Studebaker to my lineup, kicking off 2012 off with a welcome addition to my collection of little hip aquamarine vehicles.

The Studebaker Champ, produced between 1960 and 1964, was never offered with power steering, and while I have never driven one, I imagine parking a Champ might have been like driving one of those gigantic car-shaped shopping carts at the grocery store. Car carts also do not have power steering, and I suspect they need them more than the Studebakers did.

If you have never had the treat of pushing one of these monstrosities down a canned food aisle at a store, or of having been forced to hug the Chunky (soup) in the same aisle to let one of these extra-wide carts pass, bless your heart.

The idea is a kind of pimp-my-ride modified shopping cart designed to allow two children to sit side by side and presumably be so enthralled by the idea of a cart that looks like a car they forget they are doing grocery shopping. Silly? Absolutely, but for some reason it works. My two youngest love the car cart.

I snapped this picture right before I took out all of Aisle 3.

While I've taken the kids shopping before, I've always trumped up an excuse to not take the car cart, but a recent shopping visit with my wife caught me off guard, and before I could toss out an artfully constructed fabrication of why we couldn't possibly take it out for a spin, she had already bribed the kids with a promise of riding in this muscle car of a cart. By muscle car, I mean it takes muscle to maneuver this bulky thing, and I am not exaggerating when I say that at least once I had to pick up the front end of the cart to get it unstuck from the side of a shelf against which we had scraped.

For real. I got a shopping cart stuck.

I don't know if this is a guy thing or just one of my quirks, but pushing this cart embarrasses me, making me feel like I'm attending a social event with a cold sore on my face and a coffee spill on my crotch. In other words, this car causes me to feel self-conscious and awkward. Maybe it is because I understand that no matter how polite I try to be, I know I'm destined to inconvenience at least seven other shoppers and knock over at least one display.

Making things worse, the cart we grabbed had some type of wheel imbalance causing it to rumble like an industrial lumber cart at a home improvement store.  A few people actually turned around to look at the approaching noise, and given Ohio recently had an earthquake, I'm fairly certain the noise caused someone in the store to drop, cover his head, and duck down between his knees.

Pushing one of these carts, at least in our narrow aisle local grocery store, is like driving over a bridge on a one-lane road. You go forward, see someone else approach, pull back, wait for them to go by, shrug and smile, and repeat. This might go on for fifteen, sixteen times. There was one aisle we couldn't fit down at all due to the obstruction of some type of metal pole no matter how many times we rammed into it.

Luckily, however, the car cart is bright red molded plastic, I'm sure done for safety's sake so that any hearing impaired shoppers, unable to hear the roll of thunder of its wobbly wheels (although I bet even a deaf person could feel the vibrations put out by this thing), will be able to see it barreling down the cereal aisle, unable to stop due to the momentum built up by its weight. I'm sure that bright red color has saved a few lives.

Of course ultimately the car cart is for the kids, and if you're lucky, they'll be acting cute. This, however, is not likely, as very few siblings will stay cute when smushed together in a small seat and then strapped in so that at least one elbow is permanently angled into the other siblings face.

For the most part, my kids did great, with only a few of those car-alarm shrieks two-year-olds do to show displeasure, but there was one cringe-worthy moment.

My youngest was making a type of pyoo pyoo pyoo noise, an adorable little sing song, that caught the attention of an older shopper, who began to comment about his cuteness. That was until she realized, at approximately the same time as my wife, that the little pyoo pyoo was actually some type of laser, designed to blast her to smithereens. Her smile kind of faded away in a type of oh, I see, look.

In fairness, the laser wasn't being shot at her, but at the imaginary bad guys attacking.

Seriously, though, what the heck. Why would a store equip a shopping cart with lasers?

I should talk to the manager.

Photo of Hot Wheels Studebaker Champ courtesy of photographer Phil Pekarcik. 


Picture of Racer A, Baby G and car cart snapped on my phone by me. I'm hopping Hot Wheels makes a diecast of that cart.

Week 68: 2010 Honda Insight

Yes, this week's selection of the Matchbox Metro Rides collection (from 2010) is a non-veiled hat tip to my necessary New Year's Resolution of consuming less in 2012. Food, that is.

Well, food if you consider cookies, cakes, brownies, chips, and other members of the saturated fat fraternity food. My kids, by the do.They all want to join that fraternity.

My holiday overindulgence this year was kept in check, but sadly not through discipline. Some minor illness issues kept my hunger at bay, and while I would like to claim credit, it was microscopic invaders that really did the work. Even so, I managed to eat a few cannoli (did you know that technically the singular of cannoli is cannolo? You probably never knew this, proving people are really not meant to eat just one). Oh, and a few coconut chocolate bars, peanut butter cookies, and other tasty items.

Even so, I've lost a few pounds from being sick, and while I do not recommend that as a weight loss technique, I'm gratefully accepting it as a free pass and will show my gratitude by really getting in shape for 2012.

No, I mean it.

It is true I might have been saying this since around 1995 or so, as my 22-year-old son Spence pointed out to me, but this year I'm doing something I have not done in previous years.

I'm announcing it publicly via this blog.

See, I am now accountable to a greater power. YOU can hold me to it.

Here it is, in writing, a type of contract. My goal: to be in the best shape that I have ever been in since 1995. Why 1995? I think it was around 1995 that my metabolism began to turn on me. Prior to that, I was one of those lucky bums who could eat or drink anything and not gain weight, and don't think I didn't enjoy that. I did. The problem is, I kept thinking it is 1994 into middle age, but it's been a long time since Frank Sinatra received the Grammy Awards Lifetime Achievement and the band Weezer debuted their first record (yes, that blue album kicked off all the way back in 1994!).

So come on -- I call all readers to embark on the Daddy's Tiny Cars Best Shape Since 1995 pledge (feel free to substitute your own year for 1995). Meet me back here a year from now and let's compare notes.

And you can use Daddy's Tiny Cars to help -- get yourself two tiny cars for your display: the above Honda Insight (or any other fuel-conscious car), to remind you to go easy on the fuel, and the hottest car you can think of -- say a 1967 Pontiac GTO -- to inspire you to what you want to look like.

And here we go -- here's to being the best muscle car we can be.

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM THE FAMILY OF DADDY'S TINY CARS!!


Honda Insight pic courtesy of photographer Phil Pekarcik.

Week 67: '63 Ford Mustang II Concept

Happy Holidays, from Daddy's Tiny Cars!

I picked this week's Hot Wheels diecast for two distinct reasons:

One, being a word lover, I felt the very concept of the words "concept car" was perfect for the holidays, as we reflect on all manner of personal concepts - sharing, community, Santa, Christmas, peace, and other concepts that work with each of our own belief systems this season.

Second, I had been seeking the perfect Santa car for his off hours, and seeing this little Ford at the store I knew I had found the perfect ride. Trust me, Santa would drive this car, not available to the general public. And he would look good doing it.

This Christmas is a particularly special one, because a type of Christmas miracle has occurred: I am actually enjoying holiday music.

With the exception of only a couple of songs, Christmas tunes generally annoy me, even ones by artists I love. I don't make a big Grinchy show of not liking them, but I secretly welcome them like dry skin in winter - part of the season and not actually that bad. Just annoying.

A picture of my heart growing three sizes -
and not a picture of a big red butt

This year, however, Baby G's enthusiasm for these songs has made my crinchy (like Grinchy, but as foul) heart grow three sizes.

Sure, he doesn't get the words right, but that just boosts the cute factor and makes them sound even better, and each one he relishes like a Dum Dum lollipop (and he does relish those). Today, out of the blue, he said, "You know that tong, JingleBellsJingleBellsJingleAllTheWay? That's  a pretty good tong."

I never before thought of Jingle Bells as a pretty good song. Honestly, I remember not even liking it when I was in grade school. Yet here it was, a simple, sincere observation by a toddler, and suddenly I was appreciating, no, enjoying, this song like something brand new.

I'm not saying that by the time I hear the eight millionth variation of Jingle Bells between today and Christmas a tinge of cringe creep won't creep into my face, but overall, I'm finding the songs fun, and not in a sarcastic, sardonic way, either.

The kids and I even sang an impromptu performance of Let It Snow. Now if that isn't a Christmas miracle, I don't know what is.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYBODY!! MAY YOU ALL BE WARM AND SAFE!

Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the great photo, and a holiday special shout out to James and Luke in Seattle - happy holidays! Visit his blog, Luke, I am your Father, at http://liayf.blogspot.com/ 

Week 66: 1971 Dodge Demon

Spooky name, awesome car -- the Dodge Demon.

Styling aside, this cool car thematically is here on DTC mainly for its name (that and the holiday red and white styling -- note, all cars this month are Christmas colors of white, red or green!), although I added it to my collection because I love the way it looks down to the red accents.

 I'm thinking demon as scary fiend, kind of how I felt about my car this past week.

In transit to a very important meeting Friday, I'm cruising along the highway, on time, spiffy and groomed -- shirt pressed, tie smart, shoes shiny like the reflective sunglasses of a highway patrolman. I'm looking good, in all ways.

Then my car goes POP!

Not a terrible, gut-wrenching sound of calamity pop, but a happy pop, like a cork from a bottle of champagne.

 Like a party.

I look behind me to see billows of smoke as if I'm driving a sneaky spy car and just hit the Smoke Screen button on the dash. Wait. What kind of party is this?

My mind races to figure out the cause -- I check my temperature gauge -- its fine. Brake line? Brakes seem fine. What's in the back? Maybe I hit a duck on the road and he  has gone, I don't know, all steamy?

That doesn't even make sense. Don't panic. I need to get to this appointment.

And then the temperature gauge needle starts climbing, and I instantly know what's going on and curse myself for missing the obvious.

I pull the car off onto the terrifyingly narrow road side, my stillness now emphasizing how large those speeding semi trucks really are. Clouds of white pour from the front of my car, and for an irrational second I fear flames, but common sense takes hold. The radiator is jacked up, and the obvious thing I missed before was the steam from the radiator was being sucked to the back of the car as I drove so it appeared the problem was in the rear.

Now that I am stopped, the steam, extra heavy as a result of the temperature contrast with the cold December air, is completely obscuring my view out the front window, as if I'm flying through a beautiful wispy cloud.

I am screwed. Screwed in a wispy cloud.

There is a sick feeling specific to breaking down on a busy freeway. I'm not saying it is worse, or better, than other sick feelings. I am only saying it is special.

Thinking back on that special sick feeling, some of the details have already drifted away like that wispy steam, but a few remain, including some of the first things that went through my mind.

First: Oh no, I am going to miss my very important appointment, and that is very, very bad.
Second: I am far away from any garage, or pretty much, anything.
Third-Fourth-Fifth (I can't remember the order these thoughts arrived): I can't work on a car in my best dress clothes. That big truck with the extra-wide load sticking off the bed barreling down behind me at around 170 mph is going to take the roof off my car and I better get ready to duck. This would have sucked way more before cell phones.

Without boring you with the details, I let my car cool down, and, driving down the berm I got it to the next exit, where a huge accident involving a semi truck and a car had part of the lanes blocked. Looking at the ambulances and firetrucks, I experienced a strange blend of terror, gratefulness of not being injured, and irony. The sight felt significant, but I couldn't really grasp why.

I exit the off ramp to the left, the only way I can go due to the accident, and notice there is virtually no side of the road to pull off on, unless I feel like tipping my car sideways into the ditch. At this point, it is a possibility.

I drive slowly, my hazards on, and as the temperature gauge climbs I pull into an ice cream shop, closed for the season. The juxtaposition of a broken car and missed appointment contrasts with the happiness of an ice cream shop and a melancholy pokes through the haze of shock.

While I've omitted it from the story, I did contact my appointment. My wife called her father, who lived somewhat close by, and he came out to get me -- on inspection, the pop I heard was the radiator actually splitting at the seam.

In fairness, the real demon here was the situation, not the car. If anything, I later (not that day) felt sorry for my car, which I ended up having to scrap, may it rest in peace.

So I look at my little metal Hot Wheels Dodge Demon, and I remember the excitement I felt when I bought that first car that kicked off this blog. These silly little cars still make me smile, and smile with sincerity, and as my kids rush up to me thankful I was not injured, I know it truly is the little things, and little ones, that help me through the big challenges and disappointments.

Things are going to be just fine. Thank you kids. Thank you friends and family. And thank you, Mattel.



And thank you, Phil Pekarcik, for one of my favorite car pics so far. Also, thank you for loaning me a car while I get my car situation squared away. I love the heated seat. My butt has never been so cozy. I'm actually writing this blog sitting in your car. Just kidding.

Week 65: Street Cleaner

Street Cleaner, Street Cleaner, coming down the street, cleaning up, cleaning up.

I've been holding onto this tiny car for this post: a post where I clean up fragments of stories, ideas and observations that don't warrant their own post but I nonetheless would like to share.

Sweep them up, street sweeper. Sweep them up.


First scrap on the ground:

An actual exchange that happened in the car between me and my now five-year-old son, Racer A, a few weeks ago.

Racer A: "Dad, look! The moon is out!"

Me (grumpily): "That's the sun. Don't look at that thing."

Racer A: (with sigh) "I know that's the sun. The moon is over there, too."

Me: "Oh."

ZchaaOOOP!! (That's the sound of the street sweeper). Don't need those fatherly words of wisdom lying about.

Next remnant on the road, something I've wanted to comment on for almost ten years but for some reason never have. The theme song to the PBS kids show Clifford the Big Red Dog.

Clifford the Big Red Dog, based on the children's books by Norman Bridwell, was produced from 2000 through 2003, with the Big Red dog featuring the voice of the late and dearly missed John Ritter. The original episodes still air.

I liked the show, so no problems there. My issue is the theme song, which begins like this:

Clifford needed Emily, so she chose him for her own
And her love made Clifford grow so big that the Howards had to leave their home.


She loved her dog so much that it led to her and her family being forced to abandon their home. What a guilt trip -- that's going to need some therapy later.

Glad that's off my chest. Thanks for listening.


On a fully unrelated note worthy of Street Cleaner salvage, the recent luxury car pileup in Japan inexplicably caused me to check if any of the vehicles in the pileup (which yielded no serious human injury) had been featured in previous Tiny Cars posts, and I found among the wreckage a Nissan Skyline GT-R, which debuted in Week 44. While I know one of the eight Ferrari's was a rare Testarossa and at least one was an F-360, I'm not sure of the models of the other six so do not know if Week 55's 612 Scagletti was among them. I've only posted one Lamborghini, a Reventon (twas a Diablo in the wreck), and no Mercedes, so they don't match.

I did post a Toyota Prius in Week 17, which, while not a luxury car, was nonetheless a victim in the pileup.

It wouldn't be much of a recreation to pit my Matchbox Prius against the Nissan, though. I guess I'll pass.


Yet another scrap:

My two-year-old got frustrated the other day when, after I confirmed his suspicion that the kettle on the table was indeed a teapot, I, for no reason at all, said, "You're a teapot."

He adamantly insisted, "I am NOT a teapot. Daddy, I'm not a teapot. I'm not. I am not a teapot!" He wouldn't let it rest until I told him he was not a teapot.

The I told him he was box of cereal. We started all over again.

SWEEEEEPPP!!

Even this idea of a blog of scraps was a scrap idea itself that has been laying about, so, like a Pink Panther cartoon I once saw where his vacuum cleaner vacuums itself up ...

ZchaaOOOP!!