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!!

Week 64: 1977 Dodge Van

This week's tiny car pays homage to 1977, a time when the word "van" did not simply invoke images of a delivery vehicle or kid carrier. In 1977 "van" was loaded with swanky, sexy, and a bit of smarmy. Okay, a lot of smarmy.

Mushroom windows, airbrushed vixens, waterbeds, the latest in eight-track tape technology, vans weren't all about practicality, and you could argue they weren't about style, either, but they were about statement, crazy, impractical statement...which brings me to this week's tiny car.

I almost was unable to purchase this little die cast because as I held it in the store, one thought kept running through my mind: that much glass would heat that sucker up like a greenhouse in summer, and there is no room for any type of roll-a-way moon roof type cover.

I was thinking 2011, not 1977.

Even with a $1.00 toy I was having a difficult time letting go of practical, as if I was going to have to drive the thing around or explain it to my wife.

Practicality, my friend, you definitely have your place, but you're taking things a bit too far, and, honestly, you're kind of getting on my nerves.


Lately, life has all been about practical -- insurance, unemployment, plumbing, car repair -- I've even questioned the practicality of this blog, and like a loud talker at a party or talk show that makes a point by raising the volume, my caretaker Practicality has not allowed any of the other guests at life's party to get a word in edgewise. Practicality has talked over Playfulness, publicly mocked Dreams, and rudely interrupted an entertaining story being told by Adventure.

And Practicality did not like that van.

Yet, against the wishes of Practicality, I bought this van, and *gasp* wrote about it!

I'm not there yet, but I'm working toward the time when all the party guests can work together as a team. This little van, in its strange, tacky way, has brought me just a little bit closer.

Thanks, van. I think you're awesome, even if I can realistically only drive you at night or on overcast days.

Click here for a little 70s van magic - Chevy, not Dodge, but you get the idea


Thanks to photographer Phil Pekarcik for sidestepping practical to provide this week's picture.



BTW - my son saw this van before I removed it from the packaging and raved about it -- Practicality has been completely leaving him alone.

Week 63: '07 Ford Shelby GT500

Today's sweet ride is a 2007 Ford Shelby GT500, and as previously promised in Week 48, a Ford Shelby post means The Art of Imagination.

We've been straightening around the house in preparation of Thanksgiving, and, after finally making headway in the living room, I returned from the kitchen to find coats and miscellaneous items on the ground as if chucked there by some silent poltergeist. This could only mean one thing...

The ICE CREAM SHOP WAS OPEN!!

I've mentioned the pretend ice cream shop before: it is a brown leather swivel chair in our living room. The original ice cream shop location has moved to the other side of the living room after I changed the furniture arrangement, and, during cleaning, the chair has been used to toss coats and such that we will later put away.

"G, did you toss these coats on the floor?" I asked, rounding the corner.

"WEP! I Did! Want some ice cweam?" (Baby G often says 'wep' instead of 'yup' or 'yes'.)  He apparently had been patiently sitting on the chair, peering from the small opening between the top part and bottom part of the chair back, waiting for a customer.

What is interesting, besides an ice cream shop being open in November, is G was alone. The ice cream shop concept had originally been created by his brother, Racer A, who was now sitting on the couch playing. The reality of the ice cream shop had apparently been handed down to G, with A having retired to become more or less a somewhat silent partner now, only occasionally piping up with words of encouragement or to explain some of the products, such as the green ice cream G suggested was either mint or lime. It was as if a family shop had been handed down to the next generation -- pretend generations happen quickly when you are two.

The ice cream shop - notice its rustic charm.
You order through the gap, but I guess that's
obvious - you've ordered ice cream before.

 I noticed a particular enthusiasm in selling ice cream (the shop had now added milk shakes to its line up) from G now that he was running the shop solo, even more than he had exhibited when running it with his brother. "Want dat on a cone?" he asked.

Racer A, turning five in a week, watched with an "I-taught-him-everything-he-knows-about-the-ice-cream-shop-in-a-chair-business" air about him without any of the competition for attention I might have suspected. Perhaps he was considering opening a chain.

Baby G was doing great, and only stumbled once, when, during his spiel of asking if I wanted my ice cream on a cone, I confused him by pointing out I had ordered a milk shake (this was my second pass through the shop), which couldn't go in a cone but needed to go in a cup. I saw little eyes through the chair slot blink in confusion, then heard a little laugh.

"Oh, okay!" Then I heard him go "BIZZZZXZZZZZZZZ" as he fired up the blender.

I am pretty sure that blender is new.

From the look on Racer A's face, I could tell he knew the shop was in good hands.

From me, my wife, Baby G, Racer A, and Racer Z, we wish everyone an imaginative and wonderful Thanksgiving.

Photo of 2007 Shelby courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 62: Porsche 914

This week's tiny car features a classy two-seater favorite of mine, the Porsche 914, in tribute to a recent yet rare morning spent alone with my youngest son, Baby G, who is two and a half.

Even though money is tight, this past week Baby G and I managed to go to an amusement park AND dance party, where he invented a new percussion instrument. We complemented our adventures with a gourmet meal out. We were living large.

Of course the above description is being spun from G's perspective. From mine, we went to a local fast food joint to weather the sour weather outside, where I let Baby G play in their claustrophobic Fun Zone with a hamster-tube slide, all the while worrying about how many germs he surely must be climbing over.

We ate chicken blobs and fries after washing our hands in the restroom, where he danced to piped-in music (I think to a Buddy Holly song). While G was dancing around, he stepped on a circular metal drain on the floor which clanked loudly, and, after stomping on the grate a couple of times, he began overlaying the songs (yes, we stayed in the bathroom for at least three songs) with some sick beats.

"We're at a DANCE PARTY!" he exclaimed with a smile so real, eyes so sparkly and dance moves so natural that for a fleeting moment I actually believed we were at a dance party. Maybe we were.

Back at the Fun Zone I forgot my previously set limitations of "we're only going to stay for a short time" and we stayed for most of the morning. He never became bored, and over the course of the morning he was a truck driver, The Hulk, Sonic the Hedgehog, a mountain climber, and what I can only surmise was some type of primate or rain forest marsupial.

At the beginning he had trouble climbing up onto the padded ledge to get to the upper level, so I told him to use my arm as a ladder. While I couldn't fit in the Fun Zone, I could manage to stick my arm in if I leaned at an awkward angle, thus allowing G to step onto my forearm and then onto the upper deck. After that, he would go around the small circuit, down the tiny slide, and return to the entry area. Each time he would say, "Dada, need arm-as-ladder." After multiple circuits, the request had decreased from five words to three as a new single-word noun was invented - armasladder.

Even leaving was perfect, with no tears or tantrums when time to go, an occurrence, when it happens, that any parent relishes. Memories of the most perfect day at the park, party, play area or visit to grandma can be obliterated from a parent's mind by the end-of-play blow-out, but not this time. Baby G even said goodbye to the fun zone area itself and "tank you" to one of the employees on our way out.

Everything was perfect to him, and because of that, perfect to me, even if I was unable to see reality and only a dirty, tiny play area and bathroom. That his eyes could see the truth was enough.

Photo of Porsche 914 (did I mention this is a favorite of mine?), courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.


Note on blog  format: I have reverted back to the old format from the dynamic one I have been using for the past month for a few reasons. Even though I liked the magazine-style format that showcased the photos better, a few readers said they preferred not needing to click into the story to get the full blog, and the old format did not allow me to use the Etsy widget to highlight the vintage items from my shop at Nickadizzy nor any of the other plugins which a few folks said they liked.

Week 61: 1965 Austin Mini Van

Marking one-year since losing my paying job, this week's Daddy's Tiny Cars is a tribute to paying employment, a 1965 Austin Mini Van with Royal Couriers on the side. While it has only been a year since losing that paycheck, it feels like it has been since 1965.

Now don't get me wrong: I have not been lounging about, bunny-slippered feet on the ottoman, watching daytime television (and by being unable to name any daytime TV titles I hope you believe me) -- in fact I have worked on a variety of very challenging projects. I simply have not been compensated for them.

Call them pro bono, volunteer, experience-building, projects of passion, or just plain unpaid (I use different terms depending on the audience -- pro bono sounds so much punchier than free in a job interview), these assignments have challenged me not only to learn new skills quickly but also to face my identity in regards to employment.

What I mean by this is that once away from the doughnut on a stick of a paycheck-and-benefits package (I like doughnut better than carrot even if that ignores that the original metaphor was for a horse or mule), what I do is driven by internal motivations. In other words, there are less have-tos. Even though volunteer work may boost my marketability to an employer, that connection is so nebulous and far-off as to be almost negligent as a motivator. Perhaps the resume-building factor might come into play while considering undertaking a project, but once involved, not so much. Even this blog can falls under that category -- 61 weeks of regular weekly posts -- trust me I'm not doing it because I think it might land me a job.

Other unpaid jobs include being the financial secretary and voting member of the board for East Shore Unitarian Universalist.  I'm a words guy, so pouring over financials was new to me. The work of a financial secretary is tedious, time consuming, sometimes confusing and often frustrating, and required learning a clunky software program (I kid you not it is called PowerChurch). Board work can be email and meeting intensive.

I have learned much about both my working self and personal self (if there truly is a difference) from these experiences, and I can never hide behind the idea that I'm doing it for the paycheck. This, I feel, is a very good thing. There is an honesty and inner-reflection built into these experiences that has forced me to better see myself and my relationship to work and motivation, particularly when doing the not-so-fun stuff.

That said, at this one year anniversary of parting from paid employment, I would really like some cash. While I have had a couple of absolutely amazing job interviews over the past few weeks, I have not yet landed a job, so if you are reading this and have a job lead, let me know, particularly if it involves tiny cars. (You can reach me at luckwitz (at) gmail.com.

------

Holiday Gift Ideas:


Another project of mine is an online vintage store on Etsy at http://www.etsy.com/shop/Nickadizzy. Please consider doing some holiday shopping here for some odd yet awesome gifts including a collection of mid century / West German art pottery. I'm sorry to say I have unfortunately already sold the stuffed piranha.


Photo of Austin courtesy of Phil Pekarcik, who, like me, is uncompensated in this venture yet continues to deliver the coolest tiny car pics on the planet.

Week 60: 1971 Pontiac Firebird Formula

Daddy's Tiny Cars returns to a Daddy favorite, the Pontiac Firebird, but, lest you think I'm duplicating cars again, I assure you this is a 2010 Matchbox 1971 Pontiac Firebird Formula, different than Week 32's Hot Wheels 1967 Pontiac Firebird 400.  I'm keeping track.

Which is a bit more than I've managed with the schedules in my house these past few weeks. Lately getting a grip on a complete schedule has felt like a music montage from an old Scooby Doo cartoon where Scooby runs through a door in a hallway of doors, after which the monster runs out of another, crosses the hall and goes through another, only to have Velma pop out of the door next to it, and so on and so on. Those chases usually end up in a big pileup.

So far, the metaphor continues to hold.

My wife uses a Google calendar app to track things, with different color coded shadings. Last week, that calendar looked like a mosaic, a type of scheduling arts and crafts.

Scheduling itself, however, isn't that difficult. The challenge is the kid coordination component. Doctor appointments mean kids go with the non-doctor-visiting parent, but if an appointment is near the pickup for preschool/play practice/activity time/free FunTime event, than doctor-visiting parent may do a pickup.

Rangling a two-year-old for a small errand is a hassle, so non-drive-through errands (how we do love drive-throughs) may be better served with a mid-run kid drop off. All three kids require transport by the van, and currently I do not have a baby seat in the car, so that vehicle is only being used for older kid transport. Don't forget to make lunch in there somewhere, and early play practice for my older son requires early dinner time, so best to not have late lunches on those days.

In one door, out another, all the while making that zoopity zippity zoom noise as we stand still for a few seconds and our feet spin around creating an illusion of a perfect circle.

But for all the scheduling needs, I still have not come to embrace my nemesis: the cell phone calendar alarm. My wife's phone gives auditory reminders for everything -- for example, it blares the chorus of Simple Minds' Don't You Forget About Me when time to pick up Racer A from school.  Those alarms always go off when my wife has stepped outside the house, closed the bathroom door, or answered a call on the other line. I am powerless to stop their repeated taunting, and I am certain her phone would deliver a near-fatal electric jolt to me if I attempted to interfere.

Nonetheless, things should slow, at least temporarily, as the numerous Halloween festivities are over, kid costumes are done for another year, my older son is completing his grueling play practice schedule as his local production of The Pirates of Penzance prepares to open next week, and a number of necessary adult appointments have been checked off the list.

As for my scheduling for the past few weeks -- I really would have gotten away with it if it hadn't been for those meddling kids.

Picture of this week's Matchbox 1971 Pontiac Firebird as well as Week 32's 1967 Pontiac Firebird 400 courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 59: Pumpkin Hill Gov'ner

Happy Halloween!! Today's featured car is a limited edition Hot Wheels from last Halloween which I have saved, well.. for a year. Eh, packaging is overrated.

Halloween is one of my favorite times of the year, but is also a yardstick time I use to remind myself to keep tabs on my burgeoning stodginess.

Many years ago I tended to overdo Halloween with costumes and decorations, but for the past few years those Halloween decorations have seemed more inaccessible (the attic crawl space? I need a LADDER!!) and the work for a Halloween costume more work work, compared to fun work. I didn't even get one invite to a Halloween party this year.

Yet down deep I still miss the hoopla of Halloween, which is why having kids dressing up is great. Even if I don't get around to a costume, there is still the spooky pageantry for the kids.

This year, Baby G was a vampire, and Racer A was a ninja type guy. Baby G added a bit of of warrior attitude to his dark prince getup, but I believe that is because he thought he was a vampower. I didn't have the heart to correct him. Either way, both kids did a bit of method acting and stayed in character (see below).

The above costumes were pre-assembled, but Racer Z had a custom costume that was a group effort, with my wife doing most of the work.

His costume was Finn the Human from the cartoon Adventure Time with Finn and Jake, a bonding time cartoon for all the boys (myself included) in the family as we all love it. My wife doesn't quite get into Adventure Time like we all do, but she is soundly outnumbered.

Adventure Time, Come On Grab Your Friends...

We even matched the colors on Finn's backpack (which unfortunately doesn't show in the above pic).

So looking at these pics, I realize I have a few days before October 31, plenty of time to cobble together a costume for myself. I can be stodgy next year, but for this year,

Happy Halloween from Daddy's Tiny Cars!!!


Halloween car picture courtesy of Phil Pekarcik. Thanks, Gov'ner.

Week 58: Infinity G37 Coupe

My four year old son, affectionately known on this blog as Racer A, recently started with the county's Head Start pre-school program, but classes are a few towns over so it means driving 20 minutes to get him to the bus. 

That short ride gives us time to talk about important things, like today:

ME: You know what? I'm glad deer don't drive cars. I don't think they would be good drivers.

RACER A: (Unphased by comment) Uh-huh, I don't think so either. I'm glad deer don't drive too.


(We drive a minute or two in silence.)

ME: You know what else? I'm glad squirrels don't drive. I would have a difficult time seeing their tiny cars.

RACER A: I'm glad squirrels don't drive, too, but they could drive big cars, you know.

ME: True, but they would probably need tiny seats in their big cars.

RACER A:  Yes. Hey, you know what I'm glad of? I'm glad cats don't drive cars.

ME: Me too. I would never know what the cars would do next if cats were driving. They might suddenly turn left, and then spin around or something.

RACER A:  How do you think dogs would drive?

ME: I'm not certain. They might goof around a lot, go slow, then fast, and they might play chase in cars.

RACER A: That would not be good.

ME: No, definitely not.

(We ride again in silence.)

ME: You know what I'm really glad about?

RACER A:  What?

ME: That fish don't drive cars.

RACER A:  Me too. How would they do that?

ME: They'd have to fill their cars with water.

RACER A:  Maybe they would drive in their fishbowl.

ME: You mean a fishbowl with wheels?

RACER A:  No, I mean their fishbowl would sit on the seat, with a seatbelt around it.

ME: But how would they reach the steering wheel? They'd need to hang out of the top.

RACER A:  Yup. But wait!! How would they reach those...um, those things you push down on the bottom?

ME: The gas and break petals?

RACER A:  Yes.

ME: I don't know. They would need someone to help. Maybe a lizard.

RACER A:  Yes, or maybe a sheep, but the sheep would hop over the fish, but only once, and then settle down. No, wait, maybe a frog can help.

ME: A frog would be a good helper.

RACER A:  Or a cat.

ME: No, the cat would eat the fish. Or at least tease it.

(We pass a transport truck hauling new cars.)

ME: Look at that that!

RACER A:  COOL!

What kind of animal would drive that?

RACER A:  Maybe a cow?

ME: Maybe, or maybe a horse. Horses are used to hauling things.

RACER A:  Yes, that's it. A horse would be perfect. (He adds a slight pause between "per" and "fect.")

ME: I think a horse might be a good driver.

RACER A:  Oh yes. A horse would definitely be a good driver.

(We approach the drop off spot).

ME: What if we get there and your bus is being driven by an animal, like a moose or something, although I guess a moose would have a hard time fitting its antlers through the bus door.

RACER A:  The bus driver would probably be a goat.

ME: Yes, a goat would fit better.

RACER A:  Wait a second. Animals don't drive cars. Only grownups. And teenagers. How do teenagers drive cars?

ME: Kind of like cats.






Photo of Matchbox Infinity G37 and red sky of impending doom courtesy of Phil Pekarcik, perhaps inspired by Week 57's dark tone.

Speaking of which, I considered whether or not to publish Week 57 as I try to keep this blog light, but Daddy's Tiny Cars is after all a time capsule diary that would be incomplete if I didn't express elements from my real life, including the downs. I don't mean giving every rough detail, but rather capturing essences of the week. I hope you all understand

Now I must go. There appears to be a fruit fly swimming in my wine.

Week 57: 1954 Jaguar XK120 SE

Today's Daddy's Tiny Car is a return to the initial concept of the blog -- an affordable fantasy removed from concerns of reality and practicality, because, while a lot can happen in the blink of an eye, I'm thinking a real '54 Jaguar probably isn't likely to show up in the near future no matter how many times I work those eyelids.

Not that other things haven't occurred between blinks this week -- I blink, ill placed words split my foundation sending emotional tsunamis roaring over my shores, blink again, my middle son is running a fever of 103 (he is fine now), and blink yet again and I'm on the phone listening to the tinkling sound of stress fractures  spiderwebbing cracks throughout the emotional wellbeing of a friend and hoping he's equipped with safety glass, because that window glass of the soul is shattering.

This week was enough to make me want to keep my eyes shut and let the world blink without me for awhile.

But the challenge and beauty of having children is of course you need to keep your eyes open, because if you don't, you'll open them to find the kids standing on the kitchen table flinging oatmeal at the ceiling fan.

So I've kept my eyes open, taken care of business (even if I did skimp on yard work), read stories to the kids, cooked dinners, and overall bucked up.

Nonetheless, in the deep dark when I can't tell if my eyes are open or not, I'm taking a few moments to visualize  this wonderful Jaguar (said to have been the world's fastest standard production car at the time it was launched) while listening to ELO and smelling the comforting odor of a strange-scented candle in the other room (is it Fresh Bamboo?) -- a sensory concoction that might not do much for anyone else, but is custom built by me to recharge my battery and prepare me for a new day of blinking.

Come morning, my eyes and I will be ready.

Photo courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 56: Mystery Car: Hemi Cuda

My eyes have become fussy four year olds at dinnertime.

TOO CLOSE, I can't See! That's TOO FAR, it's Blurry!! I kinda see that, but my right eye doesn't like it, only my left eye! I can't read that!! I want something larger!!

The Kraft macaroni and cheese to my fussy eyes is my progressive lens eyeglasses,  trifocal lens meant to keep all my failing ranges of vision happy, even if it means flipping my eyes around like a kid's fingers on an X-Box controller in order to see, or, as is more often the case, tilting my head like a curious dog in order to read the sign to the men's room.

Trifocals are an amazing gift to diminishing vision, when they can be found.

Even with how great they are, I still take them off to read, as I did yesterday to read Racer A and Baby G a picture book about Jamaica.

The problem was, I neglected to put them back on.

And Baby G found them. And toddled off with them.

Losing your eyeglasses is a singular aggravation unlike other irritating circumstances. You can't see well enough to see them again, some type of anti-zen koan, and even though you take those glasses for granted every second of the day, once they are gone, you feel like some rogue suddenly sneaked in and stole your teeth, they are that much a part of you.

My glasses were gone. I looked and looked and looked. Gone.

Finally, there was no other choice.

I had to look under the couch.

Today's Daddy's Tiny Cars is a 2011 Mystery Car, one of the cars you pick that is encased in a black blisterpack that hides the vehicle. The car turned out to be a most awesome Hemi Cuda. Mystery Car is significant, because with three kids in the house, looking under the couch is a mystery, and not something anyone takes lightly. There be monsters.

The first thing I encountered under the couch was some type of raisin. Without the benefit of trifocal technology I wasn't sure what was going on, but this raisin seemed wrong, a distorted dried fruit dweller of the underworld.

That raisin was a warning.

I kept going, looking for a familiar outline of eyeglasses, but the more I looked, the more I found the forgotten oddities of the toddler world -- Cheerios, fruit rinds, Lego people assembled with arms for heads, sparkly stickers on anything and everything, a surreal landscape of crunchy, textural filth art.

How does this stuff get under there? Why? How? My god, how afraid my eyeglasses must be.

But they were never found.

I went a whole day using a spare pair of glasses, ones with a single focus. I felt seasick most of the day, but at least there was at least one distance when everything was crystal clear, regardless of how I moved my head or eyes. Now if I could just get everything to stand there, I would be fine.

My trifocals did show up today, sitting peacefully on a toybox. At the time of this writing I have yet to put them on as it has taken a day to adjust to the single focus lens, but the relief of finding them is immense.

I may have my glasses, but I won't use them to look under the couch.

There are some things that are best left to the shadows and blurriness.

Photo of awesome Cuda by Phil Pekarcik.

Week 55: Ferrari 612 Scagletti

This amazing, and detailed, Hot Wheels road machine has the unfortunate name of Scaglietti, which just doesn't sound as nice in American as it would in Italian.

Scaglietti sounds like a made up put down from a middle schooler. Names just need to sound bad to have affect.


Racer A: Dad, Dre's calling me a booby butt.


Me: That doesn't even mean anything, so why does it bother you?


Racer A (going on five in Nov.): Because I don't like it. Tell him to stop calling me a booby butt.


Me: Okay, Dre, stop calling your brother a booby butt.


Baby G (age 2): (snorts) You bobby butt, dada.


Me: Yes I am. Dre, see what's happened? Baby G is calling me a booby butt now.


Racer Z: Sorry.




And so on.

In thinking about it, however, I sit corrected. A name doesn't even need to sound bad. I can remember an argument erupting at home once because one brother called the other a blinkyblonk, which ended up  in a shouting match and a loud proclamation of "I'M NOT A BLINKYBLONK! YOU'RE A BLINKYBLONK!"

He told him.

At least it ended before someone got called a peeshyposh.

I just can't tolerate that kind of language in my house.


Photo courtesy of Phil Pekarcik, who, like you, is seeing this new magazine format for the first time. I haven't decided if I will keep this new layout, but so far I like it because it highlights the great Tiny Cars photos from Phil and others. Write me and let me know what you think.

Week 54: Karmen Ghia

Convertible weather may soon be coming to a close here in Ohio, friends, but there is still plenty of time for a top-down, fall drive in the crisp autumn air to look at the leaves, just now beginning to forget their green.

This week's tiny car, a Matchbox diecast of an older model Karmen Ghia convertible (even if you are not a 'car person' tell me this isn't cool and exotic?), represents a car that is fast, difficult to spell, exciting, and full of exotic mystery, so of course it reminds me of...

                                                                    ... libraries.

One of my earliest memories is getting Leo Leoni's picture book Frederick (I had the heart of an English major even at age five) from our tiny library in the Kinderhouse, the brick kindergarten building in the small town where I grew up. I remember how amazed I was to find a place hidden away where you could pick out books to enjoy -- to me it was the equivalent of some sort of hidden garden with Creamsicles and colored lights. Ah, how I loved libraries.

Now, I take my own kids to our local library, and while some say libraries may be singing their swan song against the rush of digital books and online media, they are still places of magic for my kids, even if part of the draw is to play on the computers. No matter, it is still that mystery, that sense of being surrounded by words and meaning just outside of their grasp, that fuels the excitement, and the thrill of the hunt of finding that ultimate cool book.

You may be saying, "Well, that covers exotic, and mysterious, and difficult to spell, but I'm not getting fast."

Take a two year old to a library. You'll understand the connection to fast.

Rows of organized shelves with big open race tracks of carpet.  How can you not run? The act almost seems obligatory if you are two.

I love libraries, but if I could build my own fantasy library, the one thing I would change would be those ordered rows, not to stop Baby G from tearing down their book-lined tunnels, but to turbocharge the mystery. I would offer order, but I would also offer nooks and crannies and unexpected finds, twists and turns, unexpected rooms of literary finds, varying heights of ceiling, shelves hidden behind curtains, basements,  and winding, unexpected turns. Libraries are about mystery, and my library would emphasize this through its physical construction.

Baby G would still run, but it would be a circuit race, not a quarter mile.

I embrace e-books and all they hold, but I simultaneously embrace the gift of paper and binding. If as a society we primarily move to digital, I hope we will always have libraries as a physical place of intellectual mystery for our kids to explore. And for me.

Libraries are the Karmen Ghias of words.

The photo of the Karmen Ghia on the road to learning courtesy of Photographer Phil Pekarcik.

Week 53: 1974 AMC Hornet

Here we are 53 weeks later, the official beginning of the second year of Daddy's Tiny Cars. To celebrate, I tracked down a special tiny car, a 1974 AMC Hornet made by Johnny Lightning.

While many might not see a '74 Hornet as a special car, it was a Hornet, I don't remember the year, belonging to my friend Mike that drove us to many adventures while we were learning to drive in 1979.

I didn't look to see if my Johnny Lightning had a tiny eight-track player in the dash. If it doesn't, it should.

                                                           *      *        *

As previously mentioned, the first annual Daddy's Tiny Cars Race was held September 12, 2011.

The rules were made up as we went along, and, in retrospect, didn't actually make any sense. Each racer, this year Racer Z (11 years old), Racer A (4 years old), Baby G (2 years), and me (years enough to remember the Hornet), could pick three cars each, except for me, who only selected a single car. Each son would race a best-of-three match against my single selection, Week 51's bright yellow 1966 custom GTO station wagon.

How could I lose? I hoped they would take it in stride.

 Since I was racing more than anyone else, I decided that to move on to the finals, the kids would need to qualify by beating me. Winners would square up against each other. For me to win, I would need to beat all racers. I don't exactly get how that works, but I wanted to make sure I got to individually race all the kids and hadn't really worked out the details.

Baby G kicked off the trial run of the modified track by running a plastic Peter Pan figurine. No amount of coaxing to use something with wheels seemed to work. According to Peter Pan, the track was ready.

Racer Z kicked off the official races with his red Hotwheels Pro Stock Firebird.

Results: Racer Z dominated the first two races, negating a need for a third.

A minor setback. I was setback by a minor.

Strangely, since Racer A was manning
(kidding?) the camera, this was
the only shot of Racer Z.
See? His hand is in the grey
shirt.

Next was Racer A with his blue Hot Wheels Camaro Pro Stock.
I won the first race, he won the second, but I won the third. The focus, however, was on the wonderful win during the second race.

Baby G was a no show. He must be at the concession stand.

Racer A then raced his green Hot Wheels Spectyte, successfully beating my yellow wagon twice, meaning our next race would determine who would win the series. It would need to wait, however, for Racer Z was back, this time racing the legendary Hot Wheels Yur So Fast, fresh out of the package.

My wagon was not So Fast. Racer A won the first two. He had won the series.

Daddy and Racer A, with  glowing red eyes.
When the eyes glow green, GO!

Racer A returned, bucking the system by insisting he reuse his Pro Stock, which seemed to break the rules, but, since there weren't actually any rules, did not. A won the first race, but next I beat him by a hair. The third race, however, he won, winning the best of three series. Tears were averted.

Baby G, who had been doing an amazing job of hiding his excitement, finally arrived with an unnamed Hot Wheels MacDonald's toy to beat me in the first race. I think he ran it down the track backwards.

In the second and third races, however, he lost, which didn't matter as he had been lured away to the siren song of Nick Junior (the cable station, not some race car driver). Note to self: television off next time during the races.

With Baby G out of the running, that left the showdown between Racers A and Z.

Even though Racer Z had cinched the series win, we nonetheless raced his Hot Wheels Double Demon anyway. He, appropriately, won double.

Out of the races, I changed position from driver to sport and life coach as I monitored the race between Racer A's Pro Stock and Racer Z's Pro Stock and defused potential arguments.  In the final count, older sibling Z won the races. Tears were shed by younger one, older one gave pep talk, younger one sniffed, and then I wandered off in a dream state, thinking about next year's race.

A good time was had by all.

Racing excitement proved just a bit too much for Baby G.

Sadly, there were not spectators in the audience due to a poor PR campaign on my part (as in I didn't mention it to anyone other than a vague reference online.) Nonetheless, a great shout out to photographer Phil Pekarcik who took the picture of the Hornet and who was there in spirit.

His spirit even beat my station wagon. 

Week 52: Ferrari 308 GTS (in red)

What the ... Week 52 already?

I have been saying from the beginning that Daddy's Tiny Cars (which actually began as Daddy's Matchbox) would become cool to me after it had run for at least a year.

I just didn't expect a year to go by so fast.

Baby G is a year older since Week One, as is Racer A and Racer Z.

As am I.

Lots has happened, lots hasn't happened, I've remembered a few birthdays, I've forgotten a few more, but through it all the tiny cars have kept rolling. I've even duplicated a car - horrors!

Yes, this beauty of a sports car, a 1976 Ferrari 308 GTS, actually showed up in Week 13 in a blue version, unremembered by me until pointed out by Phil, photographer for DTC. Such will happen in 52 weeks, and as much as I loved that blue Ferrari, I like it even better in red, so no harm.

So as we prepare for the big Daddy's Tiny Cars race and a year into the diary, (see Week 51), I want to thank some folks who have ridden along.

Thanks to James at blog Luke I am Your Father and Barbara from Notes from the Second Half for your support, as well as to the other daddy and mommy bloggers and others who have written and sent out words of well wishing.

Thanks for the great car gifts from various friends: the incredible English coach from Rajni in Seattle (I'll get a picture at a later post), the cool cars from Tim P. in Cleveland, the three tasty additions from Linda in Washington, and of course cars from my folks and my brother.

Thanks for help with my pictures along the way to SAHD Thomas, Dom, Charlie, my wife, and of course Phil P.

Thanks for the constant weirdness and content inspiration from my kids.

And thanks to Les, David M. and Patty (both of NYC), Jen E, Amore, Marty K., and so many other great folks -- in essence, thanks to each and every person who has taken time to read this oddball of a blog adventure. Guess what -- you're all older too!

And you all look great.

See you next week for the results of the race. My station wagon is so going to kick butt.

And if I didn't mention someone I should have, please do not be offended -- I picked the same Ferrari twice without even remembering -- that's what happens to the memory after repeated doses of the Backyardigans, In the Night Garden, Wonder Pets, Wow Wow Wubbsy, and others (all of which I actually enjoy.)

Photo of my second Ferrari courtesy of Phil Pekarcik -- silver silos, for those looking to tour Ohio, can actually be found in Middlefield, Ohio.

Week 51: Custom '66 GTO Wagon

This wagon is what I want to be -- a station wagon, life's clunky yet functionally awkward symbol of domesticity and family life, and yet, at the same time, the coolest of the cool of muscle cars, a GTO.

Technically there never was a factory model GTO Wagon although you can find a lot of modified Tempest wagons and such, but even Hot Wheels has recognized the custom GTO Wagon, and I have no issue with being related to a custom model.

I've actually set my sites on eventually acquiring an old model station wagon, a vehicle I see as the automotive equivalent of the hipster nerd glasses. I like station wagons, and could use it to haul items for my vintage business, Nickadizzy.

I've written about station wagons before in Daddy's Tiny Cars, and I was happy to find not only a sporty station wagon by Hot Wheels, but also one with one of my favorite tiny cars attribute, the little tiny plastic dog in the bag, on which I believe I have also previously written.

For the upcoming one year anniversary of Daddy's Tiny Cars (I'm at week 51, meaning next week's entry marks the final entry for year one!), I'm going to break out some of this past year's entries for an actual orange-track race with my kids, and this bright yellow station wagon will be my top racing selection, going up against any cars my kids select out of their collections -- I'll even let the two-year-old select a car and race.

I'll announce the results on Week 53, but come on, the Daddy Wagon has to win, for the glory of fathers everywhere, right? I feel mildly confident about taking on the Racer A and Baby G as their collections = their piles of cars seemingly everywhere in the house, but Racer Z might be tough as he has kept his cars in tip-top racing condition inside a shoe box. We shall see.

So mark your calendars, results of the first annual Daddy's Tiny Cars Race are set to be revealed September 13, 2011, and if you have tiny cars and kids, or can borrow kids (you can always go pick up a car at the local Target or grocery store), I invite you to join me in a dad* vs. kids tiny car race.

Let me know if you win, and feel free to email me pics.

*Of course I extend my encouragement to race to anybody who plays a significant role to a child - moms, caretakers, uncles, grandparents, family friends, and more. Get out there and race!


Photography by Phil Pekarcik, whom I'm expecting to join in racing!

Week 50: VW Brasilia 1973

Today's car is vintage South American exotica with a 1973 Volkswagen Brasilia. These foreign-released vehicles are fun because they are both familiar yet slightly off, like a dream where people you know have different colored eyes than they usually own.

That eye color reference comes to mind because my 11-year-old son mentioned he had a dream where his eyes were purple. I think he also said he was a dragon in that dream, which I suppose messes with the metaphor of the Brasilia and of being only slightly unrecognizable.

The main connection to this car, however, isn't dreams, but school. Today is Racer Z's first day of sixth grade, and if that doesn't match being recognizable yet different, than nothing does. I just came back inside from a blustery, rainy outside, where my son and I waited for his bus together, me worriedly explaining to check the tree branches so as to not stand under big branches that might fall in the wind.

Notice I used present tense in the paragraph before. That means I'm writing this week's post pre-7:00 a.m. on a Wednesday morning unlike my usual Tuesday night routine. I'm not a morning person, and after 48 yrs of being wired to nighttime, I suspect that is never going to change. Nonetheless, I crashed early last night but was able to sleep knowing I would be getting up early with my son.

Yes, an unwritten blog post would mess up my sleep. I'm a geek.

I only now noticed that I still am wearing my big green raincoat -- mornings truly are rough for me. I hope I'm wearing pants.

Yup, all good.

The rushing out the door but forgetting your pants reference was once a popular convention in comics and movies, but I don't know anyone who has actually forgotten to put on pants. I do know students who have rushed out the door forgetting their backpacks, however, and while not so dramatic, nonetheless almost as important. Today, however, for this first day at a new school building for sixth grade, my son was out the door on time with all necessary apparel and school accessories.

So here I am, early in the morning, tapping on the keys, drinking my coffee, listening to the wind and the sound of tires on wet roads, wearing a raincoat, safe should the ceiling suddenly spring a leak, and reflecting on how sixth grade is the entrance to the revolving door of teenagerdom. The spinning has begun.

I have a son who turns 22 next week, so I should be comfortable with how fast time spins, but it is catching me off guard, nonetheless.

Recognizable yet slightly off.


Photograph courtesy of Phil Pekarcik, who is always recognizable and always slightly off.

Week 49: '72 Gran Torino Sport

The 1972 Gran Torino Sport not only was the car featured in the Clint Eastwood movie Gran Torino, but was also the car bad guy Fenix Rise drives in the Fast and the Furious.

At the risk of completely destroying my indie film crowd credibility, I like the Fast and the Furious movies. My son likes them, also, which is significant, as they are among the few movies with adult themes we have watched together -- as I may have mentioned in previous posts, my wife and I run on the conservative side when it comes to allowing our kids to watch violent movies, and by conservative, I mean we just don't allow it.

Nonetheless, Racer Z and I have watched most of the Fast and the Furious franchise together and even went to see Fast Five at the drive-in (a Father's Day present from my adult son who took the entire family out to the drive-in.) As fun as these movies are, they do confuse my son since the "good" guys are actually criminals, consequently muddying the good guy/bad guy waters.

When I was his age in 1974 I had already been hit with a lot more moral ambiguity of movie heroes. While I didn't watch them first run at the theater, I did watch the television runs of movies like Paper Moon, Papillon, The Getaway, Silent Running, The Godfather, Catch-22, Two Mules for Sister Sara, Bonnie and Clyde (I know that came out in 1967 but I didn't see it until the 70s) and of course the Planet of the Apes movies, all a few years after they came out when they ran, in edited forms, on television. Additionally, there was the slew of 70s made-for-television anti-hero movies. This was a time of good guys and bad guys sharing hats, a time of anti-heroes, and a time when I really didn't understand half the themes in these movies.

I understand the mood of the movies, however, and to this day love the gritty, noir feel of The Getaway or the sultry, sexy melancholy of The Thomas Crowne Affair.  I could have enjoyed those movies even if I had been watching them in a foreign language, which, to a certain extent, I was: as a naive kid I didn't fully understand the language of adult themes. Nonetheless, these movies created a sense of love of cinema for me, and I've often wondered if I've shortchanged my son by not allowing him to muddle about in those dark waters.

That's the thing about being a parent -- you make calls and do the best you can to protect your kids from the coarseness of life, hoping you are doing more giving then depriving. I'm fairly comfortable with my choice, but I hope he can access that intangible mood of a good movie -- I just want him to do it as an older teen or adult.

Whatever the case, we have The Fast and the Furious movies, and while no Bullett, it will have to do.

Week 48: '10 Ford Shelby GT500

The above Shelby is tearing down the road...well, in a pretend kind of way as it actually is only the size of a Snicker's fun size and doesn't actually house an internal combustion engine.

Pretend, however, is good at Daddy's Tiny Cars, and this week, and hey, let's say heretofore all subsequent weeks featuring a Shelby, will be be officially dedicated to the art of pretend.

Today's focus: Karate Kitty.

I'm allergic to cats, so we don't have any, and at this point have no pets at all, so in a type of spontaneous evolution of pet need, my kids have begun pretending one of them is a cat or dog. The other day the youngest was the cat, and for almost an hour my two-year-old stayed in the role and spoke only in variations of Meow.

This was a bit odd, but it became even more interesting when his four year brother initiated a game of of pretend superhero, and Baby G was dubbed Karate Kitty.

The general setup, as I can see, was this -- Racer A (I didn't discern a superhero moniker for him) and his cat worked at a local ice cream shop (the pretend ice cream shop is always behind the brown chair in the living room), and when bad guys came around, they fought them with their sweet, sweet karate moves.

While not fighting crime, Racer A would mix up new flavors of ice cream and frequently send Karate Kitty off to get supplies, cream or sugar, usually. Earlier he had asked me (over and over) to tell him the ingredients found in ice cream, so of course this new found knowledge was integrated into the game.

When bad guys came, however, they sprung into action, each striking a type of Charlie's Angels silhouette pose before launching into a "Yaaa, yaaa, e-yaaa" battle cry. That is, the superhero leader yelled that -- Karate Kitty yaaa yaaa'd in his native language of meows, and I can tell you that not once did he break character. Impressive, really.

After fighting a variety of  bad guys, they were hit with ghosts, which my son explained in an out-of-breath kind of way was a problem because their karate moves just went right through them. To fight them, they needed ghost spray, which, it turns out, is kept above the TV.

The ghost spray worked, and all was fine until the zombies attacked, and with a look of what seemed real panic, my son explained they had run out of zombie spray (which, he informed me, was twice as strong as ghost spray). Things were looking bad.

"Ka-watie Kitty, get to the stowr and get mowr zombie spray. Herwie!" (He still has a slight problem with the r sound.)

Going into defensive mode, he dodged the clumsy attacks of the zombies, and, as a type of off-screen narrator, I asked him if he couldn't take out a few zombies with his karate moves. He assured me that would not work.

Paddling back on all fours, Karate Kitty arrived and with a hearty MEOW!!! stood up on two toddler paws and handed over the zombie spray. Those zombies never had a chance.

The zombie apocalypse averted, a boy and his cat went back to their ice cream store to mix up a batch of banana split flavored ice cream. Baby G brought me a bowl.

"Thank you very much," I said.

"Meowww!" he answered, with the slightest hint of a smile.

The world was again safe for ice cream.


Photo of Zippy Ford Shelby, likely speeding away from zombies, courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.