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.

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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.