Week 113: 1968 Citroen DS

This week's most awesome tiny car is part of Matchbox's Heritage Classics 2007 line, a 1968 Citroen DS.

Citroen reminds me of citron, French for lemon, and lemon reminds me of ...

LEMONPOT!!

You know, the superhero? Lemonpot? No? Well, let me tell you about him, as told to me by Lemonpot himself.

(The following actual conversation occurred while driving my three-year-old son to preschool. This was not the first time he had told me about Lemonpot. Parenthetical comments are mine.)

G: (From the backseat). I'm a superhewo called Wemonpot (Lemonpot -- he has trouble with his L sounds). I weally am. And I have...Squirrel Power!!

Daddy: Squirrel Power?

G: Yes. I climb trees and throw acorns!

Daddy: That's a good power.

G: It is.

Daddy: (I hesitated on asking this one, but I ultimately I had to know). Why are you called Lemonpot?

G: Because I also can gwoh wemons and I (what sounded like grow) pot.

Daddy: What???

G: I gwow wemons and fwow pots.

Daddy: OHHH. You THROW Pots.

G: Yeah, yeah. I can fwow both wemons and pots. That's why I'm called Wemonpot, see? And acorns. I fwoh acorns, too.

(As we drove, I could hear the sounds of fishooo, fishoo and cries from vanquished bad guys from the backseat as Lemonpot battled the forces of evil with imaginary acorns. After about three or four minutes, Lemonpot spoke again.)

G: I'm a weally good superhewo.

Daddy: You are.

G: Yeah. And I'm happy that I can also fwy. FASHOOOM!!

G: (Now spoken by my son as a type of narrator). Lemonpot has fwown off to his home.



My son and I drove the rest of the way in contented silence, knowing the world was a safer place under the citrus infused watch of Lemonpot.


I snapped the photo of this great Matchbox. Photos by Phil will return next week. Matchbox is a registered Trademark of Mattel.

Week 112: 1975 Chevy Van

Happy Halloween from Daddy's Tiny Cars. I'll keep it brief and send out candy wishes to all, hoping everyone is safe and dry following Sandy's arrival.

Trick or treating was postponed in my neighborhood due to the rains and downed trees around our heavily wooded streets. When I was young this would have been devastating, but Halloween now has a lot more options for kids so that trick or treating, while still valued, is not the only game in town.

For example, last week my five-year-old son's school sponsored a Pumpkin Social, a chaotic mass of face-painted kids pushing around make-shift cornhole and other carnival type games. My kids loved it.

I don't like being crowded, so this event was stressful, but I diabolically found a partial solution. The indoor, school-sponsored fundraiser used purchased tickets for all of the games, and in the cafeteria area they had set up a snow cone machine, also taking tickets. MuHAHAHA. What kid can resist a snow cone? I steered my kids near the machine.

What does this have to do with my aversion to crowds, you may wonder? Snow cones take time to make, so the kids would be in line for awhile. Snow cones take time to eat, so they would be out of the throngs of kids for awhile. They were getting sugary ice, so they didn't feel tricked, and I let them come up with the idea of the snow cone, so they didn't know I had manipulated the whole thing.

It was all so perfect.

Yes, eventually the snow cones were eaten, but an added bonus was the blue stained my three-year-old's face adding a spooky effect to his skeleton costume.

And then we found the dance room.

Four tickets each got the kids into a room with a real DJ and disco lights. They were hooked (my kids love music), and, fueled by high octane snow cone fuel, they were ready.

Once in, G, my three-year-old, began a repetitive robot dance, accented with a Three Stooges style Curly floor roundabout -- weird, but strangely compelling to watch. The dance was like an old school Peanuts special where all the kids have their singular signature dance floor moves. The dance room was occupied but not packed, so I was fine that my youngest kids wanted to spend most of the time there.Meanwhile, my older son, who was with us and once went to the school, got to catch up with some former teachers and met some friends, so he was happy. All was perfect.

The kids had a great time, and there have been other Halloween events besides that one, so the disappointment of a delayed trick or treating is minor. I love it when things work out.

So I'm waiting for them to go to sleep, and I'll kick on an old black and white monster movie for Daddy for Halloween, and if you have power, I hope you'll be able to do the same.

Happy Halloween everyone!

Photo of my 1975, black light era van, by Phil Pekarcik.

Week 111: 1969 Mercury Cougar Eliminator

Serious muscle this week -- a Hot Wheel's 1969 Mercury Cougar Eliminator, decked out in yellow, white and red flames and presumably part of the Cranston Fire Department.

Firemen are a mainstay of childhood pretend games, as are robots. Even now, I would find a robot fireman cool. A robot fireman... that can fly.

And shoot lasers out of his eyes.

Yes, that would be cool. Maybe not as cool as the Eliminator above, but still very cool.

My youngest son, G, loves robots, the old school, 1950's I..AM..A RO..BOT type. A few days ago I had prepared a special treat with dinner (Stouffer's  Harvest Apples, if you must know), and after we ate, G picked up the discarded red Stouffer's box and put it over his right hand.

"Boop.........Boop....... I....AM...THE....KITCHEN....ROBOT.........Boop...."

G moved about kitchen in classic robot style, fingers straight out on the left hand and probably straight out on the right, too, if I had been able to see them under the box.  All the while, he continued to say "Boop.....Boop.....Boop....." at about five second intervals.

To make a Kitchen Robot: 1. Purchase Stouffer's Harvest Apples 2. Eat contents. 3. Put empty box on right hand. Now you're ready for Halloween.

As it turns out, while the Kitchen Robot did a bit of pretend cooking, it primarily just said "Boop," and G never broke character. He booped easily for one-half hour (which would be approximately 360 Boops), and finally his brother Racer A got tired of the booping and told him the robot broke.

G's eyes began to well up tears as he fought to fight back his sorrow. I shot a furrowed eyebrow glance at A, who smiled and shrugged, and went into parental damage control mode.

"Oh, the Kitchen Robot isn't broken. Don't listen to your brother."

*Sob*"He is broken! *sob* The Kitchen Robot is broken! He doesn't work anymore." G had become so wrapped up in the character he had lost track of the pretend aspect.

We were seconds away from a meltdown, and I had to think fast.

"A----, quick, get me the number five robot wrench over there and the spare 4B circuit on the shelf."

If there's only one thing I have learned about parenting, it is that kids can't resist a pretend command given with minimal instruction. Like a type of magical summoning, kids will respond. Unless they are pouting.

Racer A wasn't pouting, though, and he quickly moved to the back of the Kitchen Robot, losening  the pretend bolt and popping off the pretend plate to install the spare 4B circuit board, whatever it looked like.

"Great. Good job. Now power him down now and reboot him and we should be good."

Racer A made a "ZHouuuuuuu .. pop" noise with his mouth, and we both waited, watching G.

"Boop.......Boop.... Boop.... began G, his expressionless robot face looking straight ahead as he resumed his Kitchen Robot duties, apparently unaware of the temporary technical failure he had just endured.

Crisis averted.

Oddly, the Kitchen Robot returned the next day, and even the day after, but only when the Harvest Apples box was on his hand.

Such is the true beauty of a method actor.

Boop....Boop...THANK...Y0U...PHIL...PEKARC1K....F0R....PH0T0...OF H0T WH33LS EL1M1NAT0R...Boop....Boop...

Week 110: 1963 Cadillac Ambulance

This week's tiny car is a strange one, a combination of a 1963 Cadillac Ambulance and a surf buggy. I've featured this same car before back in Week 35, but it was a straight-forward ambulance and not all beach funky.

I've featured this one because I'm going to blog about odd combinations. Forgive me in advance.

Three-year-old G, five-year-old Racer A and myself were on sitting on the couch when G nonchalantly began telling me about an imaginary person, Mr. Maht-Maht, who has a golden chore chart.

The kids have weekly chore charts I print every week, with G's on blue paper and A's on green. Last week, A switched to Purple. Apparently, a golden chore chart is top of the line.

So, Mr. Maht-Maht and his golden chore chart. Here's where things go south.

I've got a golden chore chart, I've got a golden twinkle in my eye. Wait, what the...!!!

In the past I've talked about Racer A's imaginary friends Nickadizzy and Shotts, but Mr. Maht-Maht is something quite different. I had to go tell my wife, who, after laughing, came out to ask G about him. Here's the conversation:

Rochelle: Tell Me about your friend, what's his name, Maht-Maht?

G: He's not my friend. He's just some imaginary guy.

Rochelle: Okay, well tell me about Maht-Maht.

G: MR. Maht-Maht.

Rochelle: Mr. Maht-Maht. Tell me about MR. Maht-Maht.

G: Ummm. He has a golden chore chart.

Rochelle. He does? A golden chore chart? What else.

G: Ummm. I don't know. Let's see. Oh yeah, he's a wiener.

Rochelle: A wiener?

G: (with the tiniest smirk at the corner of his mouth. Yes. He's a weiner. He's growing boobs.

Rochelle: Oh, he's a weiner that's growing boobs. Do you know what boobs are?

G: Oh sure. They're what you got. (G points)

Rochelle: That's right. Anything else?

G: (thinking). Oh yeah. He's got a...a.... (G points to his wrist and looks me.)

Daddy: A watch?

G: YES! A watch. He's got a watch, and when it gets to three, he can turn into a human. But just at three. But he can grow legs if he wants when it's not three. He has a friend, Mr. Cot-Cot. He's human. And a super hero. He has a sword."
---------------------------------

Not even acknowledging all the Freudian, gender-development discomfort of this imaginary guy, I'm not sure I want Mr. Maht-Maht hanging around. There was a cartoon on Cartoon Network called Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends.  I don't want to picture Mr. Maht-Maht as a character.

I'm going to go play with Mr. Maht-Maht.
What's so funny? Why is everyone laughing?

OR

Why do we have to wait until 3:00
before we can go swimming with Mr. Maht-Maht?

Okay, the truth is I had no intention of blogging about this one but my wife begged me, so this is fulfilling a rare blogging request.

 I don't think I'm taking requests anymore.

Thanks to Phil Pekarcik for the great pic of the surf Caddy. Sorry it had to be featured with Maht-Maht. I mean MR. Maht-Maht.

Week 109: 2012 Camaro ZL1

We love looking at cars over at Daddy's Tiny Cars, like the hot little Hot Wheels Camaro above -- especially my son Racer A and I. While the rest of the family might not have the same enthusiasm as we do, our combined gusto for cars, old and new, is enough for the whole family, and we would even have some left over enthusiasm for a dog or cat, if we had one.

Today, Racer A and I packed up our car-looking-energy and took it to Rock-N-Roll Capital Street Machines'  Halloween Cruise Appreciation Night in Solon, Ohio. Accompanying us was my wife and son G -- Racer Z had some other things to do so couldn't make it this time.

On the off chance this blog makes its way to anyone at Rock-N-Roll Capital Street Machines, Daddy's Tiny Cars wants to give a big shout out to the great folks over there and this cool event. We all had an excellent time, and the free candy given out made it even better for the kids.

At every car, A was awestruck -- he even loved the look of the old dashboards, and that's without any prompting from me. As we went around and looked at the cars, A wanted me to snap a picture of him in front of some of his favorites, so below is a montage of some of the cars.

Halloween, muscle cars and candy, with beautiful autumn leaves on the trees -- do you really need anything else?

For tonight, I'd say no. I don't need anything else.

Photo of modern day Camaro muscle car courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 108: 1965 Mustang

RETRACTION!!

For the first time since DTC debuted, I'm going to do something I haven't done before.

I'm going to retract an entry.

Daddy's Tiny Cars is a blog diary, and as such shows the ups and downs of life, but nonetheless, it's also a mission statement of the future and on how I look at life.

I wrote a blog about about the possibility of never owning a restored muscle car, and the more I thought about it, the more that blog bugged me.

One, because the blog in retrospect came off as defeatist.
Two, because the blog lacked any real pizzazz.
Three, because I actually believe I will one day own a restored muscle car.

Seriously, the above Hot Wheels '65 Mustang deserves a more energetic blog. That is not a car for focusing on deficits. That's a car for kicking butt. Even as a tiny die-cast Hot Wheels, it doesn't take any whining. That is a car for action.

In that spirit, I've cut out the parts of the blog I felt were wimpy, and kept the good stuff.

Unfortunately, all I had left after cutting was the opening fragment of a sentence:

My five year old son and I were watching the Barrett-Jackson muscle car auctions on cable the other day, pointing out the cars we liked ...


Okay.

That's much better!


By the way, that awesome staging of that awesome Mustang courtesy of photographer Phil Pekarcik.

Week 107: Aqua King

"Boudreaux! Boudreaux! Machine Number 6 is broken again!"

I look up from the couch. I'm tired. Seriously.

"Not now, guys," I mumble.

"No, no, talk like Boudreaux! Come on Daddy, be Boudreaux!"

My youngest kids, ages 5 and 3, are both shouting over each other about Boudreaux and Machine Number 6. They are jumping up and down with excitement. Literally. Feet above the carpet jumping.

I realize they will not stop until I play and will simply continue to call me Boudreaux, and while my heart isn't in it, I start using the accent, an abomination between  fake French and video-game character Mario.

"Oh, no, Machine 6, eet is such a piece of junk, maybe Boudreaux should buy a new one, eh? What do you think? Ees it worth a fixing, or should we shop for new machine?"

"Boudreaux, I called in the fix-it man," says the five year old seriously. "He says he's fixed it right this time so it won't break again."

"Okay, I trust you, my friend, but eef Machine 6 breaks one more time, we reely need to get rid of it -- so many problems, no?"

And on it goes.

Who is Boudreaux?

There is a diaper rash cream called Boudreaux's Butt Paste, and once when the youngest had a painful rash I created the Boudreaux character to distract him -- my son and I called out "Boudreaux! Boudreaux!" to get his help.

From those beginnings, Boudreaux as a character developed and the mythos became more solid. My sons work in the Butt Paste factory fulfilling orders, fixing machines and running the lines. We have two truck drivers, hot-headed Tony and Christine. There have been two diabolical owners of the plant, Franco, who went on to open a different factory and who once got into it with Tony, and now Bob. 

Believe it or not, the game has none of the potty humor you would expect from something called Butt Paste, but instead takes the stance of making a beloved product that both kids proudly stand behind.

Man, it's a weird game, all the more so because it has become so detailed and consistent. 

Sometimes I think I'm actually working in the Butt Paste factory.

And as jobs go, I suppose this is one of the best.

An actual letter from my son to Beaudreux -- I gave him the wrong spelling
by accident. You'd think a successful businessman such as me would remember
how to spell his own name, but
Beuadreaux, he has no time for spelling names when he has
a factory of Butt Paste to run!  Even Beaudreux, he makes mistakes.
That is life, no?

I snapped the photo of the awesome bottle truck from Matchbox, part of their 2012 City collection. As much as I wanted, I was unable to find a Butt Paste truck, but this will be close enough.

Week 106: BMW M3 GT2

This week's Hot Wheels, a performance racer BMW M3, is dedicated to the high performance talking that goes on between my five-year-old (A), and three-year-old (G). Performance, with many, many laps.

The two of them can talk and talk, cracking themselves up with running jokes only they understand, such as discussing their "ugly sidekick" -- Hey, hey, my ugly sidekick looks like a trashcan, followed by, Hey, listen, hey, I got a good one, mine ugly side kick looks like a tennis racket! This back and forth ugly sidekick discussion easily went on for fifteen minutes.

Many of the times I tune out their talk so it becomes a buzz in the background, especially when it turns to imaginary video games they are playing, but sometimes I can't help but listen for the sheer, at least apparent, randomness and strangeness.

Here are only a few examples:


At breakfast:

G: What if I had a pet elephant?

A: The he would step on you and you would become flat.

G: No, I would not become flat because he is outside and I am inside, so he couldn't step on me. He is outside.

A: Well, when you go outside, he could step on you and squish you.

G: Well, I don't have a pet elephant. Sorwee.

 Heard from the back seat while driving past a grave yard:

G: Are there skelwetons and ghosts in there?

A: No, G--, there's no such thing as skeletons.

G: Yes, there are. There are too such things as skelwetons and ghosts.

A: Okay, that's true. There are skeletons and ghosts. But they don't live in Ohio.

Heard during a heated discussion in the living room:

A: No, Poop Guy can't fly.

G: Yes he can. Poop Guy CAN fly!  (I can't type the rest of this conversation about superhero Poop Guy. I just can't.)

It can even be educational:

G:  I think I would like to float.

A: (said with a very authoritative tone) Well, it's like this, G--. We don't float because there's this thing called gravity. If you're on a planet, than gravity pulls you down, so you have to go to outer space to get away from gravity so you can float, so you'd probably have to go in a space ship, but don't go near the sun, because you'll melt. Really. You'll melt.

G: I don't want to melt.

A. Me neither.

 I didn't think he was listening when we talked about gravity!

Yes, their conversations can at times be like sleep-inducing white noise to adults, but they can also be exceptionally fun -- but I never did find out if Poop Guy really can fly or not.

Photo of the Mattel Hot Wheels BMW snapped by me -- look for Phil to be back next week.

Week 105: Goodyear Blimp

The above 1991 Hot Wheels Goodyear blimp was pulled from its original packaging to commemorate the second annual Daddy's Tiny Cars Race, which took place in my living room this past Friday. The tiny blimp didn't actually look fly above the race, but covered the event in a symbolic, Hot Wheelsy kind of pretend way. I could feel the presence of the imaginary film crew.

Participation increased this year to: myself; my kids: Racer A, Racer Z, and Baby G; my wife Rochelle; Tiny Cars photographer Phil; a friend of Z's, whom we will call the Mysterious Racer M, and my friend Les, who didn't race, but took on the role of track engineer and trouble shooter.

That's a lot of racing, and it felt like the below picture:

... a blur.

I structured this year's race as a single qualifying round and one final placement round. A grid on a clipboard allowed me to track that each racer challenged every other racer one time -- any more and the race would have taken too long and run the risk of pushing three-year-old Baby G into cranky overtime. Cranky overtime is very expensive.

Even as structured, the race spanned a few hours, but enthusiasm was maintained.

Les prepares for a race off between the Mysterious Racer M and
G, who appears to be cheering on the couch. Race is over here, G!

Each adult was permitted a single car, while kids could rotate out three cars so if they had a dud they could try another. This year saw a number of Hot Wheels novelty cars: a Scorpedo scorpion car, Vampyra, a bat/dragon type car, Sand Stinger, a racer all terrain vehicle, and even a 2011 Deora, which, if you don't know is a Hot Wheels classic with a big flat area that holds two surf boards. The removable orange surf boards were lost, but perhaps that was a strategy by G to make it faster.

Car selection is serious business. Make sure you have a doily.

To keep things balanced, I staggered the races so every few times a kid was up -- I didn't want all of one kid's races to be too close together so that he finished early and got bored or raced last and got bored early. There is no room for boredom in a Daddy's Tiny Cars race.

See? No boredom.

Making the event even more lively, the race paired up as a birthday celebration for Phil, so there was plenty of cake=sugar, kicking in the Nitro burners of Racer A and G.

The qualifying race took the top four onto the ranking round. I had a solid win for first (driving the '67 Camaro from Week 100), a tie-breaker for second resulted in Racer Z taking second and Phil, driving a dramatic red Hot Wheels Ferrari 360 Modena, third. A clerical mix-up left some doubt between the final qualifying spot being either Racer A or Rochelle, but ultimately A went on to the finals (wink, wink).

The finals, however, saw everything flipped, and in a surprise comeback from almost not even qualifying, Racer A took the blue ribbon!

Racer A and blue ribbon. Notice me and my clipboard.
A clipboard signifies proves I'm official.

I came in second, not too shabby considering the trouncing I took last year. In third was Racer Z, and in an unexpected upset, Phil, an early favorite to win, took Runner Up position, to be robbed of his chance at taking home a blue paper ribbon and instead taking home the less coveted green paper ribbon.

Racer Z and his third place ribbon. Pay attention to the ribbon,
not my hat.

Other awards besides the winner's circle were also presented, such as:

Youngest Racer:

Coolest Racer:

                                          And even a Super Slo-Mo award:

Other awards were given for :

Best Sport: Racer A

Happiest Racer: G

Biggest Crash: Racer Z

Interestingly, Racer A scored most of his wins not with a new, out of the package car, but with the below 1995 Hot Wheels Power Rocket, pulled from a giant toy box pile of Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars and of unknown origin. If you have kids with piles of cars, you'll understand. Cars just seem to show up there from who knows where.

The race was a success, and everyone had a great time. I've learned to catalog the participating cars and get a picture prior to the race, as some of the cars from this year have since returned to the car pile. We may never truly know all the models of cars that raced in 2012, but that's okay. In addition to excitement, the annual Daddy's Tiny Cars Race also provides mystery.

Additionally, track engineer Les and I are working on plans for an improved track. While I might like to see a four- or more lane track next year, I'm not sure about the logistics of scoring. Also, it would put more pressure on paying attention to the finish line, but with four tracks, we could squeeze in a lot more races! We'll see. Mattel, are you interested in a sponsorship?

Thanks to everyone not only present at the races but absent and virtual for supporting this blog diary into its third year. You all deserve a paper ribbon and a place on my clipboard.

Photo of my tiny Goodyear blimp provided by Phil Pekarcik, seen above with his green ribbon.

Week 104: 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood

Week 104, two baskets of 52 weeks, a two-year economy pack of tiny car blogging.

Bring out the fancy dinnerware, or at least the fancy cars -- I've rolled out the above beauty in turquoise, part of the re-releases that Matchbox does of the Lesney productions. The above car came in a box, y'all, like a gourmet chocolate, and I'm enjoying its tasty lines, because this is the end of two years of tiny car blogging.

I'm taking the day off from blogging about anything substantial on this blog -- care to join me? Go ahead, let the phone ring, put your feet up on your desk, tell the kids to heat up a Hot Pocket, and if they're thirsty, tell them they know where the sink is, and go play with your cars.

I'll see everyone next week for the exciting results of the Second Annual Daddy's Tiny Cars race.

--------------

Photo courtesy of Phil Pekarcik, who believes his Hot Wheels will take the trophy in the upcoming race. We shall see. We also shall see if there will actually be a trophy.

Week 103: Matchbox Superfast Clipper

Is this vintage Hot Wheels about adventure or what? Two-seater, flip-top, crazy color, futuristic sleekness, this old Matchbox emerges from under its rock to meet and conquer any thrills it meets.

I went to Cedar Point the other day, home of the world's greatest roller coasters such as the Dragster, Millennium Force and Magnum. Too bad I can't tie in this week's tiny car to my real life.

My oldest son, Spencer, turned 23 and for his birthday invited me and Racer Z to go with him for a final summer visit to the park. Spencer is a major coaster fan.

I was nervous, but sadly not about the fear factor of the rides. I worried about getting nauseated (I have developed an inner ear problem that now will not allow me to ride spinny rides without getting dangerously sick), about having a heart attack and subsequently leaving my son with a guilt trip, and about disappointing everyone. At the core was the worry that going to an amusement park would drive home I was getting older.

See, I once loved roller coasters. I loved them, and now was unable to ride many of them. The last time I had ridden a coaster had been with my oldest son many years ago. I had become very, very ill.

So here I was, with my oldest son, his girlfriend, and 12-yr-old Racer Z, in the park, looking at the Dragster, an amazing feat of engineering that hydraulically shoots a car along a track attaining a speed of 120 mph in less than 4 seconds and then 420 feet up a vertical climb. Like an old Chevelle, it was beautiful.

My son's girlfriend Alex doesn't like coasters, and my other son felt he wasn't ready for this one, so that left me. My first coaster in more than seven years, and one I was having a difficult getting my mind around.

Due to mechanical problems, the ride shut down for awhile, and the short version is Spencer and I hit the entrance right when they began allowing people back on the ride, so missed the huge lines.

Z asked if I was scared. "No, man. It's just a roller coaster." I felt myself remembering the long forgotten rules and codes of roller coaster riding.

I conquered the Dragster, and while only a 17 second ride, one of the coolest rides I've ever experienced. I went on to ride the Magnum, but it was in line for the Millenium Force that I had a transcendent experience.

"You ever ride this one before?" asked the guy in front of me, probably about my son's age and obviously a coaster fan.

"No, not this one yet," I said.

"Oh, it's awesome, and it's so smooth, different than other coasters."

Along with Spencer, we went on to talk about coasters, what we liked, what we didn't, what was scary, and so on. Age, experience, jobs, all went away, and it was like it should be -- dudes talking about coasters. At that moment I was happy. I was back.

Z, meanwhile, had his own doubts to wrestle, but direct ones of THAT THING IS WAY TOO TALL!!! I'M NOT GETTING ON THAT!!

Beyond the silliness of coasters, I understood the essence of fear, and I thought of my own  life and all the situations I have, and will yet, face, those in which fear stopped me, and those in which it hadn't. My son had ridden a number of rides, but his fear had stopped him from riding others he desperately wanted to try. I understood but didn't know how to help.

Toward the end of the night, Spencer was preparing to ride his favorite coaster at the park, a beast of a coaster called the Raptor, and one I can't ride because of the curves.He had previously ridden a coaster called the Mantis, and at the last minute Z had let fear get the best of him and had bailed. Now, although he said he would ride this one, looking up at the ride, fear was again ruling him.

"I can't," he said. "I want to, but I can't. I'm not ready." Spencer shook his head and went off to ride it by himself.

What could I say? Z was shaken, and disappointed with himself. I understood completely.

"Listen," I said. "I don't care if you ride this coaster or not, but you want to ride it, and one thing I've learned is that if you let fear stop you from doing something you know you can do, you probably will regret it and think about it for a long time. A coaster is a safe way of pushing past fear. A million people ride these things, and at the end of the day it's only fear. I'm not trying to push you to ride it, but I have this feeling that you need to show yourself you can do it and you'll feel really good about yourself if you do."

 It was the best I could do, but I guess it wasn't enough. We all went to find someplace to sit.

I sat at a picnic table with Alex, and Z sat at a table behind us. Z was quiet, and Alex and I chatted about a variety of things. It was now dark, and the park was lit up like a LED lollipop.

Suddenly, my son jumped up, dramatically slapped his glasses in my hand, and ran toward the entrance to the Raptor, which by this point had no lines. I was shocked, but didn't stop him.

My son was able to find Spencer, and together they rode the Raptor.

Alex and I waited, and we saw Spencer and Z emerging from the exit through the shadows, but I couldn't tell how the ride had went.

"I DID IT!!" yelled Z. "We're going to ride it again!" Z gave me a hug, and we both knew that this whole thing had been about a lot more than coasters.

For both of us.

Thank you Spencer.



Photo of my vintage Clipper, one of the old Lesney Made in England, models, courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 102: Anglia Panel Truck

This week's Hot Wheels truck has a branded logo for California-based Mooneyes, maker of customization parts for cars and motorcycles. The shop began in the 50s, and perhaps had a humble beginning such as this:

The above sign was made after Racer A begged me to find some cardboard. We had just removed his training wheels for the first time and, since that removal went so swimmingly, he decided we should open a shop. After making the sign, A plopped down on a chair outside our garage and held the sign high in the air like he was at a fundraising carwash, waiting for cars to drive by on the road.

"You know, we don't actually know how to fix bikes, right?" I asked, vaguely afraid that against all odds someone would pull in and ask for us to adjust the disc brake caliper on her new high performance racing bike.

"We don't?" he asked. "Well, what if someone is riding down the road with training wheels and pulls in for us to take them off?"

"They'll be in luck," I said. "We can help them then."

"Perfect," he said, continuing to hold the sign aloft. His arms showed no sign of the sign making them tired.

His confidence was unwavering, but it should have been.

I had previously removed his training wheels for the first time and was taking them to the garage, simultaneously beginning the obligatory bicycle pep talk to my helmeted kindergartner.

"Now don't get discouraged if...." I said to nobody. Racer A had hopped on the bike and ridden off.

I stood up, amazed. No pushing the bike from behind, no fatherly instruction, no comforting an  insecure pre-schooler psyche. Nope, my son had simply pedaled away without fanfare.

"What...." I began. "How did you do that?" I asked as he slid to a stop. "I didn't know you could...."

He was beaming. "DAD!! You were right! It is fun to ride without training wheels!" He pushed off and rode back to me, circling around and back down the drive again.

I was incredulous.

But at least I was right. It is fun riding without training wheels. Now back to work  in case someone pedals up my drive. Those training wheels aren't going to take themselves off.


Picture of Hot Wheels sloppily taken by myself. Look forward to the usual high-quality images from Phil Pekarcik down the road.

Week 101: Yogi Bear 1964 GMC Panel

Photo courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

I've put the photo credit at the beginning, because I've become lost in voices, and by the end I suspect you will be, too, so I want to give props to Phil in case you never reach the end.

Here's my story:

Doing research for this GMC with Yogi Bear on the side, I Googled Hanna-Barbera, the company responsible for that Honeymooners-style bear and his  sidekick BooBoo. Oh man -- there's a place to get lost in hotlink heaven.

Clicking on Daws Butler, voice of Yogi, I was immediately  pulled into other voices Butler did (oh yeah, I remember that! Oh, right!! I remember that one!). The list was prolific - Huckleberry Hound, Elroy Jetson, Bingo of the Banana Splits, breakfast cereal characters Capt'n Crunch and Quisp, and Scooby-Dum of Scooby-Doo.

Hmm -- Scooby-Dum. I don't remember him, but look, Scooby-Dum is hotlinked. Click.

And it began. I was clicking on who did the voice of this character or that character, and the more I clicked the more it seemed cartoon voices were more connected to everything than even Kevin Bacon. At one point I ended up on a page about Paul Frees, the voice of  the Pillsbury Doughboy and the Burgermeister Meisterberger in Santa Claus is Coming to Town, who also sang "Darktown Strutter's Ball" for one of my favorite horror camp movies The Abominable Dr. Phibes, with Vincent Price, which of course brought me right back to Scooby-Doo, as Price did the voice of Vincent Van Ghoul in The Thirteen Ghosts of Scooby-Doo.

The web pages were filled with links to click, different colored text daring me to enter, and like eating a bag of Fritos late at night (Frito Bandito was voiced by Mel Blanc), I just kept gobbling down one more click, one more crunchy bit of trivia.

That was five days ago. I haven't slept, showered or had anything to eat since I began, but it's worth it.

Okay, I'm kidding, but it is addictive and fascinating.

Yes, I know I was supposed to blog about the kids and family and tie it all into Yogi Bear -- umm, yeah, I've been watching cartoons with my kids lately.

The end.

Now back to clicking.

No way! The voice of Big Dog in 2 Stupid Dogs is that guy from Everyone Loves Ramond?
----------------------------------

Think you can resist? Okay, Boo Boo, let's see what you got. I dare you.

Click here and become lost

Week 100: 1967 Camaro

Astounding -- 100 Tiny Cars, already, The kids have grown 100 Tiny Cars larger, and I've grown 100 Tiny Cars older, and perhaps 100 Tiny Cars wiser.

Hitting Week 100 means something else: preparation for the Second Annual Daddy's Tiny Cars Race, but before I get to that, let me mention this week's feature car.

If you have nothing better to do than memorize my blogs, you may remember another 1967 Camaro back in June 2011. This time the duplication is not an oversight, however. I've had the above gem squirreled away and chose the dramatic Week 100 for the unveiling.

Green tinted windows, articulated hood, diabolical black green color, this 1967 Hot Wheels Camaro is sizzling, and while I loved the orange paint job back in Week 42, these colors make this car one of my all-time favorite looking Hot Wheels ever, even if it isn't aqua. This is a mean looking car, mean enough for racing ... do you see where I'm going with this?

Back on the First Tiny Cars race (results reported in Week 53), I was soundly whipped by my kids, with my selected Hot Wheels 1961 GTO Wagon being taken apart on the track, I suspect because of its weight. Not this year -- those kids are going down, and I'm hoping the intimidation factor of my Camaro may play a part. For some reason, the kids just didn't fear a yellow station wagon.

Like last year, I will select one tiny car to represent Daddy, and will allow each of my three kids to select three cars. I'm hoping I can get my 20-something son out here also, and rumor has it that Phil the photographer may also be racing. What the heck -- I'll allow them each three cars, also if the show up, and will even supply cars to race if they have none -- I'll let Spencer have the station wagon and one of my old cars with three wheels. There is even a chance that my wife may race, but that remains to be seen.

Now granted, the competition may be tougher now that Baby G is three years old. That one year has made a huge difference in the development of his competitive spirit, possibly through his disciplined training on Wii Sports Resort with his brothers. No matter, I'll be ready.

I'll be training until the big race, and while my training will largely be mental, I plan on being as mental as can be. These kids don't stand a chance.

Thanks for the excellent car photo from Phil Pekarcik. If you're wondering, the guy under the car isn't fixing a problem, he's souping, tuning and otherwise preparing for the big day.

                                       

Week 99: Land Rover Safari

The awesome little aqua-colored exploration vehicle above is vintage from when Matchbox was made in England by Lesney. This little guy once came in an actual box, which will always be way cooler to me than blister packaging.

Recently I have been watching a lot of old movies, and I've been reflecting on cinema images that once looked cool, but like Matchbox boxes, have gone away.

Here are my top picks.

Dark rooms. The anticipation of what would be revealed in the developer tray is a coolness that is irreplaceable. Even more, though, was the look of the darkroom, with its moody red lighting often creating a  melancholy loneliness. Digital photography can lead to great intrigue in movies, but not really coolness. Coolness takes time, and dim lighting doesn't hurt, either.

Smoking. I'm against smoking. That said, on screen it looked cool, particularly in black and white, and never smelled bad -- in other words, it was unconnected to the actual nastiness of the habit. I especially miss the style imparted when a gentleman lit a lady's cigarette, or, in some cases, visa versa. I also miss the emotions, from coyness to disdain, communicated in the way a cigarette case clicked open and shut. Those omnipresent images rightfully disappeared for the betterment of society, but even the Pink Panther and Audrey Hepburn smoked back then, and they both looked good doing it.

Hats. I miss the images of most hats, especially fedoras, although I doubt I will ever wistfully yearn for images of  baseball caps turned backwards.

Typewriters. Writing always looked cooler when done on a typewriter, but a lot of that coolness was the sound. Typewriters would not have seemed so cool if they had gone chirp chirp chirp instead of click click click. Speaking of sound, I also miss that choppy, metallic robot voice that robots were once supposed to use. Now that machines can mimic real voices, how will kids pretend to be a robot?

Answering machines. A newer lost image of coolness, technology has largely rendered answering machines obsolete, so you don't get the same drama of coming home to a flashing red message button hinting doom, or a not-flashing red button, hinting heartbreak.

Phone booths. Like cigarette cases, the metallic click of a coin into a pay phone could take on desperation, sorrow, or emotional turnaround. Pay phones still exist, but are few and far between with nowhere near enough booths to allow a changing area for superheros or a place to hide when The Birds attack. For all their usefulness, cell phones may have single-handedly done the most damage to motion picture cool, although perhaps years from now when people communicate with implanted chips in their skulls someone will be reminiscing about how cool Jason Bourne looked flipping open a cell phone.

Analog dials. Whether on a radio, dashboard, or futuristic console, a digital light display will never have that same coolness, and, in some sci-fi movie instances, the same silliness.



These images are about a fantasy cool -- I never once actually missed typing on a typewriter (and have even more emphatically not missed correction fluid) or eating in a smoke-filled restaurant anymore than I have ever felt sad that the world was full of colors instead of only shades of black, white and gray.

Even so, watch Robert Mitchum in Out of the Past and tell me you can top that for cool.


Cool photo courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Week 98: 1968 BMW 2002

1968, the year that saw this week's featured BMW, was the year of some of my favorite movies, and while I was too young to see them first run, they were hitting television by the time I was old enough to watch them. 


These movies included the moody, sultry and sexy The Thomas Crowne Affair (I still love that Windmills of Your Mind song) and Bullitt, horror classics The Night of the Living Dead and Rosemary's Baby, sci-fi classics 2001: A Space Odyssey and Planet of the Apes, family films Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and The Shakiest Gun in the West (with Don Knotts), and Clint Eastwood in Hang 'Em High, which stands in a category all its own. There were other good, or at least of note, movies from 1968, also.


I don't watch many movies with my kids as I've been unable to tolerate most animated kids movies lately, and not because they are necessarily bad, but because they have begun to irritate me something fierce, to the point of causing me to swear under my breath and then come up with something even mildly plausible I said instead of the $@#*@! I actually muttered. I don't know if it's the over-abundance of sarcastic animals or the obligatory references to pop culture (why would a prehistoric animal do the cell phone hand gesture for "call me?" $@#*@!) or if it's the constant usage of Indian and other accents for humor (again, always used by talking animals), but I just can't watch these movies anymore. 


I'm not selfish or anything, and I will deal with a movie occasionally as part of parental duty -- that's the same duty experienced by any adult who ever freely sat through any of the Free Willy or Beethoven series -- but it's rare to enjoy the experience.


That's why yesterday was so amazing. We decided to watch a VCR tape (that's this mysterious relic from the past - a plastic case with magic picture tape inside) of the Little Rascals that someone had given  to us. The experience was remarkable -- all of us, even three-year-old G, laughed loudly, and my older son even replayed parts over two, three and four times.


Listen, I'm not about taking an old guy stance that claims there isn't anything good on TV or the movies or that kids should watch real humor like when I was a kid. I have no desire to push anything from my past on my kids, and actually hope they never find out I was a fan of Ponch and the rest of the regulars on CHiPs.  I'm just thrilled when something, anything connects with all of us, and connects in a real way, not in an I'm-pretending-for-their-sake way. That happened with Spanky, Darla and Alfalfa yesterday. Baby G actually loudly snorted a chortle, a big deal for him as he's one  for simply giving a subtle smile out of one side of his mouth. 


If there is a way to send my thanks backwards through time to Hal Roach and all the child actors in Our Gang, let it happen now. Like most parents, having a good, sincere laugh at a movie or TV show that doesn't generate an eye roll, sigh or just blank stare from someone is a miraculous event, and one worth celebrating.

If you haven't had that experience in a while, why not give the Little Rascals a try?

Week 97: 1962 Mustang Concept Car

"There's one of those cars, what do you call them, oh, I know, it, what is it, you know with the horse on it -- what two cars have horses again?"

"A Ford Mustang and a Ferrari."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, a Ferrari and a Mustang. Which one has the horse kind of standing up, going e-e-e-e-eh, e-e-e-e-eh, with its legs kicking up in the air?"

"That's the Ferrari."

"Right. I thought so. I thought that was what it is. I saw a Mustang, then, with the horse that is running."

"Yes, you're right. That was a Mustang."

"That's a super cool car."

"Yes it is."

"Hey, wouldn't it be cool if we had a Mustang and we could drive it?"

"That would be cool."

"Or a Ferrari!"

"That would also be cool."

"Maybe someday we can have a Mustang and a Ferrari."

"Maybe."

"LOOK! LOOK!! ANOTHER MUSTANG!! A BLACK ONE!!"

"You're right. That's the second Mustang we've seen."

"I could drive that one and you could drive the other Mustang."

"We would go fast."

"Super fast."

"Which is better, a Ferrari or a Mustang?"

"A Ferrari is more expensive, but I think I'd rather drive a Mustang."

"Yes. Me too. Because they look just cool, don't you think?"

"I do."

"Me too. We would look pretty good driving in a Mustang."

"Yes, we would."

I looked in the rear view mirror and saw my five-year-old son, serene and content, with the faintest sign of a smile.

There was no need to say more.

We drove in silence until we passed our next Mustang.

Week 96: Circle Tracker

This week's Tiny Car, Hot Wheels' Circle Tracker, is representative of a whole bunch of Daddy elements.

First and foremost, this little diecast is aqua, and as regular readers know, aqua makes me stupid happy.

Second, the car is from the HW Video Game Heroes collection. Even though I have never been good at video games, not even during my youth playing Centipede at the Howard Johnson's near the turnpike or Frogger and Galaga at the bowling alley (on an aside, I can't believe how much coffee and how many doughnuts I used to consume back then -- I'm fairly certain the doughnut dough actually patched up holes that must have been burnt through my stomach from drinking that midnight  jitter juice), video games are nonetheless a major creator of discussion, strife, debate, disagreement and eardrum shattering shrieks (from three-year-old G, not my wife). I might go so far as to say that when I allow my three-year-old to play the Wii, I finally become a Video Game Hero ... with stars in my eyes.


He loves playing the Wii, and regardless of how many restrictions I put on gameplay, he asks if he can play about once every hour, and those request feel like they are around the clock. *SnOre Snort can I play Wii? Zzzzz*.

G has been asking to play Wii so much that now he sometimes slips it into other things he says with barely a change in vocal inflection, so that the request simply flows as one run-on sentence. "Can I have a gwass of milk hey can I play Wii?" "Was that thunder outside can I play Wii?" "Are lobsters dangerous can I play Wii?" No, for real.

I'm selective about the games I allow my kids to play, much more conservative than many other parents I hear about, but I have no apologies. I was horrified when I heard my five-year-old insist that kids on his preschool bus play Black Ops, Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto, and while I'm sure some of the kids were lying, I'm also sure some of them were not. Call me gramps, but no five-year-old should be playing a rated M game, no matter how fun it might sound to engage in acts of mega violence and depravity. Plenty of time for that when they get older.

No, the games in rotation for my youngest two are Just Dance, Just Dance II, Wii Sports Resort, JumpStart Pet Rescue, and G's favorite, Wipe Out, based on the TV show.

Watching him play Wipe Out is way more fun than the game. It's like being in a studio audience. He jumps, shouts, talks back to the television (you're not getting me, no, no way, I'll show you!), laughs, jumps some more, and becomes completely immersed in the game. He's become quite good, also, although sometimes he'll just have a character jump into the water over and over, laughing more and more each time.

When I'm watching him play, even I forget sometimes that I need to have him do some other type of more imaginative play or constructive work. I suspect watching a toddler make a contestant jump into the water is more heart warming than watching him blow off somebody's head with a bazooka, but I also suspect the parents letting their preschoolers blow off people's heads with bazookas are not watching their kids play at all.

Enough preaching.

But seriously, Black Ops?

This blog entry has already become too lengthy, so I won't even touch on the Circle Tracker tie-in except to say I've been tracking my kids doing the same things over and over this week -- circle tracking.

As for the car's double zero number, I could say it relates to my current job search, but let's just say it means  time is up for this entry.

Either that or it means two big bug eyes looking right at you. You pick.


Hot Wheels photo was shot by myself but the checkerboard background concept was the idea of Racer Z.

Week 95: 1969 Karmann Ghia Convertible

Racer A and I saw a Karmann Ghia a few weeks ago -- I remember because he asked what it was and now that I have told him, he'll squirrel away that acorn of information.


His brain collects trivia. I found an old postcard for my vintage shop the other day, a beauty of a colorized linen card.  As I was looking at it he asked what it was. "This is a vintage card of the Brooklyn Bridge."


"Oh. In New York City?" he asked.


It wasn't until later that it occurred to me the location of the Brooklyn Bridge might not be common knowledge to a pre-schooler outside of New York City, and trust me, Ohio is very much outside of New York City.


Such trivia, however is not evenly distributed or outwardly logical, and the danger to a dad is to assume he knows ... well, anything, really.  His world view is like a complex outline drawing, as in a coloring book, with specific parts of the picture, the shell of a turtle or the pom pom on a hat, meticulously colored, with other, larger areas still white.


What I mean is he might surprise me by remembering what a Venetian blind is or by understanding the electoral college (just kidding -- even he doesn't understand the electoral college), yet I'm having a difficult time getting him to accept that the level of darkness outside does not directly link to time and that bedtime is still bedtime even if it is light outside, and that we can eat lunch instead of dinner even if the sky is dark and black from a storm.  This might be a bad example, however, because you can't really color "time" but only its correlations to our senses, which, now that I think about it, he is doing. Maybe my coloring book analogy is better than I thought. Or maybe he's just trying to stay up later, which is probably more likely.

Those odd bits of trivia, however, are fun, and if I don't know how he came across many items of knowledge, I relish the unexpectedly random questions that I can identify as trivia gathering. What is a 'public' park?"  "Does a squirrel eat mint?" "What does the little 'k' mean on the cereal box?" "What is a 'sinus'?" "Why are most school buses yellow but  buses adults ride different colors?" 


I probably can only truthfully answer less than 50% of his questions, but the weirder the more enjoyable, and when I don't know an answer, I often try to find out the answer and get back to him, and I find that experience remarkably satisfying.


By the way: the little 'k' stands for "kosher," and gardeners say squirrels don't like mint.