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 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.

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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.