Another Brazilian beauty out of reach. Alas, if only I was an international man of mystery. I could hop on a plane to Rio, smack down some cash and have this beauty crated for the US in hours.

Look at this fine relic from the age of big bad American steel. This V-8 endowed beast, a recent addition to my menagerie of wayward automobiles, was a gift from a good friend. Now I can authentically play one-baker-eleven. Anybody got a '73 Mustang Mach I.

It's been more than a month since I last posted to this blog. It would elate me to report that I have squandered the last thirty days on a Hunter Thompsonesque, cross-country bender or that I've been cloistered in the garage constructing an all-wheel-drive twin-turbo V12 VW Dasher. Alas, I have done neither. Truth be known, the last month has been a blur of child-herding, domestic insanity. See, my spouse has been working more, lots more, which leaves me in charge of the home front. Please stop laughing. Needless to say, between slinging huggies for the baby and arranging playdates for the over-involved-eight-year-old, I haven't had a lot of time to tinker in the garage or attend to this blog. Sorry. On the positive side, I bet I could pass a junior-high Home-Economics class without studying.

Oh, hey, here's a picture of my '90 Jetta in some snow. Check out the retro Nordman snow tires. I bought them used, two-years ago for $100 for the whole set and they're still rolling strong.

About this time of year, when the shadows get long and the nights are chill, there can be felt a certain sinister presence in the wood. For this is the season in which the latent spirits of the dead dance in the realm of the living. So beware. . .

. . . of those stone steps hewn from the living rock, for they may no longer lead home and deliberate . . .

. . . long before going down that dark path for the way may be blocked by something more untoward than a fallen tree and. . .

. . . never, ever, tarry where monuments mark the demise of the great beasts that have haunted man's past and above all. . .

. . . do not refuge in the eternal trees for during All Hallow's Eve they are wrought with the most sinister of intentions. . .

. . . heed these warnings and perhaps you may avoid the dark demise awaiting the foolhardy.

Nothing makes me feel as snug as a fresh set of ball joints, control arms and store-bought bushings. This ratrod is shaping up, but the work is far from done. As soon as I get the bread, I'll swap out the springs and struts and finish with a home-cooked alignment. Then, and only then, will I be ready to mount my new set of performance radials. Don't worry about the rusty brake rotors. They'll clean up once the car's back on the road.

Earlier this year a sheet-metal carcinoma infected the driver's-side fender of the beloved family truckster. Imprudently, I watched this tumor slowly grow through the spring and summer. Had I acted sooner, I may have been able to halt the growth at a more manageable stage. Now, this engorged mass of oxidized metal-rot is threatening to metastasize.

Fortunately, I can replace the fender with one that I just purchased from Volkswagen/Audi of America. And, thanks to Ron (my paint-gun wielding friend), the color will be a perfect match.

No need for a biopsy here. The obvious cause of this metal rot was the lack of paint on the inside of the fender - looks like Franz der Automaler was chugging the ole Rothaus. This, coupled with the moister-trapping, foam support mounted above the driver's wheel well lead to some nasty decay. To avoid a resurgence of this problem, I removed the foam and Ron painted the back of the new fender. P.S. Better photos to come.

The surgery was a success AND the patient lived. Now that I have an inflated sense of self, I think I'll grab a drill and welder and try my hand at home dentistry. Now, where's Johnny C. I think he needs to look more like everyone's favorite, metal-mouthed Bond henchman: Jaws.

'93 Puma AM-4 for sale...

…but, so far away. If only I had an inside contact at the DOT to "assist" with the importation of this fine, Brazilian sports car. The asking price is R$ 30,000 which is about 15,500 in US green backs. That seems a bit steep, considering that a red one of comparable condition just swapped owners in the US for about $7 grand. The Puma AM-4 is, however, a rare car, so rare that very few have any real knowledge of it. This could account for price variations. In the end, a car such as this is worth what ever the buyer is willing to pay. And to me, just the "wow" factor that this car would invoke at any Volkswagen gathering across the country is worth the asking price.
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The Puma AM-4’s curvaceous Brazilian body conceals underpinning of a more Teutonic origin. This hot little two-seater's rear-mounted engine is nothing other than the ubiquitous 1.8 liter, in-line four common to an immense host of front-wheel-driven, econo-minded Volkswagens. Indeed, all of the Puma’s greasy bits are VW parts. This plebeian heritage does not at all diminish the charm or potency of this roadster. Instead - just like the early Gmund Porsches(which were also constructed of Volkswagen mechanicals) - the AM-4's design is a study in how the re-purposing of coarsely mass-produced components can yield an effective and competent sports car.
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Unfortunately, importing such a foreign exotic is no simple process. Even with gads of cash and an endless list of high-powered friends, navigating DOT regulations can be as mystifying as tracking down electrical gremlins in a thirty-year-old VW Beetle. Just ask Bill Gates about his experiences importing a Porsche 959. And so, like a crude, beer-swilling frat boy with a crush on the conservative, career-minded valedictorian, I yearn for what is hopelessly unobtainable. Alas.

It's nice to go driving, to take the wheel and pick the way, to push into the night beyond the decent hours, and to pass so many dimmed houses where the respected and gainfully employed sleep, shackled to dreams of inflated salaries and plush vacations.

It's good to be out of bounds, on the lam and in charge of your own lot. And, it is a privileged - afforded only the unbound - to choose to stop, look up and see the eternal stars and to know that all of life is a sham.

Sometimes, when it’s very late, Jack and I go for drives. We cruise up and down the main streets of our little town and we ride out into the country, past cottages and farms. Hardly a soul is awake, but where lights are on, they are the pallid, flickering type cast off by televisions. Years ago, when sets were smaller, the lights were faint and I could only guess what people were watching. But televisions have grown and now I can watch from the road, catching a brief glimpse as I pass only to get the next bit from the next window in the next house. If I wanted to, I could pull up to the curb, jawing popcorn, and watch the show on the wall-sized screen like I was at an old-time, drive-in theatre - the “viewers at home,” with their eyes transfixed to the shimmering electronic fire, would never know I was there.

But, I can never look for long, for all the programs on all 500 channels sing out the same song and I don‘t want to be consumed by the burning box‘s call. The message is, “your not happy because you’re not as thin, wealthy or endowed like us here in the box.” And the commercials are merely concentrated re-enforcing bits where the tele-vise pumps out its sludge in 60-second intervals instead of 30-minute blocks “Buy this pill and you’ll get thinner, have a boner and win millions, it works because I used it and now I’m on TV with my new trophy wife and her puppy. By the way, side effects can include anal leakage, delayed cognition and sudden death.” That is the one-two punch of the magic, burning box, the glimmering tele-eye that the masses warship, all of them facing it like Mecca, receiving the nightly communion of the church of capitalism.

Johnson,VT VW Car Show

Another weekend, another car show. This one is both new and old. Years ago, the Johnson show was an event that I attended with certain regularity. And then, it stopped and I cried. But now, it's back. Check out the pics.