Chances are good if you're reading this, that you may share some of the same ideas I have when it comes to the automobile.  That in many cases, they all have a face - that they all have their own personality/idiosyncracies - and in all cases, their own story.  Likewise, if you're anything at all like me, a time often comes when you find "the one" - and you fret and worry that it will somehow slip through your hands into the lap of another if you don't act immediately to your impulse.  Such is the case with that tuxedo black on black basketcase in the photo above.  

If you've read any of my other drivel on this mess of a website, you have correctly guessed that I love cars - especially ones that nobody really wants any longer.  There is just something about a personal connection made with a car that you're able to bring back to life all on your own and largely based on poor purchasing decisions.  I'm a sledge hammer mechanic; that is, I sort of run things by the seat of my impatient pants.  It is often that I have to ask really dumb questions on forums where dudes chase expert status - measuring their effectiveness by the number count of how many times they've posted.  It's a crap shoot - you may either get a helpful hand, or someone who gets their jollies off of snarky one liners to let idiots like me know what I already know - that I asked a stupid question.  Anyhow - 

My infatuation with the 66 Impala was immediate.  I found it by complete fluke when messing around with Facebook Marketplace, which by the way, is infinitely better than ebay and craigslist.  Backstory - and to be brief - I'm a bonafide Impala man.  My love for the automobile started with my fondness of a 66 Impala when I was literally four years old, when my parents were looking at a dealership for a new car in 1972.  In the back row, backed into the treeline was one; and for a fairly new car at the time, it's appearance was battered and left for dead as someone's trade in.  It was red, devoid of hubcaps - and to me, beautiful; for years my family would snicker at my love for the "red chev" as I named it.  I could not understand why no one liked it - it seemed to me, as a small child, that it looked sad nobody wanted it, much like my favorite bedtime story book and record, The Speedy Little Taxi.  From that day on, my love for the battered and neglected automobile was apparently born - and while I have owned and still own several Impala's, my pursuit for the perfectly neglected 66 Impala began.  There have been many many times that I was on the brink of 66 ownership, but - I never felt that feeling one gets when they find that special one; this was all about to change.  

When I found this black one, I was stunned - and my 'lets make a bad purchasing decision" meter was fully engaged.  It looked terrible, even by my low standards.  Neglected.  Abandoned.  It was sitting atop a flat bed trailer, it's bondoed rear quarters hanging on by a fiberglass thread, with a crazy price tag on it of $2400 - reduced from $2730.  Dang it!  I immediately emailed the seller if he would consider a trade for my 58 Plymouth Belvedere 4 door - in much better shape than the Impala, to which he expressed interest.  It was clear the seller - who was a really great guy btw, had likely obtained the Impala for cheap, but after determining it was in a condition he didn't want to bother with, was looking to score a little extra cash from an immediate sale.  I made arrangements to check it out, which was 320 miles away down on the Jersey Shore.  The purpose of my wanting to see it was made under the guise of my need to check it's frame and other maladies that the car may have; however, none of that mattered to me.  The real reason I wanted to see it, was because I just wanted to see it.  It could have been held together by elmers glue and paper mache - and if the car was only good to sit in and pretend drive, I still wanted it.  

When I found the home - the Impala was still aboard the flatbed it had been on the day the seller had obtained it, and looked amazing.  The seller was a good guy and pretty much outlined what I had already assumed - that he didn't care at all about the car - that is....where it came from or where it would be going, which are all the things I find infinitely intriguing.  He explained he had several calls about it, but in all cases, the callers only wanted the 327 and 3 speed out of it.  He told me he would tell them that was fine if you just want the engine and transmission, just come with $2400 and take it along with the car. 

So.....nobody came. 

Perfect.  

But then - he said something very nonchalantly when I pressed him for more about the car's story, containing my enthusiasm and expressing my question in a way that wouldn't reveal my inner psycho.  He told me he had gotten it from the original owner.  WHAT?!   He told me his brother had bought a Pontiac Grand Am off a guy named Larry in North Arlington, NJ near Queen of Peace Church, which is the area they had grown up.  He said when they went to get the Pontiac, they saw the Impala in the driveway in back of the house, hidden from street view (and had only been moved out of the garage recently).  Inquiries were made, and Larry decided with his age (75) that he would sell the car - in hopes it would have a good home.  So - that is how he got the car.  To me, there exists an intrinsic value to a one owner vintage car.  Monetarily in many respects - which I don't care about AT ALL, but really on a more personal level.  The fact this car was a true one owner, with the opportunity existing to learn of it's REAL history, rather than the elevated and exaggerated ones a buyer usually gets, meant everything to me.  This Impala was the one.  Absolutely no doubt.  After 44 years of my endless peeking in yards and forests, the universe hath delivered.  

About a week later, I borrowed a friends truck, rented a UHaul trailer, and with a little help from my cousin, winched via come-along the Plymouth onto the trailer.  By 7:00 am the next brisk morning, I was on the road to trade the Plymouth straight up for the Impala.

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On the way home, I was anxious to stop at the nearest rest area to really look at the car, without the unsettling annoyance of a seller thinking I'm all weird.  Now, just prior to my leaving, the seller (excuse me.....MIDDLE MAN) had called and left a message with the original owner, stating that I had obtained the car, was very elated about it, and that I would be calling him at some point.  After leaving him the message, he told me that Larry had been calling him for updates on the Impala, and described him as being very concerned about the Impala's fate.  He also told me he would be pleased to know that a nutcase like me loved the car so much.  So somewhere along the Garden State Parkway, I pulled over into one of those median rest areas and called and spoke with Larry.  I was actually leaving him a message of who I was, when all of a sudden he picked up and said Hello.  I stopped talking and said hello back, to which he replied "Keep talking."  So I continued - and when I was done blathering on, we spoke at great length about the Impala.  We made arrangements to meet in the very near future, where we could meet face to face and learn more about one another.  He expressed great joy that his old car would be going to a good home and would live on.  At the same time, he also expressed some confusion - and explained that he thought the man I got the car from, was going to fix it up.  Things started to make more sense to me then, but I didn't want to get in the middle of that, because it seemed to me that both parties in this situation were good dudes.  I just basically told Larry that it was my assumption that upon further inspection of the Impala, the guy I got it from decided it wasn't worth messing with - and left it at that.  

Fast forward a bit - after some cancellations on my part due to weather, we did eventually meet at the Arlington Diner in North Arlington, NJ on Christmas Eve.  I didn't tell him, but being the perpetual early bird that I am, with time to kill, I decided to cruise the area and did some recon on his home to see where my Impala once lived and plied.  In his backyard is a very large cemetery.  Using google maps, I was able to determine where his home was relative to the cemetery, and found the garage my Impala sat in for 25 years, untouched.  Creepy right?  No, not the cemetery.....me.....stalking.  

​

Anyone still reading this?  Actually, did anyone even start reading this?  Anyhow - I finally met up with Larry.  Here he is - the man responsible for ordering this beautiful 66 Impala - and keeping it around all these years.  It was apropos that I have him pose next to my newer Impala.  
​

 
A terrific guy - and an old hod rodder himself.  He told me everything he could remember about his time with the car.  He said he never did give it a name, and never thought of it as a he or a she, and called it "The Chevy" - but suggested that I call it whatever I like. The only long trip he ever took in the car was a camping trip in the 60's at Angle Pond in New Hampshire and some places in Massachusetts.  He told me ordered the car exactly how he wanted it.  Black on black.  327/4bbl.  He was going to order the 4 speed, but decided on a 3 speed at the suggestion of his then fiance. Factory air conditioning too.  The car has a Hurst floor shifter, and he explained that it originally came with a three on the tree shifter on the column, but that during really cold weather, he couldn't get it out of gear, so he put the floor shifter in.  He said the trailer hitch on it was to pull a 52 Ford drag car he had to a local race track.  He even showed me his first house at 74 Hendel Street in North Arlington where he first took the car home and where he would park it.  He gave me loads of parts and wrote down things of interest that I may like to know, which was immensely appreciated.  He told me the car never let him down, and that it would always warn him first of any impending issues, except with his wife - and that the car would routinely let her down.  When I asked him how she felt about selling the car, he told me he didn't ask her, but that as the car initially went down the street on the trailer, her only comment was "That car always hated me" - then turned, and went back in the house. He told me he never wanted to sell the car, but surmised that with age - 75, comes a time to let go of things, and knowing that he would never get around to getting it back on the road, that it was more important to him to have it go to a good home.  Plus, he didn't want his wife, Christine, to have to worry about it if that great big Tarrytown in the sky called.  He told me he couldn't sleep for a few days after the car went down the road, but was thrilled I had such an interest in it.  I assured him I had an open garage door policy for him - anytime he wanted to see it, touch it, drive it (when it gets to that point) - to feel free.  

The car has been parked since 1993 (Inspection sticker still on the windshield).  He said it ran fine when he parked it, but it was just at a point where the car was just older and wasn't used much.  So, that was it.  In the garage it went.  At the time, it was just an old rusty car - no different than if someone today was to park a 1993 Chevy Caprice off to the side.

The following are some more pics of the car on our way home.  When I got it home, the angle in my driveway is such that to just free roll a 4,000 pound car off all by myself was risky.  I wanted it in the garage - so a good friend of mine, Mike Kollman at Hillside Auto - who is used to my shenanigans with cars, hauled it from his garage to mine for free.  Mike and his wife have always treated me so well when it comes to this stuff.  I asked Mike if he liked the car; his response: Nope.  

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Photo: ​http://inspirebyaction.org/

​Photo: http://www.godominicanrepublic.com/destinations/punta-cana/

I like this movie. It's true you know - like Queen Latifah, there are people that really have always wanted to drive a yellow NYC Taxi.  I'm one of them - ever since I was a kid.  

While I imagine not a lot of people buy this calendar for eye candy - it's purpose is to be playful.  If you think a picture of a naked man in the back of a yellow taxi is gross, well, put him in a black car, and we now have a craigslist personals ad.  

After taking a break for about an hour, watching the zombies urinate in doorways, hooting and hollering at everyone - I decided to brave the streets again.  At that point, I had made approximately 18 fares or so, and went way beyond the breaking even point of my lease; I was in the black.  I was still feeling less than confident about the lower streets, but eh....google maps is a huge help.  Of course, the TLC does not allow the use of hand held electronics when driving, but you can while stopped, to at least give you an IDEA where you're going.  For instant, at one point I was way uptown at the upper crust of Harlem at 148th Street and Broadway.  A group of young people got in and wanted to go to Ludlow Street.  Yeah, like any everyday average New Yorker knows right where THAT is.  Got to check google.  Honestly don't know how drivers did this job before these electronic maps.  Wow.  But of course 'New Yorkers" - and yes, that includes the boys and girls from everywhere but NYC, are pros and have little to no patience for error.  I had this one older guy with a foreign accent go on a rant about drivers.  I picked him up on South End Blvd., very well dressed and reeked of cologne.  He wanted to go to 14th Street somewhere and says to me out of nowhere when we were almost there, that he appreciated having 'an American driver'. He said he liked my smooth accelerations, and was critical of 'non-Americans' driving performance and their lack of knowledge.  He was very critical of drivers not knowing the geography well enough - comparing NYC cabbies with London cabbies.  I did admit to him that despite my being American and familiar with NYC, that I was pretty challenged with lower streets.  What I didn't tell him, was hey....if I make $100 profit after steering this yellow car around NYC taking crap from drunks for 12 HOURS, I will be lucky - so more training...?...ha, yeah right.  Enjoy your prime rib dinner; I ate a bag of Bugles and a Dr. Pepper.  

At 2:30 I did my last fare.  An extremely intoxicated Mexican man that I picked up somewhere near Prince Street.  I could barely understand his slurred spanish, and he wanted to go to 2nd Avenue and 103rd Street, which is East or Spanish Harlem - 'El Barrio'.  Finally, an address I can deal with.  So it was a nice cruise up Third Avenue, a turn onto 104th, and then down 2nd to 103.  Once there, the passenger was completely knocked out. Yelling and clapping did nothing.  He was slumped in the back seat, so I had to get out to shake him gently to wake up.  He owed me $18.50, but after fiddle farting around with him, I ended up getting $18 out of him; I just wanted him out of my life at that point, because I had to get this car back to the garage.  After saying adios to him, I kept that roof light off, and steered my amazing yellow horse south on 2nd Avenue for about 2 miles to the Queensboro Bridge, and went to fill the car up.  After filling up, I pulled into the garage lot to park, and started the logoff routine.  When you logoff the system, you will choose 'End of Shift', which then prints your fares, and credit card totals with tips.  Don't forget your hack license that is behind your head that you posted at the start of your shift!  Bring that receipt (and remember, credit card fares over $25 have to have their own separate receipts that are SIGNED!) to the cashier, who then pays you in cash.  And that is it. Your shift is done.  Congratulations, you're a NYC cab driver.  Whether one shift or a thousand - a NYC Taxi Driver - better be proud of it.

And for your viewing pleasure, I made a video driving across the Queensboro Bridge - to the tune of the TV Show "Taxi" theme.  

And that's....a wrap.  

Okay.  So you've made it this far, but here is ONE final thing you'll need to know.  After you've passed your test and gone home, don't expect that license to just magically appear overnight in your mailbox.  It can take 1 to 90 days.  For me, it took five weeks.  Even though you've passed everything you're supposed to do, the TLC then takes all that stuff you've done, and go through it all for approval.  


How will you know it is approved?  


For me, I would check their link everyday for 'active licensees'.  It is updated everyday, and there is no rhyme or reason in terms of your hack license number.  On the day I wrote my name in the search bar, and it appeared....was the day they mailed it out.  That is how you know.  It's frustrating having to wait, especially if you really need the job to work, but hang in there, it will get done.  You can always call too....I did once, and the woman was extremely pleasant and helpful.  Here is the link to check for active licensees:


https://data.cityofnewyork.us/Transportation/Medallion-Drivers-Active/jb3k-j3gp?


But once you get it, you are good to go.  So the pay isn't always going to be great, and people can be challenging - like any profession.  But have pride in being a part of something very iconic, and for the love of all things, treat your customers with respect, have a little smile - and just do your best.  Or, get tickets.  Up to you.  

I know it was perhaps unnecessarily tedious and long, but how I've written this, is how I would have liked to know.  Hope it helps!

After I got it home, I later stopped at the old owner's home and informed him I took his wagon home, to which he was very pleased - and hopeful I may be able to fix it's rust.  He told me he owned it for nearly 20 years, after purchasing it from the son of a woman who had passed on.  The woman lived in Florida and at some point the family drove her car north.  I get a lot of ribbing for it from my friends, but in general, car enthusiasts understand it's charm - or inevitably relate it's close existence to the Wagon Queen Family Truckster.  I personally love it - and it will have a good home with me.  And even if I couldn't have it, I would/will do everything in humanly possible to make sure it falls into the hands of someone who will appreciate it's survivorship and the wholesome memories it invokes in people who grew up in or around the great American Station Wagon. (Even though it was made in Canada).    My intention is to make a video called 'Will It Make It?" - and drive this monster to Florida and back - something Orianna and I did years ago in another high mileage woody wagon of mine.  Here is a video of that - if so inclined.  What's that?  You're not?  Okay.  

Do your part - save a wagon, TODAY!  (And don't forget those taxi's!)

It is I, in the backseat of one of the cleanest NYC Taxi's ever, doing chin ups.  Plus, it's one of the oldest.  And I'm in love with it. 

So there I was, on Park Avenue at the Waldor-Astoria Hotel where I had gone to meet up with my friend, Jacqui, who was visiting from England.  Having a few hours to kill, we decided to head to a store in lower Manhattan, so, a taxi was the most friendly option in which to travel from where we stood.  Being as I am, I went to summon one on my own, without the aid of the doormen and their silly whistles, and got just what I wanted: a beautifully dressed Crown Victoria just dropping some passengers off.  Disregarding the doormen's slippery system of cab procurement, I led the way to the waiting taxi and slid into it's cavernous backseat. 

Traffic was ridiculous through Grand Central Station, and we had moved about a tenth of a mile and the meter was already on $18....*OOF*.  Anyways, I casually talked with the driver, and as I often do, segue'd into my usual interest in his car and asked what the mileage and year of the car was.  I thought for sure he would say 2011, but instead, learned it was a 2008, which means it's not too far away from being exactly the kind of car I love.  Anyhow, what a great guy - I have a lot or respect for NYC Taxi driver's, it's not an easy job.  It is hard work, lots of sitting, lots of stress, and lots of dealing with pretentious and verbally assaultive a holes.  But what was most amazing about this driver, as opposed to some of the deaf mutes I've been driven around by, is this driver, Jaime Pulido-Pulido, informed me he had been a driver for 30 years.  30 years!  Most places that have employees for 30 years, are given flags and pins to wear....some kind of commendation or recognition.  Not so when you're a self employed here one second, gone the next taxi driver.  I watched him drive, softly making the car dance down Broadway and I imagined in my mind, that underneath his silent positioning through traffic, that there was nary a street he hadn't been on.  I wonder what he has seen in 30 years of driving a NYC Taxi.  Really amazing.  I say kudos to him - a human MapQuest for NYC.  Throw him an address, and that car will point to right where it needs to go, no googling or apps necessary.  He wouldn't know this about me; however, my close friends know it to be how I think.  When I initially got in his taxi, I told him we needed to go to Spring Street, and asked him if he knew where it was.  DUH!  What an idiot I am.....of COURSE he knows where it is.  I'm so embarrased.  Anyhow, here is Mr. Pulido piloting his office, relaxed and at home doing what he does best.  Note how clean his plexiglass divider is.  In my old taxi, I had to practically take a sander to all the phlegm and snot that was smeared on it.  

As I get older, I have noticed I am less immune to being stricken with sudden emotional outbreaks. 
Years of cynicism has kept it in check.  But, on this day, I could not help but notice there was no immunity.
 
Zach Sobiech.  17 years old.  Kind hearted.  Full of  dreams.  Brimming with ideas, talent, positivity, hope, acceptance and joy.  The word unfortunate is a sick joke when used to explain that all these wonderful attributes of his, are gone.  And so is his life.  His body ravaged by a rare and uncurable cancer, he has left a void in those who personally knew him too deep to ever fill - and it has extended worldwide.  I first read about him on SoulPancake; I’ve learned much about him.  I’ve seen the interviews and I even liked his song; but death has a way of shaking your mortalitymometer.  He has become more real.   And I am very, very saddened by it.  
 
And like the 5 stages of death, I’m angry.  As usual, I'm angry at God.  I'm angry at people who abuse themselves.  But most of all, I’m angry at myself.  

How dare I. 

How dare I have a bad day.  How dare I, be upset at the price of gas.  How dare I, get annoyed over trivial day to day matters.   How dare I allow myself to be inconvenienced by really anything.  Shameful.  Unforgivable really.  

And how dare you.  How dare you spend time wasting away with gossip, hate, moodiness and passion for affairs that never matter in the end.  How  dare you, try to change whoever you are, or how you look.  How dare you, have easily attainable dreams and do nothing about chasing them.  And how dare I.  

How dare us all. 
 
Last week, millions of us were salivating in wanting to win the Powerball lottery.  All Zach wanted, was another day.  I’m rich beyond his wildest dreams with the wealth of time and health.   I have a bank full of days; often invested poorly.   I open my wallet and buy time by the glassful, rarely finishing it, and pouring it down the drain.  And for that, I am sorry.  How dare I. 
 
I will just let his kind eyes and wonderful song speak for itself.  

Now, I can't put in words the giddiness I had in my heart over finally meeting someone who actually has at least some knowledge of my taxi's existence.  At least beyond those of whose throats I shove it down.  Many of my friends are sick to death of it.  Anyways, Erin told me she too, has a blog, which naturally outtrumps mine since SHE IS a NYC Taxi Driver, and gave me the info:  www.girlycabbie.blogspot.com .   More on this in a bit. 

As we were gabbing away, she was the maestro conductor of her cab, making the car dance from lane to lane with smooth grace which served as the strings section for her orchestra; the blinkers serving as a light drum tap.  At times, her hands would summon the horns section when things got dramatic on the road - and executed with precision.  You could feel the raw emotion of her genuine frustration each time a shithead would pull in front of her.  Effortlessly, 5J42 would lead the pack and bear down on slower moving cars, the tick tock of the tires against potholes and cracks serving as the tympani.  Instead of a medallion number on her roof, there should be a Treble Clef. 

Seriously, what a great trip.  She was very friendly, and an excellent driver.  You see, Erin gets it.  Yeah, in a city of 9 million people, there are going to be many occasions you're going to pick up a self absorbed dickhead.  But, what so many taxi drivers fail to understand, is that a NYC Taxi ride, really is so much more to so many people who climb in them.  They are not *just* transportation to people.  If you decide to think that you are nothing more than a rude ride, then that is exactly how you will be treated - and so will others.  I know it comes as a GREAT SHOCK to some, but most of the people riding around in cabs, are um....this funny thing called visitors and tourists.  (And quite frankly, most of NYC's residents, are big shots from Kentucky and Lake Wallapalooza who just moved there anyways).  Riding in a taxi for a tourist, is often the one chance where it feels safe enough to talk to someone who knows something, about some stuff....in NEW YORK.  I've written about this before, with my first taxi ride in New York back when I was a kid.  I still remember him and I still remember the car.  I've had so many dickhead taxi drivers in my life, and it's a shame, because I'm a big tipper dammit!  LOL.  Alright, enough about that.  My point is, Erin did everything right.  She was safe, alert, friendly, and got me to where I wanted to go without feeling like an inconvenience.  So many more taxi drivers could learn a great deal from her, especially if they rely on tips.  Hey, I'm a cop, and I've had a lot of shitheads in the back of my cars through the years that I didn't particularly like, but I still was friendly to them if they did decide to talk.  I mean, it's fine if you don't, but really now, how often does a friendly taxi goofball like me climb in your car?  Not often. 

Once we were dropped off, we snapped a pic, and I skeedaddled back to Vermont.  When I got home, I naturally checked out her blog and to be perfectly honest, I was pissed off and embarrassed that I didn't have any knowledge of her write ups, because I thought I had seen them all.  Typical google - put the bullshit and long closed ebay auctions on page one, and the good stuff on page 10,000.  Anyhow, it's a wonderful blog of her adventures - nice little stories; I highly recommend them.  There is no bravado or exaggerations of nuttiness, just simple pure stories of her travels.  Check them out!  www.girlycabbie.blogspot.com  

   Get out of my dreams.....get into my car

People LOVE to opine on my bizarre automotive idiosyncrasies and the condition of the clunkers I save.  I've heard them all.  None of them phase me.  It's like telling a homeless drunk that beer is yucky pooey.  But, if you're like me in anyway, what follows is a short little diddy on a 1953 Packard Henney Ambulance I saved some years ago, as well as my 69 Mach 1 Mustang.  My interest in the Packard was re-spurned after the Longmeadow Police Department sent me a pic of it when it was new.  Many Many thanks to them for posting it for me; it means a whole lot.  Lots of pics to follow for those who don't like to read!  Or don't know how!  If you've ever dreamed of just fixing up a derelict car, perhaps this blog of mine will inspire you.  NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY.

Everyone that knows me, knows, without question, that I am a complete WHACKADOO when it comes to our streamlined friends on wheels.  I really don't care what it is, - if it's a car that is deemed derelict, I want it.  It's an unfortunate affliction I have, since unlike baseball cards, I can't put my babies in a dresser drawer or shoebox.  I can't save them all unfortunately.  

ANYWAYS.....nearby, there is a nice oldtime Vermonter on an otherwise abandoned dairy farm, who, since the 40's, has been collecting cars - many of which were towed there by himself with a tow truck he used to operate for extra money.  On this property have been 100's of old cars, dating back to the early teens of the 20th Century.  None are for sale, and certainly none are to be looked at, unless you want to look down the barrel of a shotgun; he won't let anyone near them.  UNLESS.....he likes you, and trusts you are not there to lowball him on an antique car just to turn around for profit.  It's strange really, because he doesn't really care about any of them, but hey, it's his property.  Luckily for me, this man has always been great with me, and in general, has let me take possession of a few beauties through the years, for free.  He knows what I'm like and knows I won't take something unless I am absolutely seriously in love with it.  Even without it, he has always granted me access at my own will to roam about and do whatever I please, whenever I have wanted.  It's been my private Garden of Eden for many many many years.  If I need a break from the world, I go to the junkyard.  It's just me, the whispering pines, and old iron to veg out in. 

In 2007, when metal prices were up, he decided it was finally time to clear some of the property, and many cars were scrapped.  Not all, but ALOT.  The ones that went, were flat out scrapped.  Not parted out.  Not placed up for sale.  But rather, picked up with a cherry picker and dumped into a shredder.  Word traveled fast about the goings on, and I raced there, nervous as hell what I would see.  My fears were true, my beautiful friends were gone, and many more were in line to go.  I was frantic.  Just as I walked up to the picker, he was maneuvering to pick up a 1953 Packard Ambulance that I had liked.  It just got done killing a 53 Buick Roadmaster woody wagon (Only 9 known to exist and priceless....this would be #10).  I freaked.  I waved to the guy to stop - for the love of God.  He powered down and opened the door to inquire of my distress.  I told him to wait 5 minutes. ...don't touch the Packard.  I found Dave in his shop and begged him to spare the Packard.  Long story short, he obliged.  I told the picker to leave the Packard, and I turned my back on the rest of the carnage that would occur.  

In any event, I knew the ambulance was originally from Longmeadow, Massachusetts.  I recently sent a pic of it to Longmeadow PD's facebook page, and within a day or two, they replied by posting a pic of the ambulance when it was new, in 1953.  60 years ago. 

It was the words of a nay sayer that fueled my saving this car, after I showed him those pictures above.  A local firefighter, he looked at them and said this, which I shall never forget "It's a ghost, a shell, it's nothing. You'll never get it out of there".  ORLY?  I worked my ASS off on this car.  Mike at Mike's Car Care in Westmoreland, NH - a fellow Mustang restorer, was kind enough to give me a rear axle after I showed him the pictures.  I then surfed ebay and bought the front assembly and drum brakes on ebay out of a parts car in Texas for $1 (but $99 shipping, ouch...it was heavy).  Also on ebay, I bought an engine and transmission in New Jersey and went down with a trailer and hauled it back.  I hand carried that heavy axle through the woods and amongst mosquitos, snakes and mice, I jacked up the car, and precariously installed the axle with new u bolts.  I then installed the front end assembly and drums, found some Ford rims (including one that it was resting on), and put the tires on.  I slowwwwwwwly lowered the jack, tightening my jaw with every half inch as the shocks and springs creaked after having been asleep in the weight department for so many years.  But alas, for the first time since 1978, the muscle car was standing proud, although I expected the rear springs to go right through the trunk.  I chopped trees down, and using a tractor, skidded them out of the way and gingerly moved 10 other cars and other assorted antique metals out of the way.  Like the nut I am, I even washed it during a rain storm out in the woods, and later WAXED it (at the least the parts that could be waxed lol).  I hired a flatbed and hauled it home - and wow, did it get a lot of looks.  It looked amazing.  It had been a long time since the hood of that car felt the whip of wind rush over it's deck, or hear the sounds of traffic and life.  I remember at a traffic light in Springfield, some little kids were on the sidewalk and I heard one of them say "WHOAOOO....look at that car!".......only to be followed with, "what happened to it?"  LOL.  Little kids...lol.  Anyhow, at home, I installed the engine and transmission, bought a used carburetor online, a makeshift gas can and fuel line and BOOM....she fired up and ran.  Yeah it's a wreck, yeah just about everything on it looks shot, but unless you have done this, I cannot explain how great it feels in terms of accomplishment.  A ghost?  A shell?  Nothing?  Nahhhhhh.  

Brydee Moore, professional javelin and discus tosser, holder of 24 Australian records, 3 Oceanic records, ranked number 1 in the world in all of her disciplines, and 1 cm from a world record (the width of a clipped fingernail) was one of those athletes who was not provided with the basic tools, yet managed to still perform for her team and country – and did so with faith in her abilities and faith in herself. She unselfishly placed herself second, and placed her team first. Brydee Moore, through hard work and determination, earned her spot in the 2012 Paralympic Games, and while there – performed with maximum effort, under less than ideal conditions. Firstly, she was very ill prior to the games - and I don't mean she had the sniffles - I mean gravely ill, the kind of ill that necessitates the use of an IV and 4 hour interval Doctor visits.  The kind of ill that sucks the will to live out of oneself.  The kind of ill that doesn't scream "lets go on an intercontinental trip to London hurrah!"  The kind of ill that if it was MIchael Phelps, a priest would have been giving him his last rites.  And if that wasn't enough, once the worst was over, the mere task of just getting to London...?...well, lets just say she wasn’t clinging martini glasses with Sir Roger Moore in first class on British Airways. How do I know? Momma Moore.  
 

The Moore Clan celebrating a birthday in regulation approved Moore themed style.  Brydee's father James, sister's Daragh and Shanlan, mum Donna, and Brydee.  

The International Paralympic Committee (IPC) abandoned it's traditional form of scoring in 2010 in favor of the RAZA System. The Raza System uses a Gompertz curve, or Gompertz function, named after Benjamin Gompertz. It is a sigmoid function; a type of mathematical model for a time series, where growth is slowest at the start and end of a time period blabbity blah blah blah blah.  Bueller?  Bueller?  *Raises Hand*  "MAY I GO TO THE BATHROOM?"  

In any event, this is a topic for a whole other write up.  All I will say right now, is that at the heart of any large machine, always lies an unattended and forgotten about monkey wrench.  In the case of the Paralympic Scoring System, it is a distinct possibility that  the monkey wrench are good intentioned people reaching out to and relying on others who over complicate things.  RAZA is easy, simple, and fair!  Said no one ever.  (Except Mr. Raza, $$$$$$$$),  Perhaps there are many variables I have not examined; however, I think it's likely a fair and normal criticism.  It's easy for guys like Raza, sitting with his graphs eating potato chips trying to figure out new and inventive ways to keep his formula useful and relevant with the IPC - he already won his POT OF GOLD. 

In closing, I certainly had fun watching this year's Paralympic Games.  These athletes work harder than anyone - without the benefit of salary, a gaggle of resources, and in many cases - sponsors.  Paralympians rely on what Olympians had to rely on since 1896 in Rome, which is sheer determination, desire, personal achievements and hard work - and for that, they have my deepest admiration.  There were a lot of advertisements in the U.S. during the Olympics in how they inspire people.  Well, for me - I am more inclined to be inspired to do better athletically when I watch guys like Matt Stutzman shoot a bow and arrow with his feet, or Brydee Moore whiz a javelin 35 feet starting from a seated position.  I bust on Michael Phelps a lot, but do you *really* think he practiced his laps at the town pool?  Or had his dad massage his shoulders at the end of an afternoon training session?  Or actually PAY for those goofy earphones he wore before every event?  No to all of the above.  To me and so many others, a Paralympic athlete is to be revered - to be admired, for all their lives even when no longer competing.  Look at my long dead relative Albert Gutterson - it's been 100 years and the University of Vermont's gymnasium still bears his name.  For a Paralympian like Brydee Moore, not only is she first in her class, she IS first class.  She is mindful of the responsibility that comes with Olympic stardom - and continues to give much of her time to assisting, training and motivating others in becoming the best they can be, whether it be for personal goals or to be one of the .0.000059999999999999995 % to represent their country as a Paralympian - and I just love her for that - there is nothing more noble on this earth then to give of oneself in so many thoughtful and selfless ways.  For all the struggles she has overcome and for all her hard earned accomplishments - either in the past, present or future - I say, WELL DONE MATE.   Admiration Earned.

Next week:  A follow up on my next over town hero, Alicia Brelsford Dana of the U.S. Paralympic Cycling Team.  Until then, here are some photos of Paralympian Brydee Moore taken while at the London games:

Boom!  Crash!  Bang! - went the fireworks at the opening day of the 2012 Olympics in London - signifying the beginning of competitive games where countries press forth their most able bodied athletes to achieve greatness in their name.  So, fair enough - as the world’s hungry watch 10 years worth of food blow up in the night sky to mark the games - it does indeed inspire millions of people, which is wonderful.  I am an American - born and bred in the State of Vermont - the Green Mountain State, which is like a big town in New York, but close enough to Boston I can see it on a clear day if I‘m high up enough.  However, just because I am American doesn’t mean I root just for my own countrymen and women - I’ll root anyone on if I feel they deserve it and have a heart that weighs more than gold.  But, unlike the media frenzy that concentrates on gold gold GOLD during the Olympics, there is something else I am far far FAR more interested in.  The Paralympic Games.  Folks, this IS the Olympics still - and I am going to let you in on a little secret that NBC hasn’t figured out - it is far more interesting, more challenging and chock full of really amazing competition.  I first became more aware of the Paralympics after watching them when the Olympics were held in Atlanta, GA and my country was in a tizzy over our hosting.  In all the games since - the events I’ve been personally more interested in have usually been dominated by Australians - like Lyn Lepore in the Sydney 2000 games in road cycling, which is a personal favorite of mine.  In addition to the Paralympics, I was further inspired with admiration for individual disabilities after discovering the story of Emmanuel Ofosu Yeboah - who as a young man with a severe disability, rode his bicycle across his country of Ghana to raise awareness to the plight and prejudices of the disabled
in his land.  He is an absolutely amazing man - and I would highly recommend watching the documentary on his awareness work entitled Emmanuel's Gift.  He still gives back to this day. 
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
Now, most people know that in the world of sports and physical achievement, there is no greater honor then for a person to be chosen for competition in the Olympics.  Like any word can sometimes illicit a prejudice, the terms ‘Olympian’ and ‘Olympiad’ usually conjure up images of great physical prowess and skill.  Those words are accurate descriptors in our mental image of just what prowess and skill is and how mere armchair competitors view it.  I remember a number of years ago when I learned I was distantly related (like so distant, I would need binoculars) to former Olympian Albert Gutterson, who won a gold medal 100 years ago for broad jump during the Olympics of 1912 in Stockholm, Sweden. 

I looked at his picture from those days – so young and full of life, and it reminded me of greatness - although...it would have been nice if his name was Scott, or Alex, or Max etc.....lol (kidding).  When I see the family homestead nearby, I can’t help but be fascinated an Olympian grew up there.  Now, I am not one to get emotional over photos of persons I’ve never met; however, this was different; he was an “Olympian” – it made me feel proud.  Why did his existence and Olympic accomplishment make me proud?  Simple.  Anyone can live a life of work and weekend play - and merely contribute the bare minimums to the betterment of this world, which pretty much sums up most of my long deceased relatives lives - but an Olympian?  It takes a special and unique person to qualify as an Olympian – no question about it.          

Now, let us peer behind door # 2 to examine another word(s) that can conjure a prejudice; “challenged” or “disabled.”  I imagine that when one hears these words, the prejudice that comes to mind is someone who does not have the same range of motion that perhaps an ‘Olympian’ possesses.  So, for discussion sake, what then happens when these two descriptions/prejudices above collide?  That is to say, a person who has challenges yet is also an Olympian?  I’ll tell you what happens; amazing things.   It is true unadulterated amazement that any individual can be so strong physically AND mentally so as to transform themselves out of a debilitating challenge and then use their bodies in such ways that most ‘able-bodied’ persons couldn’t even think of.  To me, a person who has physical challenges is far stronger than those who do not.  When one isn’t challenged in life, they become weak and complacent.  An individual who is challenged, is always honing their skills and goals in life.  I personally have a quandary with the word disabled or disability.  The word, which accurately describes a condition in a sensible non-offensive way, it does to me denote a certain unavoidable stigma; I just dislike it.  I rather see a person for who they are as an individual, rather than resort to labels.    

So as to make my point, lets stick with Australia and let us now look behind door #3, in which I will use as an excellent example - we will find Brydee Moore.  Brydee is a long time competitor in the world of sports.  Brydee has been competing in sports since 2001; I think it’s safe to say that sports and competition are her life.  In 2006, Brydee’s goals of competitive discus throw and shot put received a serious bump up the big time scale, when she competed in the 2006 FESPIC Games earning herself two gold medals and later, during the 2008 National Championships in Beijing earning three gold medals while representing her native country of Australia.   

Brydee has 16 gold medals at the National Championships to her credit, including her latest haul of three gold at the 2012 Nationals. She holds the Australian records in her classification for all three of her throwing disciplines and her shot put length of 6.47m is not far away from achieving the world record.  And it doesn’t stop there, Brydee continues on her path of competitive sportsmanship to this day, having competed at the 2010 Delhi Commonwealth Games and now, acceptance for a second time into the Paralympic Games at London 2012.  That’s right, Brydee is an Olympian.   

But what makes Ms. Moore so inspiring in her skills, is that not only is she an Olympian, she also has some physical challenges in her life.  Prior to my stating this, you probably conjured up an image of a toned glistening woman flying over hurdles on the field in full Olympic regalia – royal horns bellowing and crowds in full cheer.  And, consequently, now that I’ve thrown the words ‘disability or challenges’ into the mix, your imagination may have been playing a few tricks in the mental imagery department. Trust me on this - there are no tricks here; there is serious tonage and glistening going on.  Diagnosed with cerebral palsy at 11 months old, it would seem clear that Ms. Moore has not always had an easy road to travel upon - and that is for certain.  But – this hasn’t slowed herself down a bit – she is out there in this big world showing it what she can do and inspiring so many thousands of people as well as many who may have similar worries/challenges as herself.  I liken it to this comparison: while many of us cruise through life complaining about the need to inject Botox into our glistening non challenged BMW bodies, Brydee has souped up her Holden Commodore….and the BMW is afraid.  Very afraid.  So while us BMW’s sit in the garage resting on its laurels and name brand reputation, Brydee the Commodore is wrenching a turbo and dual exhaust to her Mad Max engine.  Physically challenged?  Disability?  Just words…..mere sounds one makes with their tongues – and in the case of Brydee Moore, actions speak louder than words.  Brydee has a personal motto; “see the athlete, not the disability.”  And for the record, I would rather arrive at a party in a Mad Max car than a BMW - far more attractive, superior performance and way less maintenance costs.   

Now, for the U.S. Paralympic team - as I edit this blog, I just learned in the town right next to me, is a U.S. Olympian who will be competing in the London Paralympic Games; Alicia Brelsford Dana, from Putney, VT.  I couldn't believe it when I read this in the paper - that a stone's throw away is a hand cycling olympian.  Amazing!  Here is a link to the article, which explains it best: http://www.reformer.com/localnews/ci_21259962/racing-london-putney-woman-rides-wave-support-paralympics

What is really amazing, is I've seen her before naturally - I practically live next door - and while I have admired her strength as I lazily drove by in my car, I never imagined this person would be competing in the Olympics.  Paralyzed from the waist down after suffering a fall, this single mother seemingly juggles it all - and still had the fortitude to qualify for the paralympics, so now I'm even more thrilled to see what happens during these games.  No matter what her outcome may be, I am proud and thrilled for her.  No matter what the color of a medal is, whether gold, silver, bronze or empty handed, I still think it's amazing to even qualify for the Olympic games; every Olympian is a win.  Naturally, I immediately sent her a friend request on facebook so I could inundate her with daily posts of my fandom; she is going to be SO sorry if she accepts it!

I love the Paralympics.  And the reason I enjoy them isn’t because of some noble thought that I *should* watch them, but more because any person who has a disability and can do something better than someone who doesn’t have a disability, is a true Olympian.  I have mixed emotions about the term Paralympics, but – I suppose it is really semantics.  I have entered numerous bicycle races in my life, and if I may brag - earned bronze on three occasions in the U.S. national championships in the late 90's for obtacle course, slalom and a distance road race.  I have also run a few piddly fiddly 5k’s in my time, and on such occasions, there have been persons who have also entered who must use a different vehicle to meet their specific bodily needs – i.e. a wheelchair.  Each time I have been intimidated – because I know…this guy or gal is going to make mince meat out of me.  I know this to be true not because their bodies are toned with the obvious effects of practice, but because I know mentally they are absolutely committed to DESTROYING me.  And, barring some mechanical failure on equipment, they always do. 

Cody McCasland, 8, from Colleyville, TX, shown here in the Ranger Triathalon. Cody is a double above knee amputee born with a rare birth defect called Sacral Agenesis that caused his legs to form both missing tibias and knees. Doctors, in his best interest, amputated his legs at 15 months old, and Cody has never stopped challenging himself physically. He raced the 100m swim, 2.2 mile bike ride, and 800, run in under thirty minutes.  Future Olympian?  I hope so!

I am a man of perfect motion.  I can walk, run, roll, cartwheel and roll out of bed in no time flat – and admittedly take this ability for complete granted.  If I am in a stadium and feel the need to visit the restroom, I can run to the bathroom with the best of them – and be in and out in no time flat.  I do not know what it is like to limp, or have no feeling in any part of my body, or to know what it is like to live with the daily challenges one faces who does have such things to bear.  I have had, however, a brain injury - which is occasionally recurring with intracranial pressure, after having been smacked upside the head repeatedly by a complete nutcase I was trying to arrest several years ago - and have spent my fair share of time in the CT-Scan torpedo tubes, from constant headaches to continual swishing noises in my left ear.  But anyways - it is nothing compared to what others suffer.  But back to physical prowess......I have lifted a discus and a shot put – and they are heavy.  To throw a discus and a shot put for far range and in control takes practice and skill.  I thus have tried throwing a discus and a shot put.  I admit, I thought it would be easy – I mean, it’s just throwing an object right?  I grappled my hands around its cold steel and instantly felt awkward, unable to comprehend how one can really hold onto something so odd shaped and heavy, and throw it at a controlled distance; much like a Frisbee on a windy day.  I wound up, took a deep breath, and with one felt swoop – exhaled a small scream and threw the discus – imagining in my mind where it would it land….that being approximately two miles away ala Clark Kent kicking that Football from the original Superman movie.  I think it landed about 5 feet away and like a bad golfing slice about an equal distance to the right of where I expected it to land.  I tried again.  And again.  And again – each time gaining the same result.  I came to a conclusion after GIVING UP, that, indeed – throwing a discus and even more so the shot put…takes skill and obvious practice.  I’ve never thrown one sitting down – but as I sit here in my chair and pretend, I know it is extremely difficult.  When I was a kid, I wasn’t particularly fond of running, despite my (at the time) built for speed body, so I thought perhaps being good at discus and shot put would be good, but alas – nope….I then just stuck to my bike.  All people are good at something – and when they find out what it is, there are no limitations to hold them back; not even a disability - as proven by the athletes in the Paralympics.   

I am quite familiar with Cerebral Palsy and it’s oft time frustrating effects; I know many people who live with it, and likewise, I have my own personal familial issues with this and other afflictions that affect the mind and body.  I have witnessed the occasional and understandable decline of the human spirit when such challenges exist and when it seems life is a constant struggle.  I’ve seen the frustration, the teasing and all the other stuff that goes along with a life of challenges.  The hopes and dreams we all share, can sometimes be compounded for persons who have disabilities.  I’ve always been an advocate for such individuals; I’ll never stop with that – and for the most part, my reason for having even become a police officer was an inherent desire to become a more prominent advocate in the battle to end the chronic finger pointing, senseless prejudices and abuse.  I remember my Aunt Jean Lemire and my cousins Robbie and Kenny Blake, who had so many debilitating challenges in their lives.  Wanting so badly to ‘fit in’ – to find and experience the things all human beings yearn for: to find that love of their life, to have a family, to drive a car, to experience a first kiss, to own a home, to run, to jump, to escape…if only for a moment.  It crushes MY spirit just thinking about them, now gone, and it hurts to know how they felt so much of the time.   

As the Paralympics start to gear up – I urge people to take an active interest in this serious world of competition; you’ll be amazed.  I also would urge people to reach in their pockets every now and then and throw a couple of bucks toward organizations that provide assistance on so many levels to individuals who face life at times with a constant head wind.  Give up one pack of cigs a month – after all, it won’t kill you, it will help you – it’s a win win!  If you know of families who have equipment needs for small children who want to compete in sports by all means lend that hand and donate.  There is no greater calling.  

So, from August 29, 2012 to September 9, 2012, the Paralympic Games will be in full swing.  On August 31, 2012, give a cheer to Brydee as she enters the arena for discus while representing Australia and my new best fanned neighbor Alicia Brelsford Dana as she handcycles her way into history representing the United States - the only paralympic athlete from Vermont.  I suppose I am supposed to cheer for the USA - and I most certainly will, especially Ms. Breslford Dana; however, since my new/last Chevrolet Caprice police car was made in Australia – and is the sickest most insanely fast cruiser I’ve ever had, I will also have to make an exception here and root for the land down under as well.  Actually - I root for everyone; geographical boundaries really don't mean much to me.

Above:  My Australian made for USA cop car.  Took so long to get here it was a "year" old by the time I rolled out of the fleet garage with it.  It is a Chevy Caprice, but - so I've been told, is called a Holden in Australia. 

Root for your favorite team and event - I know I will be – because I’m a fan – and I bow to the greatness of all Olympians, whether they walk into an arena or arrive on wheels.  The truth is, we all have challenges – some are just more visible than others.   From my cab to yours –  enjoy - and please check these links to learn more about Cerebral Palsy - as well as a wonderful video series by Charisse and her journey with Cerebral Palsy - it is her hope to further awareness of it and break people from having an uneducated and otherwise uninformed conclusion of just what exactly it is.  She encourages people to cut/paste her link to learn more - she is just such an inspiration - I promise you will be hitting subscribe faster than Ms. Brelsford Dana can ride her bike - well, pretty close anyways.     

http://www.youtube.com/user/jazzygirl585?feature=watch

www.ucp.org/
http://www.livingwithcerebralpalsy.com/cerebral-links.php
http://www.comeunity.com/disability/cerebral_palsy/resources.html
http://www.ninds.nih.gov/disorders/cerebral_palsy/org_cerebral_palsy.htm
http://www.cerebralpalsy.com/

I was talking the other day to an acquaintance of mine at a local market, after I wheeled into a parking spot in my taxi.  After the usual back and forth check up on each others families, he started asking questions about my car as he softly kicked my front bumper.  Besides the kick, he said a few things that I purposefully neglected to tell him pissed me off.  More often than not, most people pass off my choice to drive around in this old retired New York City cab as either interesting or eclectic at best.  Deep down, it doesn't really matter to me and I know it doesn’t really matter to anyone else; I drive it because I love it – not because I expect others to love it.  However, every now and then, some people say some of the dumbest things to me about the car, which no matter how it comes out, means one thing – which is that they think it’s a great big piece of harvested dog dung.  So okay, I get it, the car isn’t for everyone.  But acoustic guitars aren’t for me.  Neither is football.  Nor do I particularly care for escargot – I also hate sand in my toes and, lately - people in general.  BUT, if it is something you very clearly like, I am not going to turn the switch to the "gonna tell it like it is" and state to your face that I don't think you should them.  I might think it, but – I’m not going to judge you for it. 

So – besides the offensive brush of foot to bumper - a common theme here was mentioned by him…..the first thing he said, was the color was atrocious, and asked why I don't paint it (heard that one already a THOUSAND times).  Next, was the mileage was so high that why don’t I sell it for parts (okay that was a new one).  Third, it must be disgusting to sit in - and I couldn't pay him enough to sit in it (heard it a few times, and know it has been thought of a lot). 

Let me put it this way.  In the world of automobile enthusiasts, it is true my car is not yet old enough to be categorized as anything remarkably amazing.  That is fine with me; I’m not looking to display it anywhere (although some places do, like the store in Times Square, Forever 21 has one in the downstairs floor.  I don’t see any Subaru Outbacks on display anywhere). 

True Story.  A little pointless to anyone but myself....but true nonetheless.  You see, I met another taxi.  My taxi.  No, not the one and only 8D69 that I have now, but one I will have in the future; my own personal taxi of tomorrow.  It’s fate.  It’s Kismet.  It’s…..it’s……BEAUTIFUL.  This past weekend, I walked down 157th Street in Harlem to the no man’s land portion of Broadway to hail a cab to take me all the way down to Pier 36 on the lower east side.  As I crossed Broadway to align myself with southbound traffic for a hail, I noticed a rather shiny looking Crown Victoria waiting at the stop light.  I think it winked at me….you know, like when digital editors place a twinkle on someone’s teeth as they smile with thumbs up with the little pling type noise.  As I turned myself to hail this cab, I noticed the driver was already preparing himself to cut off the car to his right and pick me up.  As it did, I did as I usually do, and made a mental note of its medallion number, 7H22.  My son and I climbed in and I told the driver where we needed to go.  Unlike most assholes that probably climb into his car, I didn’t expect him to be a computer program and know exactly where Pier 36 and Montgomery Street was, so after some messing around on his GPS, he found his route, gave her the gun and off we went. 

Sitting in the back of the cab, I noticed it appeared to be brand new.  I chummed up to the driver and asked him if the car was the last of the 2011 Crown Vic’s to which he stated it was.  We chatted for some time and I explained to him my affinity for old NYC Taxi Cabs, to which he politely laughed at, and expressed either feigned or genuine interest.  He asked me to write down my website’s address so he could check it out in a little book he had with other tidbits of info that was important to him.  Anyhow, I asked him how many miles were on the car and he told me nearly 110,000 miles.  He told me he was leasing the medallion and owned the car himself and leases it to another driver so it is constantly on the go 24/7.  I asked him what he would do with the car at the end of its taxi life and he said either junk it or sell it, and apologized that he didn’t hold the same emotional value towards them that I did.  I joked with the driver his plans to junk it didn’t set well with me, but that the selling part did.  I told him he absolutely MUST sell me the car when he would be through with it and reiterated I was dead serious.  Like rotting, festering, oozing in the ground dead body serious.  He told me he would and started to warm up to the idea that his car could retire in style with a psycho in Vermont and conceded it would be sort of neat in later years to know it was still in existence and maybe see it again.  We continued yakking away as he absolutely flew down the FDR – yeehaw!  When we arrived at my destination, he asked for my contact info and said he would definitely keep my info in his little book he had for the future.  After I paid my fare and tip, I told him I wanted to take a snap of his cab, to which he heartily agreed to, and actually made a new fare that got in after me wait until I gave him a thumbs up.  Nice guy – I was psyched! 

Now….could it have been a line of bullshit?  Maybe.  Did he even remember me by the end of the day?  Probably not.  But….get this.  Later on in the day, my son Max and I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art off 5th Avenue for something to do.  When we were through, we went outside and were hanging around.  As I was messing around on my phone, my son proclaimed “Hey dad…look, its 7H22!” ß--(what an awesome son).  I looked up, and there before us, glimmering under the sun with its shiny lava yellow paint, was indeed, 7H22.  Of all the roads and streets, and of all the 13,287 cabs roaming around, there before us was the taxi we road in earlier.  MY taxi.  Like a scene out of American Graffiti, where Richard Dreyfuss goes after Suzanne Somers in the always elusive white Ford Thunderbird, I ran to the light to give the guy a wave; unfortunately, the light turned green and he hammered the gas.  I was able to snap a photo real quick of it driving away.

Now uh, excuuuuuse me, but – that is pretty cool.  If you click on the pic, it should enlarge enough to see the plate.  Now...if I have to camp out at this guy’s house and stalk him, I will own this car!  It will be MY Taxi of Tomorrow.  Of course, 8D69 takes precedence in my life and always will, but it can’t hurt to have a garage mate can it? 

This weekend I actually met quite a few really neat cab drivers.  There was one in particular, Amr Masoud, an Egyptian fellow that my son misheard to mean that his name was Jepson...not "Egyptian".  This guy….lol – what a trip.  I didn’t want the cab ride to end; he was that fantastic.  Just a real honest to goodness hardworking father of two little ones, bombing around NYC 12 hours a day trying to keep his head above water.  I can’t explain it any further than to simply say he was a super nice guy – and, naturally, I liked him even more that he thought my travels in 8D69 was neat. 

Then there was another older guy in what I thought was a 2011 Crown Victoria; however, it was a 2008 – it was just superdee duper clean.  Nice guy - and quite a careful driver.  He is the only driver I have been with that actually drives at a reasonable speed.  Many times I have had conversations about taxi's with drivers, and every one of them complain how it costs $50 to fill up a crown vic versus $25 to fill up a hybrid.  These same drivers are the ones when the light turns green, floor it to race to the next red light 100 feet away - all day, all night.....vroom brake.  Vroom brake.  Vroom brake.  Or, when dropping me off, floor it to merge back onto the street.  It is NO WONDER you spend so much on fuel!  Anyhow - it is none of my beeswax, so....blabbity blah, below is the 2008 car - looks like new.  The guy said it had to retire in a few months and would be painting it and using it as a personal car.  Kudos my good sir!. 

On Sunday, I was riding my bike up the Avenue of America’s, when my heart wept for a fellow Crown Victoria, medallion 5N96, as it sat with its underwear down/hood up and on display for all the muckety mucks to point and laugh at.  I rolled up to it on my bike, and asked the driver if I could help.  He told me he thought it was electrical, as he went to start it and it wouldn’t even turn over and told me I could take a look see if I wanted.  If I wanted?  Are you kidding me?  I almost jumped up on a building and did a swan dive into this thing.  I reefed around in its nasty oily engine compartment and determined there were two issues with this old Ford.  First, its battery terminals were loose and second, a loose wire to the starter relay.  A twist here, a bang there – and R R  R R R VarOOOOM…..my roadside surgery was a success!  I didn’t even mind having the dingy grease all over my fingers….I was proud to wear the bloody residue of a fellow NYC Taxi Crown Victoria.  Happy Motoring my new friend!  Happy Motoring. 

On Friday night, I took a cab and wow....this guy was whacked out of his mind.  I don’t think he realized I had a young man (my 16 year old son) with me, as he talked for 50 streets about the size of his dick and how many women he has stuck it in.  I was shocked when at one point, he turned onto Christopher Street and stopped his cab in front of two woman hailing cabs – when he rolled down his window and yelled “heya baby, you a wanta my bigga sausage?!”…before spinning his tires and racing down the street.  Yeah…uh…that was different.  I did NOT tell him about my website!  Lol. 

Lastly, I stopped at one of my fav shops in Queens and another in the Bronx to say hello to the assorted pieces and parts of cabs that once plied the streets of New York.  Always a good time here and nice folks that seem to find me interesting enough to wander around as I need/want!

What was the point of this blog?  None.  Absolutely none - except to document the fact that 7H22 WILL be in my stable someday.  That is pretty much it.  Thanks for reading - !

I have often found that decisions made at the top of any organization, often punitively affect others who usually have better than average ideas - if they were only asked.  Hence – I have an opinion on the state of affairs as it concerns NYC's new “Taxi of Tomorrow” – the Nissan Whatever Thingie.  In a city filled with so many  people that hack and saw through bone and skin to look good, the first thing that comes to mind when I see a picture of the new taxi is it is UGLY. 

Dang….it’s like they glued a 1984 Lee Iacocca Caravan to the back of a rich kid’s golf cart.  Sure, perhaps it’s functional for a passenger and caters to the whole ‘oh look at the tall buildings’ crowd (like moi!), but really now, when you get done cutting the crap…. it is just a TAXI, so what is with all the to do and bureaucratic micromanaging of forced ownership.  I've mentioned it elsewhere before, but according to statistics I’ve read, the average fare in NYC is approximately 2.7 miles.  Who rides in a car for 2 miles with their eyes glued through a rooftop window (that will never get cleaned)?  I can only guess, but to me....people get in….people get out; unless you're a *really* interesting character, the vehicle and the driver are forgotten about the minute the door closes. The sucking black hole that is Times Square or a business meeting draws peoples’ energies to the next thing, as soon to be 13,000 identical yellow abominations roar by.  Although, I have to be careful with that statement, because prior to my ever spending as much time as I do in NYC, a taxi ride really can be an unforgettable experience for a tourist - and it sounds hokey, but a taxi ride really is a 'must do' when in New York for short term visitors.  Of course I like them all the time, but HELLO>>>>I'm sort of a taxi nut in case you hadn't noticed.  My first one was in the 70's in a Plymouth Fury and it was a wild ride.  But in general theory, for everyone else....it's just a ride.  My brother has been working in Manhattan forever, and has never taken a cab - but that is because he is cheap cheap cheap; his personal vehicle has ROLL UP windows!

Most people would not realize this, but the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission have had restrictions and requirements for years on what kind of car a medallion owner is authorized to operate and use in NYC.  Most of it has not made much sense to me, but what DOES make sense, is if a person is going to shell out $1,000,000 for the privilege to operate a taxi in NYC, they should be able to decide what kind of car they can use.  For instance, at present, a medallion owner can operate the "Barnum and Bailey Clown Car of Tomorrow", that is....a Prius, or they can even choose to drive the last of the soon to be extinct V8 Crown Victoria’s, but they can’t have a mid-sized Chevy Impala.  They can have a Malibu, but still no Impala.  It doesn't even make a lick of sense.  Impala’s are sold as fleet cars – they come in heavy duty packages for police work – they are good on gas, reliable, parts are plentiful, they ride great and are far roomier than a Prius.  So…I would imagine a medallion owner would be within their right to question the integrity of thoughts that went into making the decision to just buy ONE particular vehicle, or what the real backdoor story is on how this has even become a reality.  I'm no doomsayer, but, well.....someone is making a coin off this - and it isn't for noble "green" reasons either.  It just seems weird is all. 

Now, I think it is neat that a lot of time has been spent by engineers at Nissan in placing great emphasis on passenger comfort and safety, but let’s be honest, it’s not like they didn’t have an $incentive$.  In it's recent unveiling, they brag about the little things they have refined, like the hump in the middle of the car where your feet go is gone.....but, well…of course it is gone...it is a van - no real breakthrough there!  But this then begs the question: have we as a society become SO inconvenienced to move our bodies or take the 1.2 seconds it takes to lift our legs over the hump while sitting down that an entire industry has had to change and acquiesce to our pampered needs?  It just seems…..excessive.  Other super things in these cabs are iphone chargers or what not.  I give it ONE night in the village until some person shoves gum in it.  If I was a medallion owner and an owner operator, I would be unhappy to be mandated to buy a particular brand of vehicle - especially when other cities are free to do as they please in terms of transportation choices.  In addition, I wouldn't be pleased to be forced to buy a vehicle that generally accumulates between 300 and 400 thousand miles during a service life that hasn't even been *really* tested.  People are territorial about vehicles – they define a person and often there is brand loyalty involved.  Relationships are forged between owners and mechanics and dealerships.  With these new taxi’s, not only are the vehicles expensive, but once those taxi’s come rolling out of the factory, I would bet dollar to donuts parts for prices will be through the roof (after all...it IS made of glass) and customer support will be spotty at best, simply because it is pretty much only New York City medallion owners that will be buying them.  Will the TLC pay all the sledgehammer mechanics to receive training/certifications for them, or will they all go to a Nissan garage for repair?  Will the partition companies jack their prices since they will know medallion owners will have to pay the price?  How long will it take to buy a fender for one of these when it gets crinkled?  In any event...all this stuff costs money, and just who do you think will be paying for these inflated costs in the long run?  Passengers.  Hack owners will increase lease rates….drivers will be forced to pay and hence, be making even less money than what they make now – and they will justifiably bark and scream for rate increases, which will in due time eventually happen – especially with gas nearing $4.50 a gallon in NYC.  I know it’s a tough concept to consider, but the man or woman who is required to take our gumptions with a smile on their face with a full breakdown of their personal identity for us to gawk at on the partition have a life and bills to pay too.  I know what you're thinking........you're saying to yourself....Hey Mike.......

Okay fine.....moving on *puts cat cradle back in soap box*.  Now....as a person who doesn’t work in an office setting, but rather relies on a car that serves as an office, I can attest that it is important for a driver to have some input in what it is they purchase and/or drive.  My department gives us a choice in what to use, based on our work needs and our physical properties.  Essentially, the TLC requiring medallion owners to buy these vehicles is akin to someone making an office worker buy a certain office chair to sit in all day.  It may kill your back, or you may be too big or small for it, but…..sorry…..its ‘required’ seating and it would make the customers so much happier to know you're their SERVANTS – lol.  New York City Taxi’s will always have customers….you could drive a moon buggy and someone is going to hail it.  While it is important to think about passengers, I personally think it is even more important to think about drivers.  I don’t know about anyone else, but I WANT a driver who actually envisions their occupation as being exactly what it is; a profession.  I want someone who has been carousing the city’s streets for years; who knows the lay of the land; who is honest and takes pride in his/her work.  If you really think about it, for far too long cab drivers have been unfairly demonized by the world's xenophobes – and since the late 80’s, have been repugnantly lumped and categorized into being uneducated, non English speaking societal castoffs.  This is unfortunate, as it simply isn’t true - not by a long shot.  Like any occupation, there are wayward sons carrying on and I have certainly had my share of crappy and rude drivers, but come on - they are not cast members at Walt Disney World - how many smiles does one have to give to make a five dollar fare?!  Now, take a hack that has been driving in relative comfort the past 20 years in a vehicle he/she likes and then force them into something they don’t like for 12 hours a day…?  Well….customer service…..oh how I will miss you.  Hacks will be driving through Times Square chucking stuff at the 'customers' as they laugh away the day with families in the pedestrian walkways.  

But hey who am I?  I can’t pretend to know the ins and outs of the industry anymore than I know why hipsters from Minnesota now living in their 8’ by 8’ apartments in Brooklyn think Buddy Holly rimmed glasses look good.  Perhaps my dog and pony show blog is akin to a hotel doorman writing a blog about the unfairness of declining milk prices for farmers.  I think the long and short of it for me, is the vans are just ugly.  New York obviously panders to tourism and consumerism, so to me....my opinion counts.  It is a place where image is everything….from those Buddy Holly glasses suddenly becoming trendy again to sporting purple plaid like Herb from the old TV show WKRP in Cincinnati would wear; it is a place where ‘iconic’ takes on a whole new meaning.  NYC Taxi’s, whether you like them or not, ARE New York.  How often do you see a picture of Times Square without 30 of them lined up?  With these new vans, it is going to look like 30 DHL delivery vans lined up; so standardized and dull with a twist of made not here, and assembled not here.

In closing, whether or not these Nissan's are right or wrong for New York or whether they are sharp or ugly is really a matter of personal opinion - and obviously, judging by some of the bed sheets I see women wrapping themselves in walking through the fashion district...well....lets just say opinions on what looks good and what doesn't vary GREATLY.  Perhaps in five years I'll just get used to them and end up buying one when it's all old and decrepit....after all....it IS a NYC Taxi....*gleam sparkles from glistening gleeful eye*.   I just think it is wrong to make individuals buy certain products.  I wouldn’t expect musicians in New York be forced to buy a certain trumpet or for drunken panhandlers be required to buy Becks vs. Schlitz.  There are so many decent vehicles in which to choose from for medallion owners to buy that are good for New York, it’s passengers, it’s drivers and themselves, so – let them be the ones to choose.  Occupy Nissan!  (kidding)