“Christine”from Stephen King, 1958 Plymouth Fury, in whiteboard marker on dry erase board
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Plymouth Fury Taxi, 1972. From the Chrysler Corporation's fuselage styling era. Like many manufacturers, Plymouth made specific Taxi versions of the sedans. Both the Fury and the Satellite were available
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Many people know I love KITT from Knight Rider, but not a lot of people know I also love Christine!
In 2021, I just happened to see her parked all by herself at a car show. I couldn't resist a photo opportunity!
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Driving Through Chamonix, France, 1960s
Mickey Crisp
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A couple days ago, I was walking home. This isn’t an unusual phenomenon for me: I store a variety of transportation methods inside my car, so that when the car bonks out I don’t have to walk all the way home. However, I got doubly unlucky this time, and the decrepit skateboard I was using lost a wheel. When you’re out for a walk through an endless sprawl of suburban hell, your mind wanders. What’s our place in the universe? Is there life after death? Holy shit, a mint 1996 Geo Metro.
I couldn’t stop myself from walking over. There, in the middle of what were putatively normal peoples’ homes, was a green-and-rust Metro. And it didn’t even look that bad, either. Some quick inspection revealed that the front suspension was, indeed, still attached to the body. And it was a stick-shift, the transmission choice of the gods themselves. It was only then that I noticed the house was for sale. Maybe they’d want to get rid of the car, too. After all, garages were expensive, and the departure of their vehicle would give them a reason to move closer to the inner-city, where I’m told things like “buses” and “taxis” existed.
The next day (believe me, it was hard to wait, but my phone also stopped working due to being a 1998-era Ericsson bag phone with a 24-volt marine battery attached, and I left it in the car rather than carry it home) I called the realtor In Charge Of All This. She sounded confused. She wasn’t selling any Geo Metro, she stammered, presumably signalling to her coworkers to call the police. After a few minutes of explanation, she agreed, grudgingly, to provide my contact information to the folks selling their house.
I never got a call back on that one. Which is just as well, because that afternoon I broke down in an entirely different place (transmission cooler exploded, and not in the cool way) and had to hoof it back. That’s where I found a 1968 Fury III in what I would consider “existent” condition. I was really excited to buy that one, too, until I noticed that I already owned it. At least driving it home saved me some wear and tear on my shoes.
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Pico Boulevard in Santa Monica, 1966. Photo by Denise Scott Brown.
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