My dad had his own car lot way back in the day. He always had different cars to drive around, almost a car for each day in the week. Some were wrecks and some weren’t. I remember this nice 1970 Chevy Caprice he brought home. It was white with a black textured roof and really nice condition. He let me drive it one day and when I had to park it in the garage I dinged the side on the fence. I wrecked it. The fence too. I didn’t get to drive the nice cars anymore. I don’t recall him getting mad about it though. He was pretty cool really.
So one day he brings home this little 1962 red Mercury Comet. I hated it. It was so ugly. And it was mine to drive. My friends didn’t really want to be seen in it but would break down and get in if they couldn’t get another ride home. We developed our own name for it, we dubbed it The Vomit. I’d pack all my buddies in the car and head to this one street where we knew there was this big dip. We’d get to the street and I would stop the car, make sure we were all set and then I’d floor it. By the time we got to the dip we were moving pretty fast. We’d hit that dip and BOOM we’d hit the other side. It was so much fun! It was like taking a bunch of friends off a ski lift. The girls would all brace themselves by holding onto the roof so they wouldn’t bounce up and hit their heads. It was so funny. We’d laugh and laugh. I think I was trying to wreck the Vomit so I didn’t have to drive it but the damn thing kept together no matter what I did to it.
So I was sitting around thinking about the Vomit and how it should have been named The Vomit then I got to thinking about all the dumb names for cars over the years. Who names cars (and streets for that matter?) Who was the guy who designed the rough and ready Ford Bronco and what was he thinking? Ford Bronco? Oh yeah, that’s how I want my truck to ride. A Bronco.
I’d like my truck to ride smooth and solid-heavy, like a truck. So why don’t they make one called the Ford Clydesdale? That name would have me knowing that truck could do anything. If you didn’t want the big truck version we could have an option of buying the smaller little pickup called The Shetland. Those sound like real names. Then again, maybe the Mustang is a jealous nag and doesn’t want the competition. These are the thoughts rolling through my brain.
A few of you baby boomers remember the Dodge Swinger from back in the 70’s. That was a stupid name. It sounds like some hot ad on the back of a girlie magazine. I never saw one ‘swinger’ driving a Swinger. They were all driving cool muscle cars not something that sounded like a cheesy pick up person wearing a polyester leisure suit.
Then there was that horrible Pacer car. Someone had their design head up their design butt on that one. What kind of name is the Pacer? It could have been called the Pace Maker since it was ugly enough to stop a heart. I remember going to the racetrack with my dad and we’d bet on horses that were pulling buggies and they were called pacers. They were a lot better looking and had more horsepower than that idiotic Pacer. I had a real aversion to the lime green ones.
But the winner would have to be the AMC Gremlin. Yep. It could have been called the WTF? Gremlin! Who wants to buy a car that is named after small recurrent problems that are hard to fix?
I had another car that was a doozy. It was a yellow 1981 Mercedes 300D (diesel). Because it was a diesel it was slow on the get-go but once it got rolling it was good and reliable. I had it for about 13 years or so. How’s that for reliable. I have clear mental images of my daughter growing up in that car. When she was 2-3 years old she would stand up (this was before child seats were enforced) and I’d seat belt her in place and drive. Then when she was 4-5 she would kneel and I’d strap her in place. From then on she could see over the dash so she sat normally. Then when she was 17 and had her license… She always flatly REFUSED to drive the “Banana Boat” as she and her friends would call it. I told her that I suspected one day she would ask me for the keys but she steadfastly held her ground and vehemently denied that she would.
Naturally, the day came when she sheepishly came to me to request the keys to the car (all of a sudden it was called a car and not the Banana Boat). I laughed, she hung her head and I walked outside with her so I could see with my own two eyes, my daughter driving off in the stinking yellow Mercedes, aka Banana Boat. She would not allow me to bring the camera.
She drove off and I stood there laughing. Orange-ja glad I don’t have the Banana Boat any longer dearest daughter? Below is a picture by Terri Border of Bent Objects that seems to fit my daughter’s dislike for the car. HA
Oh yeah, who names street signs?? I wouldn’t want to live here although I did live on a street once called Shell Street. Some drunk climbed up the pole one night and forever changed the name to Hell Street. Yep, that’s where I lived.
