Mazdar of the Universe
There are few things in this world mightier than an 80's Japanese subcompact. It is an indestructable four doored artifact, a testament to the eternal force that is a Mazda 323, enduring the hazards and ravages of times gloomy procession. A machine so well designed it can race at speeds nearing 100 miles per hour, yet calmly idle at 9000 rpms in front of a red traffic light. It was built to last, its spirit of endurance couched in a Japanese architects conceptions of infinity and wipe clean vinyl dashboards.
The 1986 Mazda 323 is a remarkable piece of shit. Some amazing things about it are (i) that is has cost me minimum $2000 a year to drive, (ii) it has terrible gas (iii) mileage and a few dents (iiii) on its metallic (iiiii) silver frame (iiiiii) I have gone totally insane with this.
The signs that I'm going insane are (i) my newfound dependence on numerical lists (ii) the total (iii) misuse of such listing (iiii) terminology and pro(iiiii)cesses
I inherited the 323 from my (i)Dad after a year in University. At which point he adopted a new Japanese subcompact as his car of(ii) choice. My family has only driven tiny Japanese cars, we are the cheapest people in North America. Anyway, this car has been with me through thick and thin. It has seen many highways, and it will see a lot more, it has had several stereos, speakers, amplifiers and car audio gizmos. One of these gadgets actually burst into flame while I was driving and filled the car with plasticy smoke. I had to roll down the windows and pull over, find the burning technology and stamp out the fire with my sneakers. It was hilarious.
I've slept in this car on several rough nights. I've impressed babes with its rickety construction and blaring stereo. I've racked up tons of speeding tickets, moving violations and parking tickets. In fact, if I park anywhere in this city, I already have several parking tickets there, my glovebox is packed full of tickets, and I generally run the risk of having my car towed and destroyed on sight. It is an impressive looking vehicle, tattooed on the outside and inside with retarded skateboard and band stickers. The garbage in the passenger and backseats piles up waist high, there is an eternal faint scent of hamburgers and coke. This is because somewhere in all that garbage is a hamburger and a coke I lost while driving to a lake. Broken cassettes, broken skateboard decks, broken glass and clothes fill the trunk. Usually when people get out of my car the garbage spills out after them. Then I tell them to fish out any valuables and return the garbage to its home.
One summer the windshield wiper motor broke. It then rained every day for 2 months. I devised a weird lever and pulley system made entirely of bootlaces to manually operate the wipers. Whenever it rained I had to drive around with the window open so I could tug on the laces to simulate the wiping motion necessary for driving without crashing. My head and chest was always soaking wet whenever I had driven anywhere in the rain. So this uneasy situation lasted for most of the rainy season. I recall driving home from the bar one night in a sudden monsoon, I couldn't see anything, and my manual method was no match for the rain. So I thought about how the force flows through all things in the universe, and I used it as my guide. And I cheated death yet once more!
My car is like me a survivor, if you define survivor as money pit. It has had many expensive surgeries, and it will probably need a lot more. But I don't mind, I pay for it all gladly. In this "use once and destroy" culture that car is already on 10 years of borrowed time. Fucking A. That car is still gonna be on the road when people sell the cars they bought today to the scrapyard. I fully intend to have it converted to a jet fuel burning rocket car when I can afford it. After that I'll rip out all the seats and install a mattress. The windshield will be replaced with bulletproof glass and the dashboards will be made of gingerbread. All of this will be to ensure that until the day I die I will drive that car. And when I do die, I want it to be buried with me, between me and my wife, who I also expect will be entombed with me, healthy or not.
My friends as a rule won't ride in my 323. I think they're just being pussies. I understand their fear since I fixed the brakes myself and the transmission is kinda in and out, but fuck it. They have nicer cars, but not better ones. My 323 is stained with my bizarre personality, its a symbol of me, and it gives me the freedom to travel short distances, and is a home to a proud family of raccoons that live inside the seats.