I call it whatever I want to call it

OK, let’s talk about cars. And while about them, let’s talk about how much, with deep and abiding fidelity, I love the Mercedes Benz W123 chassis more than any other car ever made. I’ve been lucky in my life when it comes to cars. I’ve had the normal clunker (JJ will remember my first car more than most—gearing up for homecoming maybe junior year I picked him up at his house, he rolling on his skateboard and holding on the passenger side door with the window down while we drove from his house the two blocks to the high school parking lot where I sped up and subsequently slammed on the breaks, launching him [on his skateboard] toward a yellow wall of school bus in the faculty parking lot as we were supposedly going to go help the student counsel geeks build our junior year float for the parade [was there a parade?] and the ambulance that was called [JJ’s dad was the Assistant Pastor at our church so he didn’t have the health insurance] and his not wanting to go to the hospital because he knew the financial [and physical—meaning his dad would kick the shit out of him for taking an ambulance and the costs it would no doubt incur] and practical sticks in the mud such a [short] trip would cost him), and the all-time standby love, the Toyota pickup truck, which was home to many a road trip and some of the saddest roadmoments of my life (which will be saved, to be certain, for another post), but, then, after all that young stuff (and a brief stint with cars I don’t want to remember owning), I get the car I’d always wanted: a 1981 Mercedes-beige 240d: slow off the line, bulletproof, hand-cranked sunroof, manual windows, matching hubcaps and interior. I loved this car. Biodiesel, class, I felt like The Shit, no matter who was honking at my on the Arizona onramps. I had a Fugazi sticker on the window as my only Modification (just as all my other cars had only a Fugazi sticker—and nothing else—from Stinkweeds on it). At the time I also had a silver 1965 Vespa SuperSprint 150 in the stable, so I was pretty much the pinnacle of King Fucking Shit on Terd Island as far as driveways were concerned. I was working at Lux, which was for all intents and purposes the coolest espresso bar south of Portland in the USA in 200—what? 2? The sound of the door closing. So solid, safe, in control. It was the beginning of my realization that, no matter what, what my mother always said was more correct than I’d ever want to admit: class isn’t a determinant of socio-economic status. (Tho,  now, I’m not even sure if she herself understood her posit.) Something about existentialism and the ability to live the life that one chose to live was in there, getting sorted out. I wore cowboy boots to work every day, with a black t-shirt and tight, expensive jeans. I had gone out and purchased glasses that required research, extra work/convincing the optometrist that I had to have, and realized that I didn’t have to be rich to enjoy the Fine Things in life. Driving that car around, I felt like I knew something that my family didn’t understand or like: I bought that car for 1400$ (talking down the guy from 1500$, which was the only way I could purchase the car while still feeling like a Mains) eventhough I knew my dad would be bummed that I bought a German car. (It’s so fucking expensive to fix, parts are so hard to come by, etc.) I’d done my research, tho: this car had the THE best production engine ever made, and, goddamnit, it was smart. I had the car for about three months, didn’t check the oil much (which, if you know these cars, they burn a little, and you have to check the oil), and, one night, driving home from work, late, a line that was Important, popped off, and the engine sized. Not. The. Point. This car was my baby. It was the first car I loved. My boss at Lux (himself a Europhile in the auto department, albeit a different tint of one) approved, and since he was a Mench in all ways I wanted to be a mench, this was important to me—he thought they were sexy and bulletproof—and that was enough in lieu of familial approval. It sat in my driveway (only time I’ve ever had a driveway, btw) as I rode my bike and Vespa around for the next however-long. But this car was—truly—the Deepest Fucking Shit. This car made me realize that I had my own sense of style, my own sense of purpose, and that I knew what I liked, no matter what anyone else said (and by anyone, I, obviously, mostly, mean my dad). When I moved for graduate school, I sold that car, and my Vespa. (I thought I needed the money and that I was impractical.) Graduate school: I landed a job that was probably, to date, the most pimp, fucking radically braggable job I’ve had: full Faculty positioning, doing weird, cutting edge stuff with a guy named Josh who would become one of my closest friends (which is, itself, a strange, wild phenomenon). F/F a bit: it was the credit economic bubble: everyone was buying shit they shouldn’t: condos, whatever. I bought a really sweet top-of-the-line VW Passat stationwagon. Rims, turbocharged, heated seats, all the best shit. It was, truly, in every sense of the word, awesome. While I was at it, tho, I also bought I 1983 Mercedes 300sd as a commuter car. It was gunmetal grey (the Passat was the same), so, all of a sudden, I’m rocking a fucking stable of cars. This 300sd was made of magic. My girlfriend at the time, obviously, loved the Passat—what, with the heated seats and the fancy, brand new-whatevers, but she loved the SD because I loved the SD so much. This car could do anything, and, on road trips, it was smoother and more solid than this Passat that cost, literally, 20x as much. I put nearly 80k miles on this SD, only changing the oil and rotating the tires and all that normal stuff, and then went and sold it for a profit after all that. It was a dream, or at least, the most dreamy that any possession can be a dream. I loved this car. At this time, I realize that I 1) love the W123 chassis, and, 2) want a black W123 coupe with tan interior in my birth year. (NB: maybe I knew this in 2002, but it’s a realization that grows on a body.) F/F again. I sell both gunmetal grey cars and move to Portland, Oregon, with 150$ in my pocket. I buy my ex-wife a car. What does she want? A 1981 black Mercedes 300d. Done. It’s nothing like the smooth 300sd—it’s got problems, it’s hers…. Fuck it. I get to drive it at least once a week (which is great, because I don’t own a car). My daughter loves it because it reminds her of my SD. She totals it. (I keep promising myself that I’ll never believe it’s because of spite.) And I buy her an old Volvo (which is sexy, and solid, and unbelievably cheep). But, by this point in the game, I know I have a dream car: a 1982 (my birth year) Mercedes Benz 300cd (the coupe of the car I’ve loved for so long). They have all the sexy curves, the bulletproof engine, the chrome, all the shit that I now know is my favorite. Then, what happens? (This is tied in to woo-woo bullshit, and the new woman I’m dating, and my new outlook on life, and my beginning to shed the 40+ lbs. I gained when I moved here because I was deeply depressed.) I find, on a hung-over listing on craigslist after coming home from AWP, an ad for just the car. (NB: the W123 coupe was the rarest of all W123s, having only about 6k made of the two million W123 chassis, so imagine not only the rarity of the coupe, but of the black/tan combo, not to mention the make-year being 1982.)  No price. I called. Turns out, I know the bastard selling the car, and he’s a Stumptown Friend. I buy the car. Now, for the past year or so, I’m driving around what literally is my Dream Machine. It’s sexy, it’s biodiesel, it’s smooth. I start dating the woman of my dreams. She likes the car enough to say she likes it, which is, certainly, something. I’m, all of a sudden, a Stumptown roaster, professor, and young, who is rocking this fucking Dream Machine all over one of the three coolest cities in the world. Who am I? How does this happen?