The Supper Car Club

…and yes, you read that right. “Supper Car” Club.

Why “supper”? Simply put, supper is the term usually used by my kids when refering to dinner-time here, and weekday dinners (or “supper”) are usually nothing over-the-top or spectacular, just a fill-you-up on good food moment in the day. A necessary part of the day, without a lot of fluff. Kind of fitting as you’ll see when we get to the cars that would be in this club.

I had stumbled across the supercar club idea back in 2000, and thought “novel idea”… but then dismissed it, and went back at my day job. This past week, the thought popped back in my head while parking at the Post Office to ship out some designs, and I parked next to a perfectly preserved Gremlin. (I know!! Bitchin’!!) How long has it been since you’ve seen one of those? Apparently, the three other folks checking it out had the same thought. (note to the owner of said ride: What I wrote on my card is serious. I want your car.)

If you’re into exotics, you no doubt know of organizations like Group 20’s incredible Super Car Club, or P1 Prestige and Performance Car Club, or a few others. The basic idea is a shared-access plan, wherein members have access to a number of exotics and luxury cars for about the same cost as owning ONE. Pretty slick, and not unlike shared-access plans for yachts, jets, beach mansions, islands and so-on. So, for like $30k per year, plus a $5-10k membership fee, you’re driving a number of cool cars throughout the year, insurance included. Nifty if you’re of the persuasion that can afford it. Me? Nope. I fall more in line with my nifty idea: The Supper Car Club.

Regular folks cruising regular (and occasionally rare!) cars. We’ll round up a group of investors, and purchase a fleet of hand-picked, basic transportation cars from the past and present (if you can get ‘em from the future, well, we’d like a word with you, too!). We’ll set up a membership fee based on the value of the cars, say $75.00 to join, plus like $300.00/year, and base it all on a points system, allowing everyone access to the cars. You may buy extra points, or trade points for allowing off-use days for cars, etc. Naturally, cruising the Cavalier rag top in June would be double he points of the Cimmaron with the broken A/C, but hey, this is about exclusivity.

I can hear it now– “Why would anyone want to drive a car like a Citation, or a Fairmont sedan, or an ‘80 El Camino with a broken tailgate?” NOSTALGIA. Unless you were some spoiled brat as a teenager, chances are that through college (or beyond if you draw cars for a living and have kids), you’ve driven some questionable-looking, as well as performing cars. And what always comes up in converations about those times past (or present… it happens)? “Man, I hated that car, but I miss it!” Admit it. That ‘79 Delta 88 with the door skins flapping in the breeze was pretty cool. You had FUN with it. I sure as hell did. And my friends still remember that car… even the ones I bump into so many years later… And think about it: If you’re into cars like I am, you check everyhing out. Like the afforementioned Gremlin. I was drawn to that like flies on… oh wait, bad comparison… but you get the idea. A car that hits home will draw as much, if not more attention than some exotic ride. (consider Playboy’s Farmer’s Daughters specials— I read it for the article on cobbler — was that a fluke? The girl next-door is always more approachable, and often more realistic. I bet they sold millions. Cars are the same way, I’ve found.)

Admit it: You had this poster right next to that one with the white Lamborghini.

We’ll offer typical high school and college-year cars, and even a few hot rod-style versions… Maybe ‘78 Malibu with a severe rake, N-50’s and Jensen 6×9’s on the package tray, or even a hand-me-down LTD in powder blue… The kind of stuff you had back then. Imagine pulling up to your reunion in a Camaro with a dented fender, a Moroso decal and sheepskin seat covers, just like you had back in school? Talk about keeping it real. No rental Caddy for you. Just bringing back memories, much like your mullet and parachute pants. And for those who were in all of the musicals, or had weird parents, we’ll round up some used Volvos, VW’s, and the cream of the crop:

…it’s tres chic

(I’m showing the smaller cars so that we get the “green” folks on board. Fret not, my fellow size 34 EEE carbon-footprint friend, I’ll be battling you for points on the Granada with the bad valve seals and cracked rings. We’ll have a little something for everyone. AMC Eagle? We’ll have THREE.) All told, I think that once the trendies see Justin Timberlake pull up at the ESPY’s in the Monaco with the Keystone mags, bad paint and bubbling tint on the windows, this club will be hotter than some crystal and gold-leaf decoupaged Von Dutch hat in an LA boutique after seeing it on a video awards show. If you’re in, hit me up… This will be huge, and a total blast. I have a line already on a Volare’ wagon and a cherry Grand Prix…

More insight/design/lunacy over at www.problemchildkustoms.com.

If they made you feel safe…

…well then, by golly, they wouldn’t have been as fun, now would they?

A lot like the Millenium Falcon: Not much to look at, but had it where it counted. I am a nerd.

And they certainly wouldn’t have been hot rods.
I got to thinking the other day while cruising across the Valley to work on a project, about what makes a hot rod so damn much fun. Granted, this isn’t the kind of thing that should involve any thought to begin with (for cryin’ out loud, they’re freakin’ HOT RODS. What more needs to be said?!), but it brought to mind my teenage years, and the siren-like lure of hot rods and street machines in general. 
In my circle of friends, we didn’t have the biggest budgets for cars, and we made due with what we had and could barter for or get our hands on with our relatively tiny paychecks. And looking back on it, it made for some interesting, if not terrifying rides. Sure, none of us had what the sticklers today would call a “traditional” rod or custom, but, if you stop and consider it, how much more traditional can a car get than when you stuff waaaaaayyyy too much power into a car that really shouldn’t have that much? Sounds pretty grass-roots to me.
I could sit here and tell the tales of a Pontiac-powered ‘83 Thunderbird (well, it needed an engine, and wouldn’t you know it, that Pontiac slid in on a combination of Ford frame mounts and Poncho block-side mounts. Sounded good to us!), a big block Chevy-powered ‘68 Firebird (where’d ya think that Pontiac mill came from?), a series of super-quick Mustangs and G-Body Cutlass and Monte Carlo’s… or even Bullitt-style jaunts to work, leaving late, but managing to arrive just on time. But the point here is that feeling you get when you slide into a car that’s got a bit too much under the hood, and maybe wasn’t ever meant to have it.
I recall my buddy’s ‘78 Firebird, with a healthy small block and 4-speed, tearing up the streets after school… Always just on that ragged edge, where you want to dig your fingers into the dash pad, but you can’t seem to stop laughing enough to reach forward, especially on that clutch-less shift to third… Or maybe you were too occupied with holding parts on the car. White-knuckle rides in a certain cranberry-colored ‘73 Cutlass etched some scenes into my brain, and probably a few stains in the underwear of the hapless folks occupying the next lane. Or holding on for dear life in another friend’s Sebring with a super-stout 440. Yeah, my Chevelle was fun, but had slightly more civility, having been more carefully watched over during construction by the fine folks who not only gave me life, but a garage to park and work in. My ‘72 Monte, however, was put together quickly in the driveway and always had that “recipe for disaster” feel to it, and just begged to be driven as such (nothing beats brake lines held together with a half-dozen unions, one seatbelt, and an uncanny ability to vapoirize tires with a mash of the go-pedal). It remains one of my all-time favorites, and I only owned it for a short period.
My parents had a ‘55 Chevy for a bit that fell into this category… with a primered body, sitting tall on black steelies and dog-dish caps, with that high-winding 283 (with killer M/T valve covers, too!), a Muncie, and 4.11’s, it was dangerously quick, and made you feel guilty just standing near it… and you know what? I loved that.
I’m not talking about some half-assed “rat rod” turd bucket that’s deliberately thrown together with reckless abandon, or some poorly engineered (on purpose) “hey, dig me!” fairgrounds dumpster… Nor am I glorfying the utterly retarded things we did as kids… but more to the point, I’m finally at terms with what got me so deep into cars in every respect:
The whole feeling of riding that edge, whether you were screwing around on some back road, or just idling through the local cruise night parking lot. You felt like all hell might break loose at any second, and by golly, you were racing toward that moment. Fortunately, we seemed to, for the most part anyway, escape certain doom and live on into our 30’s and ’40’s… pretty well adjusted at that. Except that burning urge to throw that old small block into the wife’s mini van, of course… but that seems natural…