1979 Cadillac Coupe DeVille: Smiles Come Standard

In 1979, an older gentleman walked into a West Palm Beach, Florida Cadillac dealership, signed on the dotted line, and drove off the lot with what he thought was the nicest, classiest vehicle on the face of the Earth. Twenty-six years later, on the Friday before Labor Day of this year, a purchase & sale agreement was hastily written out on a sheet of notebook paper, money was exchanged, signatures were given, and ownership of this bright red acres-large luxobarge of a bygone era was transferred to a stupid young kid from Massachusetts who didn't quite know what he'd just gotten himself into.

I love big cars; the bigger the better. My friends, although they do not understand my reasoning behind preferring big heavy American tanks over smaller, sportier cars, never hesitate to inform me if they see something in their travels that they think might interest me. And while I always check out every car that crosses my radar screen, 99 times out of a hundred they are nothing special. So when my friend Nick told me about a big red Cadillac for sale only a mile away from my house, I immediately in my mind pictured a burgundy mid 80's long-body Fleetwood Brougham with the Oldsmobile 307 boat anchor in it. However, upon finding the car, I was delighted to see that when my friend said it was a big red Cadillac, he really meant it was a big red Cadillac!

While 98% of all Cadillacs this side of 1959 one will see are some subdued shade of blue, black, or silver, this particular Coupe DeVille left the factory wearing a magnificent coat of bright Firethorn Red with a white padded quarter roof and white leather interior, complete with a wonderful stainless steel sidespear that ends in a Packard-like hook on the header panel. Classic Detroit luxury for the most discerning pimp, hustler, or aging swinger with an orange spray-on shopping mall George Hamilton suntan; you will not find a Cadillac of this demeanor at your local country club. Obsolete the day it rolled out of the factory, it is the last gasping breath of seventies excess on a grand scale as 1980 would bring an end to Cadillac-exclusive big blocks, wild color schemes, and that great looking slanted rear greenhouse. The last of the big-body Cadillac coupes would roll off the assembly line in 1984. However, this fine machine (in full holiday dress!) being a 1979 model means it is equipped with the last big block Cadillac ever made, the 425. While it may not be as powerful and can't breathe quite as well as its 472 and 500 cubic inch big brothers, the Cadillac 425 is nonetheless a stout, smooth-running torque monster. With 2:28 gears in the rear end it does 0-60 by Tuesday, but you'd be able to pull your house with it if need be.

You're probably wondering what motivated me to buy such an odd car, and the answer is not concrete. I'm almost positive that nobody after 1981 made a conscious decision or concerted effort to go looking for a 1979 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, especially one so flamboyant, and I am no exception. The reason I purchased this car, aside from the fact that the old man that owned it threatened to send it to the crusher if I didn't take it, was because it spoke to me. I bought this car because, like myself at the time, it needed a little love. I felt sorry for the old girl sitting there by the side of the road; someone's former pride and joy that was now all but discarded, trying to put on its best face in the hopes that someone would swing by one day and save it from its imminent doom. The moment I saw it I knew I had to have it, cracked rear fender fillers and all. It will be nothing but a money pit and a headache for a long time to come; I will put far more into it than the car is worth, but for something that puts such an immense smile on my face every time I get behind the wheel, it will be worth it in the end. We were made for each other.

1939 Whizzer Motorbike!

I'm an only child. As a result of this, when I was still young and cute anyways, I was admittedly a tad spoiled by my parents. In accordance with this, my father, who is far more fascinated with machines than I am, felt it fit to bestow upon me this delightful little replica of a 1939 Whizzer Motorbike when I was just thirteen. On a street full of pedal bicycles and perhaps the occasional sticker-clad Honda Super Cub or rusty beat-up Puch somebody found under a pile of camping equipment in their uncle's garage, my Whizzer may as well have been a Cadillac. While other kids were dealing with greasy, noisy, ripcord-started blue-smoking two cycle engines or pumping their legs like a sucker on their Walmart blue light special Huffys, I was riding in velvety-smooth four-cycle style. 123 aluminum air-cooled flathead CC's of it to be exact, and I loved every minute of it. I took care of it better than I've taken care of anything in my life, and spent about as much time cleaning it as I did riding it. That's why it broke my heart the day this little black beauty bent a valve with only 91 miles on its little odometer. It hadn't even burnt a full tank of gas yet (at 120 miles per gallon it is both economical and stylish for all you hybrid-driving queers out there). Since that fateful day a few years back, this little sweetheart has sat in my basement under a cover, waiting to once again spend countless carefree afternoons with its loving owner who may have grown up, but will always be a kid at heart.

Well, here goes nothin'

Greetings, everybody. My name's Mac, and this is my little asscrack of the internet. Here you will read about all of my day to day nonsense as well as my hobbies, particularly cars, of which I feel obligated to save each and every one humanly possible. Pictures of neat shit are on their way.

Dress Rehearsal

Just testing to make sure this newfangled interweb thing works or not; better stuff is forthcoming, I assure you.