The Legendary Tozzimobile!

When I arrived in Norfolk, VA, in January of 2006, I decided that it was time to get a car that fit me better than any other I had owned before. The car I was driving at the time was perhaps the most un-Tozzi vehicle imaginable: a 1999 Ford Taurus.

I bought the Taurus when I was a senior at the Academy. It was the first car I had ever owned. At the time I had just gotten my driver's license for the first time (a result of growing up in NYC) and I was afraid that I would inadvertently crash and kill myself, so a high safety rating was important. I was also still in the Midshipman mindset that I should not be conspicuous while on liberty so that I could avoid getting caught breaking one of the Midshipman Regulation Manual's myriad of virtually impossible rules. Finally, I needed a vehicle with a lot of cargo capacity and I wasn't in the mood for a pickup truck. It made perfect sense at the time. It also had the added bonus of making would-be carjackers in the less pleasant neighborhood I frequented to drop off my then girlfriend think twice. They would look at my car while I was stopped at a traffic light. They would observe that it was a dark colored sedan with no markings or decorations of any kind. The would look at the driver (me) and notice the collared shirt and close-cropped haircut, and would then look the other way and run off whispering "Po po po po po po."

I entrusted the Taurus to my family when I left for Japan. When I returned, I was amazed to discover that despite their best efforts at destroying it, it was still in one piece. Still, I wanted a new car, at least one that was new to me.

Back to the Camaro story

Once in Norfolk, I combed through the local Auto Trader magazine and found one that caught my attention: A red 1989 Camaro!

It was owned by a Navy Chief whose mother-in-law had just died and left him three additional vehicles. He was not happy about getting rid of it, but I was very happy to take it off his hands for the modest price of $2000.

When one buys a car for $2000, there is normally a certain expectation. For many, the Adam Sandler song "Piece of Shit Car" comes to mind. This was certainly not the case with my new (to me) bitchin' Camaro.

Here's a short list of things that make my car so awesome:

1) It's blood red, like my favorite cordovan shoes.

2) It's cheap to maintain (I can do just about all the work on it myself, and I have only put $1500 of work into it; mostly engine upgrades and replacing a clutch after drag racing Mustangs ... and winning every time).

3) The power plant is a good old American 5.0 liter V8.

4) It runs better and rides smoother than most cars less than half its age and five times its price.

5) It's made of solid steel and weights nearly 4000 lbs, so you know it's safe.

6) The sound system is so sweet, I actually turn off the music before I get to my neighborhood so my neighbors don't find out and steal it (I live in the ghetto).

7) It's loud and obnoxious, like a man's car should be.

I had a girlfriend who hated my car for all of these reasons and then some more. She was jealous of the amount of time I spent working on improving it or simply driving it. Needless to say we are no longer on speaking terms. A real man doesn't let a woman stand between him and his car.

I love to make people jealous of my car. Every once in a while, a coworker (all my friends love my car) will try to criticize my car. They'll say things like,

"Sure, it looks nice, but I bet you pay out the ass for maintenance."

"Not so!" I retort. "It averages roughly $20 a month in regular maintenance, and that's only because I'm anal retentive about everything."

"But I bet it guzzles gas." They say.

"Hahahaha!" I sneer. "Only in the city. On the highway I get 20 MPG. With my short morning commute, I average about $120 a month on gas. Even with the monthly maintenance, it still beats the pants off whatever you pay a month just on financing your lemming-mobile. You can have your pre-packaged individuality. I'll stick with a REAL man's car."

They usually storm off or change the subject to something sports related.

When I ride with the T-tops off, I sometimes get dust in my eyes. To mitigate this potentially disastrous problem, I have discovered a wonderful piece of protective gear:

WWII RAF goggles. The British simply know how to travel.

You should see the looks I get when I wear these while driving around in Virginia Beach on a Saturday night. It's almost more fun than drinking myself into oblivion.

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Article originally posted 27 July 2007

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