Category: Car and Driver

Between 1968 and 1970, Datsun would introduce the 510 sedan, the 240Z sports car, and a new-generation compact pickup, all of which became legendary. Their predecessors, the cars you’d find in a Datsun store earlier in the 1960s? Not so much.

There were more than 50 American-made sports cars available in the years between the end of the war and the introduction of the Chevrolet Corvette in 1953. But perhaps none are as important or intriguing as the cars made by Sterling Edwards, even if he only managed to make about a half-dozen over as many years.

Ain’t nothin’ but a G thang, baby.
Three diff-locked G’s so we’re crazy.

The latest installment in my “Social History Of…” column for Car and Driver. Click on the thumbnail above (and then click again) to read a crappy scan, or just buy the magazine on the newsstand, you chintzy bitch.

Just as a mortal cannot stroll into Giza and ride out onto the rivers of the Underworld in a funerary boat, a billionaire cannot pull up at the local Aston Martin dealer and simply write a check for the hyper-rare Valkyrie. They have to get on The List.

My feature story for the June, 2017 issue of Car and Driver. Click on the thumbnails above (and then click again) to read a crappy scan, or just buy the magazine on the newsstand, you chintzy bitch.

We believe this was also the plot of an episode of “Yogi’s Gang,” but memory is as evanescent as art.

If the Volvo brand were a Rorschach blot, most Americans would see a station wagon. But it’s existence was a fortuitous accident.

Click on the thumbnail above (and then click on it again) to view a crappy scan of my triumphant return to the pages of Car and Driver, or just buy the magazine on the newsstand, you chintzy bitch.

Can the world tolerate one more automotive franchise from me? Car and Driver certainly hopes so. Introducing “The Orphan Chronicles,” an ongoing historical series about faded and under-appreciated American car brands.

First up: Anderson Motor Company, of Rock Hill, South Carolina. “A Little Higher in Price, But Made in Dixie”

Taking the world of historic preservation beyond the realm of, “If it moves, we’re not interested.”

The moon-needled, white-faced speedometer goes to 150 mph. The altimeter goes to heaven. The grin on my face goes to my earlobes.

An annual parade of the smoky plastic shit-box that (barely) put East Germany on wheels, at a museum, in Washington D.C.