Fate may have posed the 1965 Chrysler in the graveyard. But now I now needed a Fiat as the redeemer to the crumbling Chrysler. I waited in the cemetery, but nothing walked (or drove) out of the mausoleum. Well, “fate is for those too weak to determine their own destiny”. That would explain how Fiat became Chrysler’s fate. I was determined to find one, but for a while, it appeared that I was too weak to make my date with Fiat.

Fate intervened. I wasn’t going to do another Chrysler product CC for a while, after the two recent Plymouths. But there I was tooling out West 11th, when I spotted this red Chrysler up ahead. When I finally got next to him at a light, I waved my camera and gestured if he would pull over for a shoot. A nod of assent followed. But he kept burbling along, and I began to wonder. Suddenly, he pulled into the Lane Memorial Gardens. How fitting.

Chrysler’s logo should have been a bottle of Lithium, rather than the Pentastar. It suffered from severe Bipolar syndrome all its life, and sadly, died from it, at its own hands. Like many suicidal Bipolars (Van Gogh, Hemingway, Virgina Woolf), Chrysler’s many crashes and acts of self-mutilation were punctuated by fantastic highs of brilliant engineering, design and creativity. Chrysler has taken us on quite the roller coaster ride. And now it’s over. as we stumble out of our (hemi powered) coaster car, we’re left with an intense mixture of relief, thrill, and sadness.

Once upon a time, two Jeep Gladiators were built at the great big Jeep factory in Toledo, Ohio. One Gladiator was white, and the other was green. Gladiators were built to be the toughest trucks in the whole world. They could outwork any other pickup. And outlast them too. And for thirty some years, the white and green Gladiators worked and worked, doing all sorts of really hard jobs. Then one day, a couple of years ago, the white Gladiator said to the green Gladiator “I don’t need to do this hard work anymore. I’ve figured out an easier way to make a living!”

Excitement is an ephemeral phenomenon. As was Pontiac. It had its glorious day in the sunshine of the exciting sixties. Pontiac was like the polite, quiet middle child who ran away to California in the early sixties, became a huge star, crashed in 1970, and played the county fair nostalgia circuit ever since. In between repeated bouts in rehab. And now we’re here to pay our last respects.

You know those anti-meth ads, which graphically show the physiological effects of speed – lots of bad skin and rotten teeth? Well, this car is the automotive equivalent of the tweaker. I found it sitting forlorn among the garbage cans in a dirty alley, complete with lumpy, flaking yellow skin, bald tires revealing their cords, and exuding the smell of cold, stale tobacco. And desperately awaiting its next hit of crank. The Duster 340 is the speed freak incarnate.

This is the very car that inspired Curbside Classics. I’ve been admiring its blocky solidity for ten years, whenever its owner and I happen to workout at the Y simultaneously. I can count on its reassuring, unchanging presence at least a couple of time a month – an anchor of constancy in this turbulent world. And you can’t get much more anchor-like than this cast-iron 1951 Plymouth Cranbrook. But anchors sink, and this car began Plymouth’s long dive into the deep blue.

A Stanza wagon? What the NSFW! Before you run for the exits/bookmarks, give me a minute to spell out my Curbside Classics criteria: 1) at least twenty-five years old; 2) used as a daily or regular driver; 3) shows the patina of age; 4) has a significant place in automotive history; 5) has a place in my personal automotive history; 6) has distinctive design features; 7) has an enthusiast following; 8) represents the unique carscape of Eugene; 9) is under-appreciated; and 10) inspires me to write about it. Believe me, the boxy Nissan (a.k.a. Prairie) is worthy.

I once met a girl in a complicated and unfulfilling dream. But it was so vivid, that for years afterwards, I had trouble remembering whether she had been a real girlfriend or a figment of my nocturnal imagination. Stumbling across this 1967 MGB-GT brings up the same confusion: did I actually own an identical “B”, or was it too just a dream?

Take a good long look at this handsome car. This beauty was one of the best in that beautiful decade of the sixties. Are you seeing its magnetic attraction yet? Well, this rough survivor might need a little help; try squinting a bit. I sure saw it when I was seventeen; I simply couldn’t keep my eyes off a black coupe exactly like this. And as a consequence, I learned a painful and lasting lesson. OK, better stop looking and keep reading.

What makes a car a true classic? Being one of the handsomest and most enduring designs of its time? Staying in production for twenty years? Having a long-stroke in-line engine with a classic OHC hemi-head? Winning a big race at the ‘Ring? Having illustrious heads of state as loyal owners? Or just slapping a chrome “Classic” badge on its flanks? How does this Rambler stack up? Has it earned its chops, or is it an imposter?

It’s hard to look at this old Saab and not get choked up. And it’s not just because this once proud and spunky company is on the ropes. Old Saabs just have a way of stirring my emotions. This is going to be a Saab story.

Rambling along the streets of Eugene, I encounter cars that unleash memories and musings. Today’s nostalgia comes courtesy of the 1971 Cadillac Coupe DeVille.

1971 was a very BIG year for Cadillac, as well as for US workers and me. And in a number of ways, things haven’t been quite the same for any of us since. When this 1971 Coupe DeVille first rolled off the assembly line, it was the biggest ever, a full nineteen feet long and almost seven feet wide. And it remains the high-water mark for American cars. The ’71 Caddy was the quintessential land barge. It floated along serenely and optimistically across America on the still youthful and un-crowded interstate system, its 7.7 liter V8 slurping a gallon of 39 cents gas every 12 blissfully isolated mile.

My remedy for advanced bailout fatigue (and looming cold December): two weeks in Hawaii. I decided to leave the choice of rental cars in the hands of the island gods. And they spoke, with more wisdom and prescience than I might have imagined. Turns out that escape from the bitter truth about The Big 2.8’s death rattles is impossible, even on the most remote islands on the globe. How else could I be comparing a Dodge Charger with a fifteen-year old Toyota Camry?

TTAC called it over a year ago: diesel market share in Europe was destined to drop because of the narrowing gap in fuel consumption with the new “downsized” turbo-charged gasoline engines. And so it has come to pass. According to Auto Motor und Sport [print], oil burners’ share of the 2008 German new car market’s down to 30.6 percent, year-to-date. The fact that diesel now costs about the same as gas in Germany, due to lower taxes for diesel, also plays into the arithmetic. But the consumption numbers (ECE combined) for these two almost identically powered Golf IV versions really tell the tale: 140hp TDI – 5.4L/100km (43.56mpg); 160hp TSI – 6.0L/100km (39.2mpg). The TDI’s consumption advantage is down to a mere 10 percent. But the diesel engine costs considerably more. The 1.4 liter TSI engine, which combines a very diesel-like torque curve with smoothness and rev-ability, would make a terrific budget GTI in the new Rabbit.