1958 Volvo PV544 with my dad in the driver's seat.
In Dad's own words:
In spring of 1963 this Little marvel of Swedish engineering agreed to take me across the plains and deserts of Rt. 66 to the Mojave Desert. It never failed me, although it sacrificed portions of its valves and piston rings to get me there. Long May it Run.
I have my oil change appointment tomorrow morning at 8:42 (yes, they're that precise).
In other car stuff, to the owner(s) of the nice house in the spottily-gentrified area of Akron I drive through on my way to and from work, your BEWARE of dog signs only work as long as people don't see your two little terriers in the yard being all adorbs. Hyperbole aside, cuteness is not a killing weapon.
To the dude with the Star Trek personalized message on a Superman license plate, I am really impressed at your mingling of fandoms and a little bummed that you're probably married.
To the person with the plate 8U4DNR, why would you hate someone for choosing a Do Not Resuscitate order? That's very selfish.
To the person with the plate N8FKIN, whose next of kin and why does it matter?
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