I am cruising around in my grandfather’s ’93 Crown Vic this week. It’s got like 34k miles on it. The air conditioning is an arctic wind that leaves my fingertips numb after ten minutes. It rides like a velvet hovercraft.
Last week it was my folk’s ’95 Suburban, which is an ecological nightmare and ugly as three kinds of sin. Early nineties GM products feel to me like they’re just waiting for an opportune moment to shit the bed and leave me stranded somewhere. Plus, who wants to be seen driving a fucking gas hog like that? (The ’84 Benz is down for the count just now, and the family needs me to hang on to these cars while they work out where he’s going to live.)
But this Crown Vic… no wonder you see these old guys in them all the time. Damn car feels like a million bucks.