For a long time, I had my heart set on a first generation Chevy Camaro, specifically the 1969 model year. My real love was the second generation Corvette, but it was too expensive, so I focused my affection toward the more attainable Camaro. In 1992, after a few years of saving money, I was ready to purchase a '69 Camaro. I bought an Auto Trader magazine every Thursday (the day the new issues were published) and checked out a number of cars over the next six months. Unfortunately, the cars I considered were either too heavily modified, over-priced, or in poor condition. I finally settled for a 1991 Camaro RS, in black with a 305 cubic inch motor mated to a 5-speed manual transmission. I added an Alpine stereo and amp, Polk Audio speakers, and of course….an Alpine alarm to keep her safe. One key driver for this decision was marriage. I was on the hook to get hitched in late 1992 and I wanted to make sure I bought my toy before life's priorities changed (ergo, while my savings account was still my savings account). Mission accomplished. I had my car and I had my wife….life was good…for a little while, anyway.
In May 1993, my friend, his girlfriend, my like-new wife (she was still under warranty), and I drove to Bishop, CA in my Camaro to do some trout fishing up in the cool mountain creeks. We had a great time walking the creek banks, gently dunking our lures into the clear, moving water, catching hungry rainbow trout. The stringer was full…our cup runneth over. We grilled the ultra-fresh fish and dined amongst the pine trees, being serenaded by the creek behind us. Life was great. After a beautiful dinner, it was time to pack up the car and head back home to Los Angeles. As I drove down the winding mountain road, I had the misfortune of taking a wrong turn. The road went right and I inadvertently went straight…straight down the side of the mountain. About T-5 (that's "tee minus five" or five minutes before launch for you non-space weenies), my wife uttered something along the lines of, "Wayne, slow down…." About one nano-second before launch, I forcefully implanted my right boot into the brake pedal, white-knuckled the steering wheel, and uttered the infamous words, "AH SHIT!!!" The fishing trip was over and so was my Camaro. (Editor's Note: Kids, you'd better not be using that kind of language. It's only acceptable when you're driving your car off a cliff).
After the Camaro's untimely expiration, I bought a used, white Toyota truck, with the anticipation of a bass boat being towed behind it some day. The truck didn't have my heart, but it was reliable transportation and it didn't need to be washed and waxed every other week like the Camaro. I washed the truck once a year, whether it needed it or not. In the autumn of 1995, with the traumatic Air Camaro incident a distant memory, my wife agreed to a bass boat. The plan was to purchase it in the summer of 1996, although I was negotiating to get it in the spring, in time for the largemouth bass spawn. The truck may not have had my heart, but this boat sure did. It was going to be a Bass Tracker from Bass Pro Shops -- a 16 foot, aluminum bass boat, with live-wells, rod lockers, Hummingbird fish finder, Minn Kota trolling motor, and 25 HP Mercury outboard. Unfortunately, plans change. In December 1995, I was informed that someone impregnated my wife. So much for the bass boat. :(
All I can say is BEWARE OF FILIPINO WOMEN! Just give them a wink and boom, they're pregnant. Talk dirty to them and you'll surely have twins.
Here's a picture of my bass boat today.
Here's a picture of my brother's bass boat: