The Buick got away. A spotless '50 sedan, it crossed in front of me on seventeenth street and sped away in a baby blue blur. I followed the Ford Galaxie down Colorado until I could catch it at a light. The Pontiac convertible with the surfboards was going too fast.
I knew where the Buick lives. It hasn't moved in over a decade, slumbering at the end of its driveway. I went around the block so as not to miss the Fairlane. With its baby fins, it is a dedicated to Lynette. And it simply wouldn't be Santa Monica without a Rolls.
The abandoned Jaguars live at the British Car mechanic. They went there for hope, but it apparently evaded them. All of the Volkswagens are in daily use. Some I pass every day, others peeked out at me for the first time. All of these photos except one are from today. The newest car shown predates the Reagan presidency.
These are the classic rides of Santa Monica and Venice. Some are driven every day, some have morphed into inert sculpture. Some are as immaculate as the day they came off the line in Detroit or Wolfburg, some are patinaed, some are useful only as parts. My own daily driver is included. He insisted on it.
Each one makes its own unique statement. Take a look at the classic rides of Santa Monica:
See them all here