I bought my first 1949 Plymouth four-door sedan when I was a sophomore at the University of New Mexico. It cost just $800 and I think it reminded me of a car our landlord had when we first moved to the United States. My Plymouth was shiny black, encrusted with chrome and drove like a dream. It had the original flat-head six engine, way more powerful than you'd expect. You can cruise at 70 mph without even knowing it. (If I ever figure out how to use the scanner portion of my new fax machine, the one that's also a copier, printer and 12-speed blender, I'll post some pix)

I drove that Plymouth everywhere, all over town, all over the state, all over the west. I finally - reluctantly - sold it when I graduated college and took my first newspaper job at the Phoenix Gazette in 1989. I never stopped missing it though, and as soon as I could, I bought another one. Drove it everywhere, all over LA and Ventura and Orange counties. Drove it to Malibu, where it's lived happily for the last 11 years. Until last week.

The dogs, who must yesyesyes right now RIGHT NOW be walked every day, were at Bluffs Park. One of their favorite spots any time, but since the fire? Doggy heaven. You can see everything all at once all the time, no pesky grass or shrubs or trees to get between you and that bunny. And something about the crispy smell drives them a little mad.

So we've been there for an hour or so, finally exhausted. Get into the Plymouth. Turn the key and it starts. But instead of hitting that nice, growly Plymouth note, the thing just screams, roars and shakes like a jet at LAX. I don't even remember turning off the key but I must have because we're still on the tarmac - I mean, in the parking lot - and the car is silent. Pop the hood and the caburetor's got this thingy hanging off of it and there's gas all over. AAA tows us to Kelly at Malibu Auto, who takes a look and delivers the bad news: the piece that fell off may have dropped bits of metal into the engine and cracked a piston. Final diagnosis to come.

So here's the photo of the wonderful guy from Malibu Towing, who not only picked up my car and me, he let Jake and Maisie, two crazed and stinky dogs, ride in the cab as well. And then he waited for us at Malibu Auto while the guys gave the bad news. And then he drove us all the way home.

Now the dogs and I ride around in my crummy little Toyota wagon while we wait for news of the Plymouth. Kelly at Malibu Auto won't know what the damage is - cracked piston? snapped cylinder? until he starts the car. But he can't safely start it until the carburetor gets re-built. And that can't happen until the mechanics track down some 58-year-old parts from who knows where.

So we wait. And drive a really boring car.