It’s always been hard for me to admit to ever wanting a GM product. And I grew up in Detroit. There were of course the early flirts with a Camaro or a Trans Am with a big bird on the hood when I was turning 16. None of those really turned my innards despite a love for Smoky and the Bandit. So ultimately, my dad and I ended up with a 1974 BMW 2002, maroon over tan with a sunroof. As the guy told us when we bought it, you either find them w
ith a good body or a good engine for this price. Since we were in Michigan, rust was the killer so we picked the good body. Which meant that for different stretches of its illustrious career, I would push start the car.
My dad had a Corvette when we grew up. A 1974, no relation to the BMW, red with white convertible top. I’d sit in the back when my sister and him would pick me up from soccer practice. Seat belts? Nope, not even a seat just a luggage shelf. Corvettes have always been ruined for me, not because we sold the Vette before I could drive it but because of who I always saw driving them. In Michigan, we called it the Keego factor. Gold chain wearing, disheveled hair and a huge “thinks you are” quotiant. Same holds true for many parts of the country I’ve come to find out. Are they great cars, you bet. I still talk about buying a C4 every month or so but my wife won’t have it. She apparently grew up being above dating a Keegonite.
Which brings me to my GM pick. A Pontiac Solstice GXP designed by Franz VonHolzhausen on the exterior pen, and Vicki Vlachakis as the interior decorator respectively. The 2009 Pontiac Solstice GXP is motivated by a turbocharged 2.0-liter four that puts out 260 horsepower and 260 pound-feet of torque. It makes for a quick ride to 60 mph in just 5.5 seconds and running the quarter-mile in only 13.8 seconds. But alas it’s a Pontiac, which brings me back to the only reason to buy it. “You’re sooo good lookin’.” I can’t seem to get away from low slung, curvacious body that reminds me cars can still be designed like the sex that came out of Europe in the 50’s and 60’s. Hey GM, what kinda deal are you making on these things? 50 cents on the dollar since you’re broke? Hook a brother up.
EMPM, Esq.
Just started reading the new gray matter. There has been an ongoing debate for years over whether it is Keegonite or Keegonaut. I favor Keegonaut, as it sounds more Euro-centric, which just makes it a touch more condescending. And I believe the Camaro and TA are more Keego than the Vette. Vette is more middle-aged divorcee who has “finally made it.” A true Keegonaut can be found in a 1983 Trans Am with Craggar mags or wheels from the same era Camaro, sporting a flat billed hat or a ‘stach with a mullet. Preferably with a tank top on.
Good stuff! Keep it up.
Anonymous
Based on EMPM, Esq’s comments, who wouldn’t want to date a Keegonaut or Keegonite. Gimee some ‘stach with mullet and throw in a cigie.
Der Keegermeister
First of all, let me just say that I was born in Keego Harbor, MI, and I have been from there for quite some time. I find your remarks very condensating and offensive. And for the record: proud residents of Keego Harbor, MI refer to themselves as Keegonians. To be a Keegonian is a lifetime badge of honor similar to what it’s like being in the Marines or the Bob Seger Fan Club. Just for the sake of accuracy–and not cause I like your rude website–cause I don’t–let me set you straight: a Corvette would be wasted on you. You probably tried to buy one once, but I’m pretty sure they’re not allowed to sell you one if you don’t have a mustache or, if you don’t presently have a mustache, you at least have to have a mustache in the picture on your drivers lisence. So POW! How do you like me now?! I just went Sherlock on your ass–the REAL reason you disrespect Keego and Corvettes is JEALOSY. And jealosy if one of the seven deadly sins, Amigo. So that means you’re going to hell, where you and the devil can talk about what it’s like to be from Bloomfield Hills. Furthermore, if I ever see you dare to show your yuppy face with your stupid-as-hell-looking short haircut everywhere on your head including the back (where you’re just begging for a sunburnt neck), I will come at you like a spider monkey.