Goodbye, Maybellene

Dear Maybellene,
We're through. It's over. I've moved on. Yes, enough is enough and I'm calling this whole thing off. We've been together for 15 months and I'm finally sick and tired enough of all of this to just end things.

No, I'm not going to get into the specifics of why. We're just not right for each other at this point in our lives. Maybe we used to be, but that was then and things have changed.

I felt like no matter how much I gave to our relationship, you just demanded more. When your MPG bottoms out at an average 20 mpg, can't you see why I can't justify putting any more gas into this relationship? I even gave you a new set of tires for our 6 month anniversary, but you were burning through those as much as the old ones. I had just had enough of your stupid sunroof that always got jammed when I tried to open it, and your low clearance was a endless embarrassment whenever you scraped your undercarriage on a parking curb. Now look what you've done: you got me going into specifics.

Oh, who am I kidding, Maybellene? I miss you already. I miss your raunchy red leather seats, I miss your rebellious, impractical teenage attitude. I toss and turn at night, thinking about someone else's hands lovingly embracing your leather-wrapped steering wheel. I'm deathly afraid that some spoiled brat girl has you now and is foolishly ignoring the true potential of your V6 engine.

But I know it's for the best, girl. I'm sure we won't meet again, and maybe one day I'll find another wildly quixotic car like you. At the very least, though, we have the memories we've shared and those, I'll never forget. Goodbye, Maybellene.

Maybellene, the 2008 Hyundai Tiburon GT Limited

Maybellene: A Young Man's Car

This post is a portion of a larger untitled work in progress and a continuation of the previously published post, My First Car ...

Having driven my car for nearly nine months now, I can honestly and realistically notice those personality traits that make her special. I say ‘her’ because all cars driven by young men must be feminine, and her name is Maybellene. It had taken me nine months to arrive at this name, but it was well worth the wait. Unique and memorable, I named her after the Chuck Berry song of the same title, which in turn acquired its name from the popular cosmetic brand. It was Berry’s first rock and roll hit and was influential in developing the genre.

Just as the song lyrics suggest however, there are a few problems with Maybellene. Although her exterior is sleek and her upholstery is sexy red leather, the rest of the interior is made of plastic. Well, one has to cut costs somewhere, but the areas of primary concern are the door handles, both inside and outside. Without a doubt, they will see the most wear and tear of the entire car, so it would only have been fitting if they were made of a more durable material. And in the frozen winter, between the ice forming on the outside handles and the increased brittleness, one must be very gentle.

Maybellene’s sunroof is also a constant source of her infidelity. The mechanism works well enough, but it is the shutter on the inside of the car that fails to operate properly. It is made from two separate pieces of board, one sliding over the other when opened. However, Hyundai somehow made this design very unreliable as the two pieces frequently came apart and jammed the whole mechanism. Thus, the sunroof has not seen as much use as I would like.

Another cosmetic issue with poor Maybellene is a circular piece of plastic that has come apart in her headlight. Originally, the ornamental ring was fixed around the low beam headlight, but it had never been fully fixed to the bezel since I got her. In an attempt to correct this, the entire piece came loose and began to roll freely within the epoxy sealed headlight. After hours of fruitless attempts to return the piece to its original place without breaking the moisture-proof epoxy seal between the lens and the bezel, I only succeeded in scratching the plastic ring and the bezel with a rusty coat hanger. 

Of comparable sports cars, Maybellene has the sportiest form I have ever seen by far. However, sportiness makes the driver sacrifice ride comfort. The suspension of the car feels pretty shoddy, though I am not sure what else I would expect from a sports car built for high-responsiveness, grip, and performance. A lot of the times, the ride does not bother me significantly, but from time to time, roads have not been properly made. Rough roads always cause me significant worry about what kind of damage is being done to my poor Maybellene.

Finally, there is the sad fact that Maybellene only has a four-speed gear box. One arrives at 45 mph and jumping into 4th gear, that’s all she has for you. You’re up at 3000 rpm, then 3500 rpm, then 4000 rpm, and there’s just no next gear. This is probably for the best, though. I’m pretty sure I’d have more than two speeding tickets if I had been given even one more gear to tempt me.

"Maybellene" on the day I got her

These foibles make Maybellene a real car, though; for no car is without her faults. It gives the machine a personality and a temperament, but despite these shortcomings, the most influential factors on the car’s persona are those that make you fall in love again, just like the day you got it.

I suppose I cannot say enough about the leather interior. It gives Maybellene that sultry debonairness that is tailor fit for young men. The “black widow” red-black color scheme assures you that if Maybellene is going to be the one to kill you, she’s going to do it with both visually-pleasing and sensational fashion in a James Dean-esque ball of fire, and the red leather interior plus bucket seats has much to do with that embracing experience.

Something else that is evident about Maybellene is that she’s not a mother or a nanny: she’s just a girl. She warns you that your seat belt might be off, but she is not incessant about the reminder, just a couple chimes of sweet concern for a few seconds. She knows you’re an independent man and she cannot tell you to do something when you don’t want to do it. She’s just not the nagging type.

Though I mentioned Maybellene’s limited four-speed gear box earlier as a regrettable idiosyncrasy of hers, I must also mention that it is a “select-shift” four-speed gear box, which makes all the difference. Sometimes, a man like me wants to be in complete control, but I’d rather not get embroiled in the minor details. Take operating a clutch, for instance: it is a detail about manual transmission automobiles that I have never handled with any amount of grace or success because I do not care to give it that much attention. With the select-shift mode, I let Maybellene handle those little details, and I just concern myself with shifting down on the tight corner, hunkering down to zip right into the ensuing straight-away.

It is often said that a young man’s first car is his first step to independence and freedom; that with this car, he was proceeding from boyhood to manhood. Therefore, it was important to choose this first car wisely, despite frequently constraining financial means, because this car was going to mean something sentimental to the driver, no matter how appalling or flawed. Maybellene, though, has proven a true companion, one with whom my adrenaline-fueled, thrill-seeking, speed-craving young life will be better spent. 

My First Car

This post is a portion of a larger untitled work in progress...


V6 and black. That’s all I told my brother when I asked him to find me a car. He found me a V6, in black, with red leather interior.

Ok, let’s test drive this.

An hour later, I was buying this car, my first car, a 2.7L V6, 172 horsepower, 2008 Hyundai Tiburon GT Limited (tiburon is Spanish for “shark”), the most accessorized trim for the model with the red leather interior, Sirius XM radio, sunroof, fog lights, low-profile sport tires, and ‘select-shift’ transmission. I had performed my own research and was having trouble finding something for which I was comfortable paying. Whatever I drove away with, I needed to love it. Finances would be tight and I wanted to be sure that I wanted to pay for it every month.

I wanted a 6-cylinder engine because I was a young man. I wanted to pull out into traffic and roar up to speed with everyone else. I wanted to be pushed back in my seat as if I were on the back of some wild animal. I wanted to drive down that straightaway 70 mph highway feel the power of freedom over the bellowing of the engine.

Two speeding tickets later, though, I had given up on the whole going faster than the speed limit notion. You would think that fast cars were made for young people to get caught speeding in. But for someone my age, the acceleration of this beast leaves nothing to be desired.

I wanted a black car because black is appropriate for any occasion. It is colorless, but not characterless. It projects class and composure like a sharp man in a tuxedo, but also stealth and elusiveness like a thief in a black turtleneck and ski mask.  Black is about business and silent power, formality and dark strength. It has good manners, but will quietly dispatch opposition.

A complex duality to the color that lacks any color, but I wanted both personalities for my car. I am not a rambunctious red or a pristine white car man. I wanted both professional functionality and sleek style.

With the inclusion of red leather, this car became all about stylish business on the outside, and party on the inside. I had never expected or dreamed that I could afford a car with a leather interior, much less a fashionable leather interior. The expression “icing on the cake” does not properly do it justice. Rather, was like “icing with flowers made of icing on the cake made entirely of corner pieces”.

Of course, she has her one foible. Miles per gallon? Not too great, and I have the V6 to blame for that mostly. But after what I’ve mentioned previously, who cares?

With time, I would come to properly appreciate the ‘select-shift’ manual transmission, referred to as ‘Sport Mode’ in the user’s manual. I had initially been shopping for a manual transmission car, but after a harrowing experience with my father’s Jeep, I had decided that I was not that interested in dying so young. However, the select-shift on the Tiburon was exactly what the doctor ordered for the hand-foot coordination nightmare that is manual transmission for me: manual shifting with an automatic clutch. Because sometimes, you’ve got to be able to shift down to jump off that corner as fast as you want.

With all of these things combined, you get the sheer delight I experienced driving 70 mph down Highway 55 in the early morning in my stylish, sleek ‘shark’ sports car, Genesis blaring over the voracious roar of the V6. Is this love?