I‘m old enough to remember Dinah Shore–“Jewish, you know,” my parents would always say with a smile–closing her show by singing, “See the USA in your Chevrolet!” On the other hand, I’m apparently too young to remember the next line of the jingle. I think it was roughly like, “America is something for your something.”
What I remember far more clearly is how, every year, the new model Chevys were introduced nationwide–I believe exclusively, but I don’t know for sure–at the end of a special, late-September episode of “Bonanza.” Lord, how I waited for that night. I even remember the network pumping it up a few weeks beforehand, in commercials, by having Lorne Greene standing next to a car covered by a tarpaulin and saying, “Well, folks, here it is. I can’t show it to you yet, but it’s a beauty. Two more weeks to go.” Speaking of Jewish stars, I didn’t find out ’til years later that Lorne Greene was Jewish, that one of Michael Landon’s parents was Jewish (close enough), and that David Dortort, the creator and producer of “Bonanza” was Jewish. I don’t think Pernell Roberts was Jewish (too many bad career decisions), and I’m pretty sure Dan Blocker wasn’t either (too polite). Mr. Dortort, by the way, is still alive and well and active in many Jewish charities and causes.
But back to cars. Unless my memory is failing me, which is only slightly less likely than Henry Kissinger and Christopher Hitchens going in on a time-share, I seem to recall that all the American car companies, the “Big Three” as we used to call them (boy, there’s something you can’t imagine saying anymore), brought out each year’s new models in the fall, on pretty much the same week, maybe even the same day. (This brings to mind a very funny bit Bill Maher used to do in his act back in the eighties. He would observe that it seemed all the Christian and Jewish holidays were at the same time. “You know,” he would say, “Christmas and Hanukkah, Easter and Passover . . . and the World Series and the day the new Cadillacs come out.” (Hey, is it my imagination, or is something Jewish popping up about every two lines so far? The media may not be controlled by the Jews, but this article certainly seems to be.)
See, we were a Chevy family. We had a four-door, hardtop, ’61 Impala, gray with that little stripe (red) down the side, and then traded that for a two-door, hardtop, ’68 Impala, olive-green metallic with the newly available (and very flashy) black vinyl roof, and I continued to patronize the company, so to speak, as I struck out into the world. Freshman year at school, Willie Kitts and Jack O’Donnell and I hitchhiked a few miles down the road to a used-car lot in Hadley, Massachusetts, and plunked down seventy-five bucks, cash, for (another) four-door, hardtop, ’61 Impala, very light (or very faded) green. This time the little stripe down the side was white (-ish). We giddily drove this sweet thing all over the place, and to no place at all, for a month, and then remembered to take it in for an inspection, whereupon the mechanic informed us that he could find no A-frame on it whatsoever, and that the fuel line was as shot full of holes as the ethics of (INSERT FAVORITE HATED POLITICIAN).
There’s a law that says a used car has to be able to at least pass an inspection, and since even three mutton-headed eighteen-year-olds can’t wear out an A-frame in a month, the dealer gave us our dough back. I fancied that the car was sadder than we were. Ah, well, no matter the length of a relationship, our love for her was real, and she knew it, and that’s more than many of us get.
I didn’t have another car until l981. I had been a comic for a few years, and I made my move to California, where, unless you’re Ed Begley Jr., you need a car. (By the way, Ed is a seriously good friend of mine. The guy’s a hoot, and I love him, he’s got a great family, and he’s called me up several times to appear at benefits for political causes and propositions, and I’ve done it every time even though, every time, I get up there and tell the people, “I don’t even know what this goofy thing is for, and I’m certain I’m against it, but if Ed wants it, that’s good enough for me.”)
Anyway, back in 1981 I needed a car. And a comic friend of mine, who knows everything in the world about cars, looked through the classifieds with me, and we drove out to, literally, a little, old lady’s house. She was selling a beautiful, low mileage, four-door, hard-top, ’63 Impala, white, clean as a whistle, for six hundred dollars, and my friend checked it out and pronounced us man and wife. (The car, not the old lady.)
I guess I’ve had a bunch of cars since then, but I really think that ’63 might have been the best of them. By golly, we still knew how to make stylish and inexpensive and practical cars in those days. I drove it all over California when I was working the clubs, and I drove it to ball games with full loads of friends, and, yes, forgive an indelicacy, but, in my salad days, I drove it on dates, and the front seat wasn’t the only one used. (The Divine Mrs. M. didn’t come into the picture until three cars later.)
Luckily, when I moved on to another car, a few years later, I found a good home for her. My friend, Mark King, was an actor who had filmed “Caveman” in Mexico, and he fell in love with the country and the people and decided to move there, and he needed a car for the move. And he always liked mine, and he bought it, and I think the last time I saw him was ten or twelve years ago, but he said the old bird was still rolling along just fine. (I know, I have the same naughty smile on my face: There’s something ironic about an American driving a ’63 Chevy into Mexico.)
I bought one more Chevy, new, a four-door ’86 Caprice. I don’t know why in the world General Motors dropped the great brand name “Impala,” and since “Caprice” is defined as “an impulsive tendency, a sudden action or whim,” I think the change was unfortunate. I mean, what were they saying? “Yes, we want you to buy the car, but let it be a quick urge. Don’t think about it too much.”
Last spring I needed a new car, and I knew Chevrolet had brought back the name “Impala,” so I decided to take a look. It got good reviews, but when I looked at it and got in and drove it, it was just, well, okay. It felt light and small and, I don’t know, not as substantial as all the old ones. Not anything like the old ones.
That’s what started me thinking about my favorite Chevy, the glorious ’57. I’ve never had one, but always wanted one. Doesn’t everyone love those? When one goes by, don’t you all say, “Hey, look, a ’57 Chevy!” No one’s ever going to say, “Hey, look, a ’93 Buick!”
And that’s when I got the idea. Why don’t we build them again? Seriously. They’ve got to have the plans sitting on a shelf somewhere, right? Then why not? I know the engines and safety of cars has gotten a lot better over the years, so why doesn’t General Motors just start building 21st century cars inside and ’57 Chevys outside?
Okay, maybe it sounds stupid. On the other hand, think about it: Have many of you out there would jump at the chance to buy a brand new ’57 Chevy? I would. Wouldn’t we all? Wouldn’t everyone in the world? I mean, there wouldn’t be one unemployed American, there’d be endless rows of factories dotted all over the country, Michael Moore would be dancing with George Will, because we’d all be building and buying ’57 Chevys. There’d probably be a big drop in the murder rate, too, because we’d all be too busy cruising around in our cool ’57 Chevys. Can you imagine what every town and city would be like on a Saturday night? Hell, the whole country would look like “Happy Days.”
Maybe that’s not so good, because I’d probably have to be Potsy, but I think the rest would be terrific. I’d even want them to build an electric one for my friend, Begley. Think of it, folks.
Oh. Wait. Hold it. Nah, what am I saying? They’d probably make them in China, and we’d probably wind up losing jobs, and Michael Moore would probably punch out George Will, and I probably–no, definitely–wouldn’t want to buy one anyway.
Larry Miller is a contributing humorist to The Daily Standard and a writer, actor, and comedian living in Los Angeles.
