WHERE'S CHARLEY HODGE?: MY LUCK WITH MOTORIZED TRANSPORTATION

Hello, again. It is time for some more mindless babble from the annals of the History of Michael Wells. You can purchase the book for $19.95 by calling now!!! 1-800-BOY WRITES BOOK ABOUT HIS BORING LITTLE LIFE AND HOW HE WISHES HE WERE A SUPERSTAR ext. LOSER.

I feel it my purpose in life to let everyone know of my adventures and mishaps so that they can steer clear of some of the disasters I have put myself in.

Today's lesson will be on cars and I really believe that I can concentrate on this subject.

I got my driver's license in October 1987. For some reason, it took me six months to muster up the courage to go get my license.

I had to take the test in a 1975 Suburban. Ever tried to parallel park a Suburban? Anyway, I got within a foot and a half of the curb and passed the test with a 76. One point above failure in Kentucky (the only state where they don't take off points for driving without shoes).

One week later, I was clocked at 45 mph in my driveway by a police officer whose name has been changed to protect the innocent. He didn't give me a ticket, but he did scare me so much I pulled over on the wrong side of the road.

The Suburban was an economy car. It got four miles to the gallon in town and six miles to the gallon on the highway. I think the tank held 36 gallons and it ran on regular gas. I believe it cost about $40 a week to keep it running.

I received $7.50 for lunch at school for the week. I got the rest of the gas money by providing a bus service to half of Mayfield High School.

A month or so after I got my license, I blew up the 454 engine on that frigid day in December. My family, to this day, hasn't let me hear the end of it.

In my defense, it was eight degrees below zero that day. The Suburban used a quart of oil a week, and I forgot that week. It had more than 400,000 miles on it.

But to my family and the numerous families in which the Suburban provided transport for the children of the Mayfield School System, my name was Mud (well, actually it was: boy with license now rides bike to school and is ridiculed by his classmates).

The Suburban was a hand-me-down from my father to my sister to my oldest brother to my older brother to me. And for some odd reason, every time the family gets together I am reminded of how I was supposed to hand the thing down to my little sister when she turns 16. She'll be 14 in October.

I guess if I had not blown that engine, I would driving the Suburban still today waiting to pass it down. It would probably have more than 1 million miles by now.

My next vehicle came in 1988. My parents purchased a 1976 Buick Skylark so that I would stop pestering them for their car on the weekends.

The Skylark was sky blue and had a primer passenger door. An old lady hit the passenger door the day we bought it and she was caught by my father when she was trying to etch some graffiti in the dent to make it look like some kids crashed into it, instead of a little old lady. She hit it in a parking lot and my father just came out in time to nab her red handed.

The Buick ran well, looked horrible, and I remember the first two months that I drove it I had the fortune of experiencing four blowouts.

I have other fond memories o that car. I remember my freshman year at Murray State. When I drove it on campus, I would duck down to look for a mysterious item in the floorboard so that no one would see me driving the Buick.

I also remember everyone saying I drove a Chevy Nova. It was a Buick Skylark! I remember saying to some prospective dates that it was really a Porsche with a Skylark body for insurance reasons.

I remember the eight track tape player my father installed so that I could listen to music while I drove. I remember how that instantly became the most popular feature for my friends to mess with.

I remember a retro movement in the small towns of Mayfield, Ky., and Murray, Ky., in 1989 and 1990. Everyone that knew me was going into their basements and finding old eight track tapes to play in my car.

I remember groups such as Fog Hat, Grand Funk Railroad, and other '70s bands getting more air time in the Buick than they did on commercials for Freedom Rock and Guitar Rock and all those other K-Tel TV record deals for $19.95.

I remember being the laughing stock of the entire region.

My next vehicle probably brought more embarrassment and headaches than any of the aforementioned (bet you never expected me to use that word, did you?).

My next vehicle was another hand me down. It was a Toyota Mini-van.

If you have never seen one, the driver seat is on top of the front wheel and the engine rests between the driver and the passenger seat.

I mostly remember this vehicle for all of the times it didn't get me to my destination. And I remember the tremendous power I had at my disposal with my half-liter engine that had four cylinders, but preferred to only use one of those cylinders whenever I was pulling out into heavy traffic.

But another great memory I have of this vehicle happened just this past winter.

I was working at the other newspaper in Benton, Ky. It was snowing as I drove to work that fateful Jan. 3 morning.

Half way to work (a 20-mile commute) my windshield wiper decided to commit suicide. It broke off and flew over my van into the path of a large truck.

I got to work and I had to go to a marina fire that had just come over the scanner. I got back into my van and began to drive out to the fire.

The snow had stopped for a brief moment, but as I drove a few blocks the snow began to come down worse than it had before.

I turned on the windshield wiper and the broken one began to dig into the windshield.

I had to do something about it. I stopped at a convenient store and asked if they had any duct tape, a sponge, and a rag. They had the duct tape, but nothing else.

I saw some gloves for sale. I bought the gloves and taped two pairs of gloves to the windshield wiper.

It looked as though Mickey Mouse's hand were wiping my windshield clean.

Anyway, it got me to my destination and I covered the fire.

On the way back to the paper, I noticed that a lot of people were waving at me. My windshield wiper fix was waving at everyone in Marshall County.

Anyway the van finally died enough to make me take the plunge and buy my own vehicle. It has a few problems, but they aren't anything I can't handle, I hope.

By the way, anyone out there seen Charlie Hodge? Charlie Hodge brought Elvis his water and scarfs in concerts during the seventies.

Michael Wells is the editor of the Jackson USA Signal.