Column - All that glitters is not rollin' on dubs

My girlfriend told me I need a new car. I told her she needs a new attitude.

As much as I'd hate getting rid of my '92 Chevrolet Camaro, I'm slowly starting to believe her.

She's not the materialistic type of girlfriend who can only be seen stepping out of a Beamer, but she does have her reasons.

My car has more problems than the Santa Barbara News-Press.

The windows don't roll down. So when I'm driving in the summer, my car is more of an oven than a method of transportation. My passenger seat belt doesn't work, and my passengers usually don't find out until I'm in fifth gear.

The tires are balding, and an oil change would be nice. And if I had a new car I wouldn't need to talk it, as if the engine needed a little persuasion to start. After reading this column people will probably think twice before ever catching a ride with me. Not to mention that cops frequently pull me over.

The red paint has lost its luster, but that hasn't stopped the cops from switching on their sirens. I've been hit with at least $500 worth of tickets in the past year. It wasn't until after I bought the car that I found out its color would get me pulled over.

According to the vehicle purchasing web site Edmunds.com, "The best strategy to avoid the long arm of the law is not to catch the eye of a watchful patrol officer. In other words, don't drive a red car." I personally think my car catches their eye like the jelly in their donuts.

As much as my girlfriend hounds me to get rid of Tin Lizzie, I just can't seem to let go. She sometimes forgets that underneath all of the problems, the vehicle holds sentimental value. I have to constantly remind her that the purpose for buying the vehicle was so I could be with her. That's value you can't find at any dealership.

Most people probably look at my car and see a box on wheels. I see nothing but pure potential. Trust me, this book you can't judge by its cover.

Under the hood - which might take a couple tries to open - is a V8 engine that roars like a lion. It's not exactly good on gas either, but I could rev that engine all day. Sorry if this offends you, Dr. Green. I did take your "Humans and the Biological Environment" class, so I think I owe it to you to catch the bus once in a while.

Most of the time my gas-guzzler is covered in dirt, and I can't afford regular car washes. I rely on the rain to do that for me.

So while the sun is out, my car looks like I stole it from a junk yard. But sometimes at night, when the moonlight reflects on my rims just right, my Camaro looks like it came straight off the lot.

It may sound silly, but my car has become a metaphor for my life. I've learned that it's not so much about the bucket, but how you ride it. The same could be said about the style of one's shoes, compared to the way he or she walks in them.

Without a doubt, I can say I'm fine with what I have. So if you happen to pass me by in your flashy car with 20-inch rims, don't feel sorry for me. My car is as bad-ass as I want it to be.

Don't get me wrong, I'll get a new ride when the time comes. Until that day comes, I'm gonna ride this hooptie 'til the wheels fall off.