Pimp My Ride: The Jeff Watson Episode

In 2005, MTV’s “Pimp My Ride” was all the rage. Hosted by rapper Xzibit, the show featured clunker cars souped up with all the low-rider trimmings and their elated owners. Although Xzibit did not pimp my ride, my ride was nevertheless pimped in 2005 as well.

I love Hondas. Still do. Been driving them for years. The only problem is that thieves love them as well. I’ve owned three Hondas and two of them have been stolen, specifically the Prelude versions. I have been told I have negative “carma” by many jokesters and after I stomp on their feet for the lame pun, I cheerfully agree that they’re right. To wit: I’ve had not one but two hit-and-runs that demolished both my beloved CRX (hey — it was the 80s) and my Accord. I’ve paid for every car ailment under the sun and have no idea about how they work. I vaguely hear some things about how the X-Y splitter didn’t smash the atom right or how they needed to put the hat back on the snowman in my engine and gladly hand them my bank codes. I know that my right foot means go and my left foot means stop. Also, my hands can steer a wheel. It ends there. I certainly am not an automobile genius.

One crisp Los Angeles morning in 2005, I sauntered to my white Prelude to head into work and had that lovely moment when you realize your car is gone. If you live in LA or any other metropolitan area, you know to immediately call the local towing torture chambers and pray to GodJesusBuddhaAnyonethatwillfuckinglisten that they have your car in impound for some bureaucratic nightmare. It’s just part of living in the town — it’s an unspoken contract. You’re gonna lose a car some day. It’s just a matter of time. Alas, my car was not impounded so I had to accept the crushing fact that it was stolen. Dejected, I reported it to the cops and expected to hear nothing. And I didn’t. Until a week later.

The police called me one afternoon with the joyous news that my little car had been found and was currently sitting in an impound lot. Assuming the car was stripped for parts, I nervously asked “Is it ok?” Surprisingly they said I could drive it off the lot, so I headed downtown to reclaim what was mine. I quickly scanned the graveyard of cars and spotted a white Prelude but this one had been lowered so I continued my search. After a fruitless investigation I decided to take another look at the Prelude.

And then it hit me. My car had been pimped out. The first thing to catch my eye were the shiny new chrome rims that ringed the added lo-pro thin tires. Also, the car has been lowered by about six inches and hugged the asphalt. Incredulous, I sat in the driver’s seat to find the shifting column had been replaced to something more gangsta-appropriate. I started to laugh and then noticed my terrible stock model stereo system was replaced with a Blaupunkt unit resplendent with titanium-shattering bass frequencies that could kill a yak on impact. They also put new brake pads on. They did a lot in 9 days. I estimated about 2k in upgrades. I was grateful. Kinda.

But that’s not the best part. Nope. Turns out that as I was rummaging through my car I came across a series of photos, all recently shot from the interior of my car. Yes, the incredibly car-savvy thieves were stunning in their stupidity by taking snaps of them DRIVING MY CAR. One kid actually threw a “hang loose” sign while grinning at the camera like a Cheshire Cat on cheap meth and Faygo. I went through snapshot after snapshot of their lovely day in Big Bear, replete with pics of them in the snow. Turns out their little excursion was over when they passed out in my car directly across from the police station. Clearly I was not dealing with criminal masterminds.

I don’t know how well you all know me but let’s just say I’m less of an Xzibit guy and more of a Replacements/Pixies/Cure guy. I don’t really listen to too much music that demands a system that can handle an 808 bass drop. And I’m not a guy who is really the lowrider type. In short, the less flashy the better. But I also knew the inherent comedy at this point, because I am THE LAST PERSON TO EVER GET RIMS. So I called a few friends at the office and corralled them to meet me outside of the building without telling why and to just simply trust me. As I pulled up in my new tricked-out steed, I blasted a slow, somber Elliot Smith song with the (essentially non-existent) bass kicked up to the max just for added entertainment. To this day, the brave few who witnessed this (hi David Jafri!) still tell the tale to those who are willing to hear.

And yet, there is a sad and yet fitting coda to this automotive adventure. I had the car for one week, using all of its wonderful sonic power to its fullest extent, but the love affair that was dripped in irony ended when it was stolen AGAIN FROM THE SAME SPACE, never to return again.

My greatest regret in life will always be that I never took pictures. I have no evidence. But clearly I was not meant to have that car. The Universe has other plans, but I got to bathe in its pimped-out glory for one week. I felt like a badass, so it was all worth it.

Elliot Smith will never sound the same way to me again.