VW Corrado G60: Rest assured… the duck can fly the plane.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Captain Scooter Cobbledick. On behalf of myself, First Officer Guy Normous, and our wonderful crew, we’d like to welcome you aboard flight 666, non-stop from Houston to Miami. Our flight time will be approximately 2 hours and 53 minutes.
As a special mention, we’d like to welcome aboard a duck. That’s right, folks, in seat 11A you will find a real duck named Donald Duck. We hear he is an entertainer and quite the frequent flyer, so rest assured that in the unlikely event that your flight crew becomes incapacitated, the duck can fly the plane… and if not, well, at least he will entertain you.
We hope you have a pleasant flight.”
The year was 1992, and I was in seat 11A. With me was Donald Duck, a real white Pekin Duck. My duck.
In the rich insanity that has been my life and to which readers of this space will no doubt become accustomed to, having a duck for a pet surely will stand out.
It was Christmas Eve of the year 1991. I was preparing to travel to attend College when my father arrived with a small cage, and inside was a baby duck. A tinny yellow ball of fur—with no feathers yet—that squeaked and squeaked.
FATHER “Mic, Mic…Happy Chanukah and Merry Christmas! Don’t you love him? You have always loved Donald Duck, so here’s your own!”
MICHEL - “What do I do with it? How do I take care of it? Besides, I’m traveling to college, so what am I to do with it?”
FATHER - “Well... I guess I can take him back.”
MICHEL - “Could you?“
FATHER - “Yes… but, of course, he will then be raised to be eaten…”
Sigh…That last sentence spelled the sentence for me. How could I be the one responsible for sending Donald Duck to his death? Even worse, a little squishy, adorable, furry, baby version of him at that! What kind of a beast am I?
What would cryogenically kept Walt Disney say?
“Keep him” says Walt.
MICHEL - “Alright, let’s try and see how it goes.”
How it goes… was that by the first night, little Donald fell in love with me… and I with him. Any time I would walk out of my room, he would stand up in his little cage and start to squeak tenaciously until I walked back inside.
How the hell is this related to a black 1991 Volkswagen Corrado G60, you ask? Well, Donald’s time on this earth coincided not only with my first year of college but also my time with the Corrado, my first car, also nick-named Sylvester by a girl I dated at the time, for it reminded her of Sylvester the Warner Bros. cartoon cat. The black VW was Donald’s favourite form of transport—planes notwithstanding—for once grown into a beautiful white feathered adult, he would ride in a seat-belted kennel, striding centrally over the folded-down rear seats which opened a path from the trunk into the cabin. A truly commanding and somewhat perched-up place, for sure, making him a sort of avian Captain Kirk with a perfect view ahead.
He even had a perfect view of my eyes, as reflected in the windshield-mounted rearview mirror, which would elicit a “quack” whenever I would look back at him.
Sylvester the Corrado was my first car, and what an amazing car it was. I had lusted over it since its production was announced in the late 80s, and like a mental target, I had marked it as mine.
German cars—and Bayern München—had always held a special place in my heart. When the supercharged VW Corrado was announced, I thought, well, here is a fast car that I could probably afford. As a kid and a teen, I was not very humble, I admit this, but I also know and still think this was a logical and great choice. Although I did not have my driver’s license in the U.S. for too long by then, I had, for some time now, an international driver’s permit which I had used extensively in Europe in anticipation of the day I would have my very own car.
Karl Rummenigge - Bayern München
As such, I drove quite a variety of cars. I had always made it a point to learn how to drive well and fast—and always manuals—even before I was legally able to, cajoling family and friends to lend me their cars on mostly back roads, private roads, and farm roads, practicing as much as I could that is how obsessed with driving I was.
His dorkiness, himself, yours truly.
The Corrado was a cool choice, and to my eyes, a beautifully designed and built car. It was never a common sight, in the U.S., or even in Europe, where I first sat in one while living in Italy. It had many useful, if somewhat flashy features too, such as its automatically activated spoiler, which, like a hormonal teenager, erected itself upon reaching 45 mph, a proverbial flipping of the bird to all those rice rockets polluting our streets.
It’s G Ladder—a supercharger rather than a turbocharger—made the engine spool quickly without the classic turbo lag. Precisely because the supercharger is powered directly by the engine—by way of pulley—its effect is immediate, aka, no lag. As such, you would never guess it had a mere 1.8-litre engine.
It also had a decent, if a bit notchy, 5-speed manual gearbox and perfectly weighted controls. Yet what most impressed me was that it was built with that wonderful bank vault-like precision, something I had only experienced before when sitting in a Porsche, BMW, or Mercedes-Benz.
Its break-in period was quickly broken by one of my father’s partners and associates (victims?), Morty, who met with us on the first night after I picked up the car. He asked to be taken for a ride… yet sat in the driver’s seat. My father said nothing, and I knew he would let me down again….
I bit down on my lip, grinned, and nodded.
Morty violently accelerated in first gear—maybe forgetting it was a manual—quickly reaching the Corrado’s 6300 RPM redline without shifting into second, resulting in the engine’s automatic cut-off feature shutting it off.
“You blew the engine!” I cried!
“Whoops” said Morty, as if he had spilled a glass of cranberry juice over the counter at Wolfies! (If you know, you know).
He hadn’t blown the engine, but it was a lesson that stayed with me, which explains why I never lend my cars to anyone.
Donald, even with his little avian brain, quite appreciated the Corrado’s speed and handling. Do not think for a second that when he was aboard, I drove it any gentler. No! Donald demanded fast corners and the occasional humiliation of a Ford Probe here, or an Eagle Talon there, and even the occasional Porsche 944, the non-turbo, of course.
It was not a straight-line barnstormer for sure, but neither was I, since I was never interested in beating any car from a stoplight, something I have always found distasteful and juvenile, for it is as demanding in skills as pressing a button… or being a DJ. Instead, the Corrado, with its perfectly balanced chassis, plus its superb suspension setup, was made to shine in the curves.
Apparently, I only had one t-shirt.
There is another quite important connection between Donald and the Corrado. If cars are supposed to attract a mate—something I have never believed true and find quite absurd—cool car notwithstanding, my living situation in Winter Park, Florida, where I was going to school, surely did not help with the opposite sex.
EXT. PARKING LOT - NIGHT
A steamy make-out session inside the Corrado.
GIRL -“Do you want to go to my place, or yours?”
Smooch smooch….
MICHEL - “I think mine is closer.”
Smooch smooch….
GIRL - “Sounds good.”
Smooch smooch…
MICHEL - “Before we go there, I think you should know something about my living arrangement.”
She backs away a bit and looks at me.
GIRL - “Wait, you live with your folks?”
MICHEL (embarrassed) - “No…no, it’s not that.”
She softens her gaze.
MICHEL - “I live with a duck.”
Her eyes widened.
GIRL - “You what?”
Needless to say, the night’s romantic intentions were immediately tossed out the window, not because we’d skip going to my place, but because now we would surely go to my place, but not to partake in Oh L’Amour! No! It was because the girl, any girl, was now curious to meet and see what it was like to live with a duck!
It was not the most arousing and romantic entrance to a home, even if I had an area cordoned off specifically for Donald to spend time in, for he would inevitably jump the baby fence I would use and be waiting for me like an angry parent in the living room. And since he was in the living room and not in his area, given that a duck processes food immediately and directly, there would be a lovely helping of duck pâte on the carpet waiting for us upon entering.
For some reason, it was always at night that Donald had his most odorous movement, which made for quite the sulfuric entrance… again, not the most attractive and sexually activating aroma you can hope for.
Yours truly, and Donald.
Sigh…
Most of these occasions meant the night ended with either a laugh and a polite let’s try another time, and with any long-term intention from the girl dying quickly because… who the hell has a duck in his apartment and one that… Scheiße überall!!! Ich hab die Schnauze voll!
Anyway… the Corrado never complained about this, or asked for much, other than my clockwork-like washing and waxing. But, many years later, after I was living away from the U.S. again, the Corrado was left alone for long periods, stored well, but not driven much. Its electrical systems began to fail, all of which coincided with my return to South Florida. Its AC also died, and simultaneously with this, its electric window motors—both—decided to grenade themselves. Imagine how much fun it was to drive it in the swamp that is Miami most of the year, with only a sunroof to open and with my right hand propped up in a way to direct outside air toward me from above. That, of course, was when we were moving, but in traffic, or at a stoplight, it was agony.
The remedy had to wait, given that I was cash-strapped. When I was finally able to afford the repairs, I chose to sell Sylvester since other issues were popping up and becoming frustrating, for the repair of one issue then led to the appearance of another. Alas, it was not its fault. A car needs to be driven, and a sports car needs to be driven spiritedly, or it will develop all sorts of issues.
Sylvester, the Corrado, ended up in the hands of a lovely young girl who had the same enthusiasm for it that I once had. She had fallen in love with it because her now-deceased father had owned one when she was a little girl. She was accompanied by her moronic-looking boyfriend (more on him later).
As for Donald, during another Christmas, whilst visiting family, my mother had the brilliant idea that he should now live with his kin instead of travelling back with me. She said she had found a farm for him to live on and enjoy with other ducks. Mind you, he had never seen himself as a duck…why would he? He had lived on 3 continents and was more sophisticated and worldly than most people I had met.
Tu as envie de passer la nuit avec moi ?
The idea that he would adapt to a world full of ducks was laughable. But mothers can be relentless, and I had truly had enough of her non-stop nagging, so I relented and drove Donald to the “sanctuary” farm. I will never forget his little body running behind the car as I left, tears in my eyes, but with my mother telling me it was for Donald’s good.
A few months later, I called the farm to ask how Donald was doing. At first, the embecile on the phone had no idea what I was asking about, and then, as if a bolt of semi-eloquence hit him, he belted out…
IMBECILE - “Oh, the duck…white duck, oh yeah, we cooked it last week, it was great, thanks.”
I believe I blacked out, or at least my memory of that moment was not recorded in my memory banks, for I was told by a friend who was with me at that moment that I began to speak in tongues, the way people with heavy fevers, malaria, or demonic possessions do, and had to be removed from the call when my semi-intelligible statements began to sound like threats to the man on the other side of the phone line as well as to his entire genetic pool, henceforth.
Yours truly - the Dork years.
The Corrado I also later found out had “died” too…a sudden death… at the hands of the moronic boyfriend.
Sigh.
I hope that Donald and Sylvester have met again somewhere in the multiverse (not the metaverse!) and are driving around some amazing switchbacks, laughing at the dorky kid who had spent time with them and had given them a home. I hope they don’t resent me for their fate. I did as best I could, but sometimes in life, even that falls short.