![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoRoPvCsqvp0eu7_yPIhwr-pnJFcPIuDf8nycooIhg3TaWJaBKGtXk6Hf29U7C7USas5rqACUoRXiuDs15MWxS7cHiQBDGS10C5h_3Z3zDZZE9eWNRviz54V08yozlrZsFC4juG175Sw/s400/2009-08-26+13.15.13+copy.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYJZipYM3ZHv44paCbIHn14Khw6Pjuec0LQCQeYSo4VQ8jGOK4I9gK_7U6QgZXIVag4rsYjKmUjCE4pNbet68WuNYvvUUxRsRuKT171ThKyg7s0fZ2t9k3AsWgoA2hdj-cj5EdqyUdMc/s200/2496112532_cf9b82fa05.jpg)
Let us take a moment to reflect on the good times we shared: the traffic jams at the Hollywood Bowl, the traffic jams on Santa Monica and, of course, the time I drove Maya Angelou to the Pleasure Chest.
Fold up your pant leg, pour a 40 on your foot and remember Sasha the way she was -- a bland, functioning automobile.
[Note: Wear your seat belt. They seem to work.]
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