1990 Chevrolet Suburban

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1990 Chevrolet Suburban
RCR Chevrolet Suburban Thumb.jpg
Car Details
Make Chevrolet
Model Suburab
Year 1990
Owner Salvatore LoPresti (YouTube)
Episode Details
Episode Link Watch
Season YouTube Partner
Air Date December 22, 2013
Credits Giacomo

This is a car from the age of Grunge Music, live axles and red plush interior. The Suburban is not an SUV, not really. It is a work truck that happens to be inclosed. Like the Lincoln Town Car, it will outlast modern cars.


1990 Chevrolet Suburban. A machine made for blasting 'Radar Love' between toll booths on the Northeast extension.


to the tune of ???

Sex on wheels,
Sex on wheels,
I drink Monster Energy,
With all my meals!



You're not looking at an SUV here. In the late 1980s and early '90s, the Chevrolet Suburban was a truck. What this really is is a Silverado long-bed that just happens to be enclosed. Look, look at the back. You see a third brake light? The high-centered third brake light was mandated for cars in 1987, but trucks didn't have to have them until 1994. That was along the United States anyway, I don't know what it was in Europe. And speaking of you Europeans, the Suburban is what you think of when you think positive thoughts about American cars.

The eighth-generation Suburban was produced all the way from 1973 to 1991. Yeah, this is what you think of when you think of an American car. Yeah, you want this. *V8 roaring in the background* Steel confidence, a commanding chin, liberating height which distances the occupants from global asphalt realities.

This Suburban here has a 350-cubic-inch V8 which propels this concession stand making 12.5 miles per gallon. And yes, decimals count. Because this is an embodiment of masculinity, where a matter of inches could be the difference between victory and pulling up your pants and leaving the Howard Johnson's in shame. 

There's room for eight people here, and you could conceive, deliver and raise a family in the back of this truck and entertain them on Saturday nights with water park hallucinations compelled by the fumes. The front seats are a foot apart, like slow-dancing middle-school couples. And here we have the PRRRRRT there are only throttle-body fuel injectors from the grunge age. Throttle-body fuel injectors work just like a carburetor would. They spray fuel far from the finish line.

You work on an eight-generation Chevrolet Suburban by ascending the grille and paying tribute. It's got a live rear axle and a live front axle. Don't fear this rust. Nope. Body rot here and there doesn't mean much, as long as the frame is fine. Thumbtacks hold the headliner in place. Armrests get ashtrays. The automatic column shifter is straight out of a '70s action movie. Oh man, smoker windows, I remember these!

The Suburban victoriously performs one of the great American virtues: 'Act your size'. So many cars commit the cardinal sin of dishonesty. It's not so much deception as it is disingenuousness. You see, I hate it when cars try to convince you they're something they're not. You've seen this, small cars insisting they're big and expensive - gnnnn Toyota Corolla gnnnn - or worse, big cumbersome cars putting on Under Armour thinking it hides their buffet rolls - gnnnn Pontiac Grand Am. Aaah, but this Suburban? No way. Three rows of truth. Oh, the grille doesn't jut enough? BRUSH GUARDS. The contacts container body isn't nautical enough? MARKER LIGHTS. Those handles help you in to a red velour interior FOR SIN.

A Suburban only needs six selling points: I'm big, I drive over stuff, weather doesn't stop me, I LOOK LIKE MURDER, I SOUND LIKE LOBO AND I SMOKE LIKE OSWALD'S RIFLE. When we were finished filming this Suburban, I borrowed it. I used it to drive up to St. Mary's of the Blessed Hearts Bible Camp and Smiling Hugs Daycare Center. Out of the back hatch I threw a potato sack, the contents of which were CRYING. Through my Millard Fillmore mask I yelled, "YOU PASSED THE TEST LIKE ALL THE REST" while the internals of a meatball sub rolled down the front of my white V-neck T-shirt.



Chevy Suburban, the Obsidian monolyth of masculine domesticity and old Tom Waits albums.