The writer was born in a housing project near Jefferson and St. Jean on Detroit's east side. After a failed quest to become a singer in Nashville, he enrolled at Wayne State University and worked his way through college by building Chryslers. He began his career as an automotive journalist and later wrote ads. This is excerpted from a memoir he's writing. Look for more in the future on Deadline Detroit.
By Mike Nickele
Hot rods, rock stars and naked women. Hey, it’s a living. But someone’s gotta do it. And I done it! See, I’m an automotive expert. A “veteran automotive writer” is how Huffington Post describes me. But, that’s not what I ever wanted to be. It just happened. As John Lennon sang in 1980, echoing earlier uses: “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”
I’m from Detroit. And, yeah, I’m a writer. So, if you want to make a living writing and you live in Detroit, you’re gonna end up writing about cars and the industry that makes them. Therefore, I played it for everything it was worth.
I drove the coolest cars, went to the coolest places and hung with the coolest people -- and I never really liked cars!
Fast forward to my second journalism job — Ward’s Automotive Reports. I’m at a conference table with a bunch of car scribes -- wonderfully talented, terribly square professionals. L 7s for sure. They’re chest beating over which of their alma maters is superior -- University of Michigan or Michigan State. Well, I didn’t have much to say. I went to Wayne State University (Class of '75), which let me live at home (all I could afford) and work at the Chrysler Lynch Road Assembly Plant to pay tuition.
Mike Nickele: "I somehow became a respected automotive journalist. And all I ever wanted to do was have fun."
Coming from where I came from, just getting into any college was an achievement to say the least. But I did it, damn it!
Getting a gig as an entertainment writer was my dream. Now, that’s a very competitive field. Who doesn’t want to hang with famous people, have fun and get paid? Thing is, I did all of that while masquerading as an automotive expert.
I drove super cars by Ferrari, Lamborghini, Lotus, and more. I went to race driving school in the south of France. I hung out with rock stars and celebs -- all under the guise of an “automotive expert”.
Coworkers on the automotive beat were mostly talented, dedicated professionals. And I did the best acting I ever did to mimic them. I even wore a Johnny Carson sport coat, tie and conservative glasses while at work or on assignment. Most of my professional peers came from families steeped in automotive history. They were the sons and daughters of car execs, hotrod nuts and respected writers. Me? My dad was a hairdresser and my mom worked in a plastics factory. Dad grew up in Detroit’s Italian neighborhood near Gratiot and Burns, while mom came from the German neighborhood near Gratiot and Six Mile Road.
Dad Drove Dead Guys' Cars
I’d often jawbone with other automotive journalists as they went on and on about the cars they were raised with — Austin Healeys, Triumphs, MGs, Corvettes. The Nickeles drove dead guys’ cars. My dad, being a hairdresser, met a lot of women. And, when one of their husbands would die, my dad would offer to buy the car. “I’m so sorry for your loss. But, if you should want to sell his car, I might be interested”. He only bought one new car in all the years I lived with him. It was a 1955 Chevrolet -- and the cheapest model they offered. My mother was mortified. He chose the same turquoise paint job on the same car the next door neighbors had.
“How could you?” she screamed. “It’s out there sitting right next to theirs, exactly the same. I’ve never been so embarrassed!” Turns out he got a good deal on it -- probably the same deal the neighbor got.
Mom was a bit relieved, though. He got rid of the old Hudson that was her previous source of embarrassment. It was gigantic. As tikes, we climbed all over it. Up and down the massive chromed bumpers and back up on top of the roof to wave to the other neighborhood kids. Dad used to call it our white trash monkey bars.
"Boy oh boy, did I ever have fun."
Personally, I liked the Hudson. We could pack mom, dad, Uncle Eddie, Aunt Georgia and cousins Brenda and Gloria in that rolling barge. On Sundays we’d load in and cruise up Gratiot to a restaurant/bar called Emil the Buffalo. They had a herd of Buffalo there, along with a bunch of other farm animals that you could pet and feed. Inside the bar, there were delicious hamburgers for the kids and schupers of beer for the adults.
I remember the big pocket on the back of the front seat of that Hudson that stretched from one end to the other. Dip your hand in and you might just come up with a sugar cube or a ketchup pack from other excursions to the White Castle or Top Hat hamburger joints that our folks loved so much.
Memorable Family Cars
We never ever had cool cars. When dad finally gave up on repairing the rust on the old Chevy, he purchased a dead guy’s 1959 Mercury. I think it had a 383 V-8. He let me drive it once in a while. It was a real dog. Couldn’t burn rubber if you tried. And, believe me, I tried.
It was big, though. Big enough for tons of teenage make out sessions and a few flips into the back seat for hormonal gymnastics. Oh, then there was the 1964 Chevy Impala -- automatic, a few rust spots. All in all, just another dog.
There was also a gold Chevy Caprice that always stunk of old lady perfume, a powder blue Mercury station wagon and a Pontiac Sunbird.
All dead guys cars, bought for a song from grieving women. I remember him waving around a cane he’d found in the back seat of the Sunbird. “This was his cane”, he said with glee. I just shook my head and went into my room and smoked a joint.
Back then, folks said smoking pot was an escape mechanism. It never let me escape, but it did ease the pain of being a poor white kid on the shitty side of town driving dead guys cars.
These recollections should serve to enlighten anyone who believed me to be an automotive expert. It was a giant game of catch me if you can. While playing, I somehow became a respected automotive journalist. And all I ever wanted to do was have fun. And boy oh boy, did I ever have fun!
The cars, the stars, the booze, the naked women. Did I mention naked women? Shit, it couldn’t have gone any better if I’d planned it.
That’s how I became the world’s greatest phony automotive expert.
