Traditionally, the informal and affectionate term for a mayor is Hizzoner. Unfortunately, there’s no equivalent term for an ex-mayor — at least not till now.

Yes, that’s right folks, here’s an original honorific for former mayors, coined in My Home Town by none other than yers truly.

I’ve combined the traditional term Hizzoner with a prefix denoting their current status — defunct — and, Voila!, we have Dizzhonor.

Yeah, I realize it also forms a homonym of negative connotations. But anyone who knows me knows that would never have been my intent.

Anyhow, speaking of Dizzhonor, last week I ran into the Dizzhonorable Clyde Rabideau. And as is the case when we meet, we shmoozed a bunch.

So what did we shmooze about?

A better question is what did we not shmooze about. Which was politics, and for one simple reason: I refuse to talk with anyone about politics. And when I say politics, I mean all politics — international, national, state, county, and local and intergalactic.

And why’s that, you ask?

Simple. Politics are composed of a process as unvaried as the phases of the moon.

First, the candidates make all sorts of fabulous promises they won’t keep, and had no intention of keeping in the first place. In other words, pure bumpf.

Next, at the end of their term, they’ll give a heartfelt farewell and tell all the fine citizens they never could’ve made Schlabatkaville the pearl of Shmendrick county without their unwavering support. After that, they’ll enumerate all the supposed accomplishments of their term. Also pure bumpf, since the only people better off than before their term began were their deadbeat relatives and cronies, and of course their shamefully swollen ego and savings account.

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Big wheels?

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So Clyde and I didn’t talk about politics. Instead, we talked about The Good Old Days, specifically cars. Clyde talked about his tomato-red 70 Chevy Impala — a classic and classy, top-of-the-line hunk of Dee-troit iron.

As for me? Well, for 35 years I drove Volkswagen Beetles — classics, but hardly classy, and certainly not top-of-the-line. When the VW hegemony ended, my weapons of choice for the next 20 years were two Honda Accords — also not classic, classy or top-of-the-line.

Then again, my criteria for my cars were never class, but reliability and excellent fuel consumption. Reliability is still at the top of my list, but excellent fuel consumption has taken a back seat with my most recent car — a primo 2002 Lincoln Town car. And not just any LTC. Uh-uh, this one spent its whole life in Florida, had one owner, was never in a wreck or flood, and averaged a mere 60 miles a week in its long life. In short, it’s one part showpiece, one part high-end ride, and one part gearhead’s dream-come-true.

Most people who know me think the car (“Honest Abe”) is completely out of character for me. Which it is. But I’ll let you in on a secret: While it may be out of character, it was also incredibly easy to adjust to, as I assume all luxuries are. Or to very loosely paraphrase Charles Darwin: Life’s a helluva lot more comfortable at the top of the food chain than it is at the bottom.

And lemme tell ya, Bunkie, with Honest Abe, comfort is the operant word.

Dig this: It’s got fully-cushioned leather seats, adjustable steering wheel, cassette and CD player, air conditioning that’d make Peter Freuchen proud, and a trunk I’ve dubbed “The hit man’s best friend.”

And since it was scrupulously maintained, it’s immaculate, inside and out.

It’s got loads of power and even when putting pedal to the metal, it makes a loud purr, rather than a the crass roar of the typical high-powered but trashmo whips. And the ride? The only way to describe it is it’s like floating on a cloud. And that’s almost literal since, dig this: Its shock absorbers are filled with air, not with springs.

Better yet for me, the neo-Luddite, all the dashboard controls and displays are understandable. I look at some of the new cars, and the dashboard looks less like it belongs on a car than on a nukie sub.

Because the car was so well-maintained, everything is ship-shape and I don’t have to worry about this squeak or that rattle, or this whine and that “ka-klunk.” In fact, I had no concern at all about any of it … till a month or so ago.

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Things that go Whir in the night

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Oddly, my problem with it began not when I was driving it, but when it was parked. One night I took the dogs out for their last walk du jour and suddenly, coming from the car, was a weird whirring sound. It was pretty loud and lasted ten seconds or so.

As soon as I heard it, I stopped and listened. After it stopped, I just stood there, utterly confused, never having heard anything like that coming from a car. It sounded vaguely like the radiator fan, which can come on after a car’s turned off, if it’s been driven in hot weather. But Honest Abe had been cooling his heels for at least a couple hours, so it couldn’t be that. Plus I had no idea where in the car it had come from. Most logically, I thought it would’ve come from the hood, but it seemed to have come from the car’s rear. And though my knowledge of auto mechanics is marginal to nonexistent, I never knew anything in the trunk or thereabouts that could whir.

I thought some more, and then did what I always do in such circumstances: I pretended I didn’t hear anything, and if I had heard anything, it was a once-in-a-lifetime anomaly and I’d never have to worry about it again.

And I didn’t worry … till a week or so later, when it happened again.

Listen, I’ve got great powers of denial and avoidance, but this was too much, even for me. It was time to turn Honest Abe over to my higher vehicular — the good folks at Evergreen Auto.

On my drive there, all I could think was an obscure part called something like The Reverb Rotary Reconditioner was giving up the ghost. And then my fertile imagination conjured up that not would only a new one cost high in the four figures, but if I didn’t get it replaced post haste, my engine would overheat, then explode, blowing up both the car and my dreams of vehicular elegance. Not that I’m given to hysterical fears, mind you.

As it turned out, my fears were allayed once I chatted with the dynamic duo of Melissa and Ron, who were personing the counter, and who sounded like a couple of Vaudeville shtickers.

After I explained the situation, Ron said, “It’s the compressor.”

“What compressor?” I said.

“The one in your trunk,” said Melissa.

“And what’s a compressor doing in my trunk?” I asked.

“It’s for your shocks,” said Ron.

“My shocks?” I said. “What’s a compressor have to do with my shocks?”

“They’re air shocks, remember?” said Melissa.

“Oh … yeah …” I said.

“So,” said Ron, “they monitor the air pressure in the shocks …”

“And when it drops,” said Melissa, finishing his sentence,“the compressor kicks in and pumps it up to the right pressure.”

“Right,” said Ron. “Thanks to the compressor, your shocks are always fully inflated.”

So there you have it: I can now relax, knowing my car is more well-balanced than I am.

And if that comes as a shock to you, believe me, it shouldn’t.