Discussion dedicated to Acura's compact and most affordable car from 2013 to present day the ILX
So I am seriously considering buying a new car, since my 2013 Dodge Charger is having its last breaths and spent a lot of money on repairs already.
Considering Kuwait quality of roads and damn they are terrible with holes from Hell itself to every car.. so I am opting for SUV.
Midsize SUV. Looking for Fuel Friendly and Comfy ride since I am an outdoor sales guy and will spend a lot of time in the car. Honestly, I like the new KIA Sorento.. and also the Acura RDX. But terrified of the RDX cause luxury means luxury service/spare parts too.
Does anyone have the latest shape KIA Sorento? How do you like your car? Overall experience? The ground clearance when you are driving in Kuwait roads or sometimes you go to kabd?
Need some insight from internet strangers. I currently drive a 2014 Acura ILX. I bought it in 2016 and it has been an amazing vehicle and perfect for what I needed it for. At the time I was driving a lot for work so I needed something comfy that's good on gas and reliable. I am at about 95,000 miles with absolutely no problems. Kept up with maintenance and it runs like the day I bought it. Paid off as well.
Here is the problem. I had my first kid in 2019 and my second kid in 2022. My wife currently drives a 2021 Palisaide and since she is the stay-at-home parent it works cause it's pretty much the kid hauler. Fits the whole family no problem. My car on the other can barely fit one car seat and even that's pretty tight. Even with only one kid in the car, I feel a little uncomfortable driving around since it's so low to the ground. Financially, at this time we cannot afford another vehicle. I have the ILX paid off so we only have one car payment. I would like another vehicle.
Here is my question. I absolutely love the 1st generation Acura MDX. The new ones look so MEH but the older ones I just love the look. Would it be absolutely crazy to find a way to trade in my current 2014 ILX to get a 2005 MDX? The ones I am finding are around 150,000 miles hovering around $4k-$6k which lines up with the value of my vehicle. From a features standpoint, I was actually surprised to see how much you got with a 2005-2006 MDX. Backup camera, navigation, heated seats, etc. The only thing I would really be losing out on would be Bluetooth capabilities. The best part is it would be significantly more space, even has a third row. My fear is obviously I would be getting an older vehicle that could potentially have problems. It would be a short-term solution. With my wife returning to work in a few years I would be getting another newer vehicle.
We currently have a Tesla Y. A new born and toddler. Moving to the burbs for the first time and need a second car for errands.
Doesn't need to necessarily be kid friendly. More for when my wife or me need to run out for something.
I am looking at 12-18k budget. Ideally under 50k miles. Reliable.
I've looked at:
BMW i3 (2014-2018) Acura ILX Mazda3/6 Volvo S60 Jetta
Anything else you would suggest?
Hey everyone, I recently found these two vehicles near me, both relatively within my price point (ILX is about $3k more) , I’m just not sure which one to get. I’ve seen some things online comparing these two cars as being very similar, but I’m not sure what in depth pros and cons separate these two to sway my decision.
I just recently bought my first car, a 2013 Scion FR-S, and the headlights need replaced pretty badly. I want to go with aftermarket headlights since they look cooler but every brand I've looked at seems to have a litany of problems tied to it. Are there any specific headlights that look cool and will not have a high failure rate?
Torn between these two as my first car. Originally looking for a civic but it’s basically the same price as the Acura, not worth it imo.
Acura ILX 2015 $15k 43k miles Automatic Sunroof Tech package, well taken care of inside and outside recent service.
Hyundai Elantra 2017 $13.5k 45k miles Automatic Some minor details in the painting otherwise impecable.
Which one is more reliable? In the long term, which one will hold more value or will be less of a headache?
Both drive fine by me, only really going to use it to take trips on weekends, as my girlfriend lives in a nearby town. I commute to work every day and don’t have any problem doing so but still want a nice car.
Open to other suggestion but I’m more inclined to cars that are either very reliable or made in Mexico or the US.
Edit: budget 10-15k, automatic, and preference for 2013 onwards models.
I have family experience with cars which are difficult to repair as parts needed to be imported.
Thanks!
I have an 2013 Acura and I just got the light on the dashboard for service needed. Should I go to the dealership or where else would you suggest going to for routinary services?
Thanks!
Hello all! I'm a screenwriter and longtime lover of horror prose, taking some time during the strike to polish up old unpublished pieces and maybe embark on some new ones. This is the first I'm sharing publicly -- it's a nasty piece of work, about a nasty little man who receives a power he really shouldn't have. Most of my stories aren't like this, but Lyle Hereford insisted upon himself, and I haven't yet managed to forget him. It's also a bit lengthy, about 8600 words (30ish manuscript pages). I'm posting it in two parts.
WARNING: This story contains depictions of non-consensual sex and gun violence.
GHOST WORD
By Jonathan Redding
-----------
ghost word 1. (noun) A previously unknown word appearing in a dictionary or list of words, often by error--but sometimes by design. -----------
Lyle Hereford laid there, slick and frightened, and thought about the Word.
He rolled his head to the right, to the nightstand beside his narrow bed, saw the flat green numerals pronounce it 3:17AM. On another night he might have thought of the Gospel According to John, at that hour, or more obscurely, of the Weird Sisters, of the
Walpurgisnacht. Sleeplessness was a condition of his pinched, brittle being*.* Tonight he lay there sweating, insomnia buzzing in his thighs, his hamstrings. The inevitable heartburn seethed in his concave chest, and he thought about the Word.
The Word was not with him.
He thought about it sitting, inert, on the small rolling desk, in his office, across the city. Thought about the urban glow, blotting out the stars, seeping in the window, slanting though the low-bid venetian blinds the first contractors must have installed and none of those cheap bastards at the University ever bothered to replace, the blinds that always tear at their thin top fixtures, that Lyle mends with tight sleeves of Scotch tape. He thought about the city’s ambient nightlight seeping in, and falling, across the side desk, across the Word. He thought about the binding. Cream, once, probably, soft and blameless. Faded to no-color, now. An old traveler. But what
was it? And how had it come to be
there? How did it come to rest on that shelf, that groaning, overburdened, mid-century plank?
Lyle imagined someone slipping into the library, furtive, mounting the stair, the tome swinging against them, tucked in a messenger bag. Some faceless someone, head down, hood up, sunglasses in the dim. Lyle pictured them skirting around the encyclopedias and the medieval histories and bypassing the long rows of technical manuals and the corridors of Euclidean geometry and enzymology and theoretical economics and arriving at the neglected, quaint, neat rows of purest Reference: the Dictionaries.
Lyle had gone to consult the Oxford English Dictionary. Specifically the 1989 Second Edition, magnificent in twenty volumes; a tool with which he insisted each of his students familiarize themselves. On this day he had sought out the second volume specifically, the one beginning with
B.B.C.
James, that young Turk, had challenged his interpretation of a passage of
Taming of the Shrew. It turned on the etymology of the word
bonnie.
Tried to score off me, in front of the whole class, that smug little prick. James, graduate student
par excellence. James of the falling black hair, perpetually obscuring his face, terminating above his perfect smile. James who was such a favorite among the bouncing, giggling undergraduates. James who found it easy to excel, in any environment, who found it very difficult to accept Lyle’s criticisms, Lyle’s guidance. James was many things Lyle was not, had never been, and Lyle knew it. But James had not yet learned to survive in academia. James was going to discover that you did not score points off Lyle Hereford, Ph.D., and Lyle would see to it that it happened painfully. In the town square, as it were. It would have to be just a touch humiliating.
`
Darby, especially, Lyle thought.
She has to see it. Yes. Just the right amount of condescension to really cut into him, to make it memorable.
Only Lyle never found his ammunition in the second volume beginning with
B.B.C. because his interest was diverted. He never queried the etymology of
bonnie in the compressed italics of lexicalese, never perused the examples from John Donne and Sir Thomas Aquinas and the
Cursor Mundi behind their truncated century marks, because something else caught his eye. Something that shouldn’t have been there. Tucked in between the seventh and eighth volumes (
Interval and
Look, respectively, he knew) was a tattered book, somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred pages, grayed to nothing, the color of a shroud. Lyle reached down, placed his index finger atop the book’s spine, and drew it from the shelf. He gave it a cursory glance—the cover lettering had been savaged by time, but fragments of the lower half survived:
PART A—ANT # OXFO D 1877 “What in the
world,” Lyle said. The library swallowed the sound, took it into the mute stillness of itself, into its hush. What he held in his hands was not genuine—could not be genuine. The original OED was printed like this, piecemeal, in what were called
fascicles. But not this soon, God, not this soon! They hadn’t even started! The first fascicle of the OED, the very first product of their seventy-year odyssey, the publication that made the London philologia realize they had bit off quite a bit more than they could chew, was designated
A-Ant. It was a rare bird, a thing to be coveted. It was
valuable. It was first printed in 1884.
Lyle had always thought it a clever, tiny nod of Orwell’s, lost to the mass of readers: that the OED should rule for a century, before Newspeak replaced it. This, then, if it was what it purported to be, what the front cover claimed it to be, was early. Seven whole years early.
A misprint, he thought.
Has to be. That would change the valuation—this could be one-of-a-kind. Not that Lyle would dream of selling such a book. Before this moment, he wouldn’t even have allowed himself to dream of
holding such a book. He checked for a barcode, a borrower’s card. He found neither.
What is it DOING here? He had let it fall open at random, there, among the stacks, a single water-damaged page stood up like a cowlick, he gingerly pressed it flat. The type within was much more preserved than the weathered front-plating. He scanned, gliding over the forms:
aglist, aglitter, aglomerular, aglopened, aglossal, aglow- That was when he had seen the Word.
Though it wasn’t the Word itself, that had drawn his attention. It was the empty white, beneath it. The dictionary game was all about spatial economy. Column inches and abbreviations. In forty-seven years of nebbish quietude, forty-seven years of slow vanishing into a wilderness of text, Lyle Hereford, Ph.D., had never encountered empty white space in the body of a dictionary. Thus, first, the white. Then he had looked above it.
The Word did not begin with the letter “A”.
The Word did not conform to any structural schema that Lyle recognized. There was no easily discernible root in the Romance lineage, nor the Germanic, nor even the primordial Oriental or Sanskrit Anglicizations which the casual peruser of the
Mahabharata or of Patanjali’s
Sutras might intuitively place. The Word began with the character “X”, and proceeded from there to a feral enjambment of consonants and choked, almost Hebraic “Y’s”. It possessed no other vowels. Merely the Word, this strange word, had greeted Lyle. No origin, pronunciation, part-of-speech. No definition. Merely the Word, and the white beneath, there in the stacks.
Lyle brushed his thumb across the Word. Looking back, now, he couldn’t really say why. It was the sort of automatic, immediate impulse that you don’t question until it’s complete. It came over him like a yawn. He felt the thin whisper of the paper beneath his skin, he traced the Word from its first syllable to its eighth and final and
“FUCK— “
A kind of
WRETCH, a spasm, behind his eyes, within his temples, his core, the cilia of his inner ears. His stomach flopped over queasily in his abdomen and he clenched his ass, just ahead of a hot dart of pressure, a hot sharp dart of pressure, gas and a tincture of liquid, a foul egg smell, he fought to hold it—
“
fuckfuckfuck— “
Tremoring in his calves, his whole body strained, the feeble musculature flared from his neck, his weak chin pressed down and his gorge rose. Warm coppery blood pattered and trickled over his lips. Lyle’s nose was bleeding. The fit—whatever it was—began to pass, and Lyle looked down through watering eyes to the object in his hands.
“What in the
Christ-?” The library remained silent, the book remained still, the Word remained inscrutable. He noticed the spatter, low on the page, of his blood, obscuring the column inches, smearing over
agnathous. He gathered up a shirt cuff in his hand, squeezed it to his nose—*that’s never coming out—*and awkwardly sat, pooling the book in his lap. He reached down with his other cuff to dab at the page, mitigate the damage. That is when, Lyle now thought, he may have gone mad.
The beads of blood began to crawl up the page.
The traversal of the droplets wasn’t smooth, wasn’t a
rolling. They jerked upward in spurs—they
forked, like lightning. They crept laterally, then cut upward again, the spastic scribbling of an unseen hand. Lyle became aware that his body was rigid, his breath held, his eyes dry and pained, he stared unblinking. Sweat stood out on the crenellations of his widow’s peak, his acne-scarred brow. His ruptured sinus oozed, his sleeve was warm and sodden. The bloodbolts reached the inexplicable white gap. Swirled into the emptiness. Beneath the Word the blood swirled. It arranged itself.
It formed shapes.
It formed
letters.
Lyle had made a sound, then, something between a sob and a laugh and a scream—
—
snakebit it’s a snakebit sound— *—*rupturing the stillness, a harsh throaty sound, reeding through the library, and then he clapped the book shut and fled.
“But I didn’t drop it, did I?” he asked the green numerals. They showed 4:07AM. Time always slid, on sleepless nights. He thought it one of their worst qualities.
“I ran. I ran from it*.* But my hands… my hands wouldn’t let it go.”
Lyle sat up in bed. Only when the sheets peeled away from his back did he realize he was perspiring. He stripped the damp bedclothes and shambled across the room, to his small closet. He bent to his hamper, deposited the sheets inside, closed the latch with a discrete
click. He took a fresh button-up and crisp slacks down from their hangers, and he began to dress.
#
Lyle barely heard as the starter of his aging Acura chugged, and whinnied, and finally caught. He floated across town, the CD player in the dash resumed Rachmaninov’s
Prelude in C sharp minor, the volume hovered at the bottom edge of audibility. It did not pierce the veil of Lyle’s exhaustion. His memory, the vision of the mounting blood, felt unreal. The marine layer had rolled in with the night’s cool, heightening the strangeness. Occasionally headlights swam up out of the fog, the vague shapes of alien drivers flickered and were gone. Lyle had passed through a membrane—*a glass, darkly—*and everything normal was rendered strange, as though the laws underpinning the universe had grown suddenly elastic. His fatigue coupled with the new fact of the Word to cast a surreal pall over the familiar streets. He wondered, at each car he passed, about the journey of the driver. Was it possible that just beneath the frequency of his attention there was a whole world of men on grim, predawn errands? Men confronting mad and impossible things, men fallen through unsuspected cracks in their comfortable facade? And just where in the wild blue fuck had it
come from?
Lyle made it, not without difficulty, to the faculty lot. He parked askew—
someone’s sure to bitch about that he thought, and tittered*—*and walked his scuttling walk across the plaza toward the Humanities complex, fumbling for his keycard. His footsteps seemed to echo off of nothing but haze. The fog encroached, he felt as though it watched him.
His office was a shabby, cramped afterthought on the fourth floor. He turned the bolt behind him as he entered, resting his weary head against the door. He thumped it, once—his forehead, that is—against the wood. He crossed to his chair, the brown faux leather cracked and peeling, and sat heavily. The office was cheaply appointed, but pristine. No tchotchkes or personal touches were in evidence, with the exception of some of Lyle’s own (stark, black-and-white) photography. The book he had found, the impossible book, was not alphabetized on his shelves with the others. It sat alone. Nothing shared, with it, the small rolling side-desk, which Lyle pulled to himself. He reached for the book, heart pounding, hands tremoring. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes. Mastered himself. By and by, the shaking passed. He opened his eyes to look, again, upon the Word.
First there’s fear, of course there’s fear, but then... but then....
Then, perhaps, there was room for curiosity. He had found this thing, this extraordinary thing, or perhaps, just possibly…
“It found
me. Maybe it was--
meant. For me.”
And if it were, that might make it—
would make it—the first thing, the first special thing, that had ever been
meant, for Lyle Hereford, Ph.D. He opened the book, the tremor in his hands barely perceptible, now. He sought out the Ag’s—
aglow, aglist, aglitter—and found them easily enough. He stared, eyes bulging, straining, at the page.
The Word was gone.
Nothing. No fractal X’s and Y’s, no phantom space, no broken line. Smooth, black column inches, the rhythms of the dictionary, nothing out of place.
“No—no, no, no—” Lyle flipped the page, aggressively, almost tearing it from the binding, another, another, flipped them, faster and faster, scanning, rapidly scanning, seeking white space.
“No,
fuck you, no, it was
here, you were
just here, I didn’t
imagine you you cocksucker come
back here and
talk to me— “
He flipped forward, the opposite direction, toward the front of the fascicle, when he felt something under the pad of his thumb. It was—a shift in the texture, a vibration—a definite, awful,
sly little movement. He felt the thing
change, somehow. Lyle froze. He held perfectly still—*snake, snake in my hands, subtle subtle snake—*then he slid his thumb, just his thumb, the tiniest hair, a fraction of an inch, over the page-ends. Rasped his thumb, along the margin of the book. *Something, there’s something, right there—*he rasped again. Felt it. Toward the back. A water-damaged page. Lyle seized on it, almost eagerly, letting the book part around it. It stood up like a cowlick. He pressed it carefully down, closed his eyes. Lyle felt a curious swirl of anxiety and hope. He was afraid. Afraid to see it again.
He needed to see it again. He needed to
know. He opened his eyes. He scanned the page, now, a completely different section of the fascicle.
Amputee, ampyx, amrel, amrita, amry, amsel. Faster, faster…
There.
Crowded into the bottom-right corner. An empty, white space. Above it, a Word.
A
different Word.
This one began with an LN, and to the litany of Y’s had been added double-Us. The same layout: no explicatory text below, nothing else. The single, unpronounceable Word.
“There you are,” Lyle whispered. He turned to his computer, felt for the green button along the back of his monitor, pressed it. He thumbed the spacebar on his keyboard. The desktop awoke mid a staccato burst of tiny electronic clicks, followed by the usual cheery synth-tone. Lyle set a yellow legal pad on his lap, popped the well-chewed end of a mechanical pencil into his mouth, clenched it between his teeth. He tugged open a gray metal desk drawer, hideous and utilitarian, pawed around inside until he found what he wanted, closed it again. He turned back to the Word.
“Tell me a secret,” he said. His voice was queerly pitched, hollow. He hardly recognized it. He held up the small object taken from his desk, held it up above the page, showed it to the Word. It was a pushpin.
Tell me. Lyle pricked the ball of his middle finger, blood welled into a fat bead. He turned his hand over, held the blood above the white, watched it distend, watched it fall. This time there was no lightning, no crawl. This time it
sizzled, as though he had dropped it on a skillet. It sizzled, bubbled, on the white, then separated, it raised blood-red letters below the Word. Characters. This time, Lyle was ready.
It’s Attic Greek, he realized. The characters stood out in the elegant script of the Septuagint, the language of Alexander the Great. The language that, at one time, had conquered the world, and had later been conquered in turn. A language of emperors, and of slaves. Lyle sucked on his bleeding finger as he hunched over the legal pad, copying out the unfamiliar letters:
ύπνος
It was a matter of a few moments to download a keyboard for ancient Greek characters on the desktop. A few more to pull up Google, find a translator widget, and hunt-and-peck his way to the answer. The cursor blinked beside the translation. The word beneath the Word, the Greek extraction written in blood, fat and placid and banal:
sleep
Lyle felt a flush of disappointment. He had expected
something, he realized. Some kernel of an answer. The name of a daemon, or of a god. A celestial body, perhaps. And why Greek? If it was printed in the nineteenth century, printed in
English in the nineteenth century? Lyle turned back to the fascicle but the blood was gone. He brushed a cautious knuckle across the white gap and found it dry.
Thirsty, he thought.
You feel thirsty. The language of Alexander, and of Oedipus Rex, and of Aristotle. He considered the Word.
Sleep. A definition? Was the book itself carrying some kind of, what, repository, fragments of a lost language, preserved by some oblique arcana? The work of a secret society, or a cult? Some Rosicrucian gimmickry? He looked down at the white space, the secret-keeping space, awakened by blood. Considered, again, the crooked syllables, the LM, the double-X, the Y’s and double-U’s.
Sleep. Sleep was a word with a certain beauty. Especially for the chronic insomniac. A beauty and a kind of longing.
Sleep. The LM, the double-X, the Y’s and the double-U’s. Strange, riotous Word.
“Sleep is a beautiful word.” Lyly was unaware that he had spoken aloud.
The LM, the double-X, in the middle, the double-X. It occurred to him that
this Word, too, was beautiful.
Beautiful and possessed of a kind of interior sense, Lyle realized.
A kind of logic. When you think about it. The double-X, a kind of sluggish, sloughing sound in the middle. A
collapse, to link the long consonants, as if the effort of producing the Word were too much for one’s throat, all at once. The LM, the double-X, the double-U’s. Lyle opened his mouth, still unaware. The Word intensified, in his field of vision, came into a sharp focus. The rest of the page somehow
fell around it. Lyle wondered if he was being hypnotized. There was no more color in the world, he knew how to say the Word, the Word was
teaching him, patiently, to say it, he opened his mouth not knowing and he said the Word that meant Sleep and—
# Lyle awoke on the floor of his office. He shook his head, once, experimentally. He winced—his left temple was sore; a bruise was coming on.
Did I fall? Black out? The fascicle was still on his side-desk. It was closed, now. His computer was dark and quiet, hibernating. All at once he remembered—*oh, my God—*it wasn’t a definition or a repository or a code—
“It’s a
command,” he croaked, his voice husky in the stillness. Everything
clicked, almost audibly, like tumblers turning in his head. It was a
command, and that made the book something else, that made the book something very much else indeed,
oh, oh God, that makes it something else.
What time is it? The sun hadn’t risen, the streetlights still slanted through his shitty, frail blinds. Traffic had picked up though, he could hear it outside, and he felt—
incredible, I feel incredible—fine, other than the bump on his noggin and a few cricks in his shoulders, his neck, Lyle felt like a million bucks. He pawed at his phone. He carried it in his front-left pocket, and if he had fallen on it it might have—
The phone showed 9:44PM. He had slept, all right. He ran the math. He had been at his desk, it had been maybe five thirty…
It put me to sleep for sixteen hours? Lyle have never slept that long in his life, to the best of his knowledge*.* It was enough to make him want to weep. He’d been just an anxious little bedwetter when his long war against insomnia began, and the notion of simply saying a Word, a beautiful Word, and dropping off like a stone—
He crossed to his office door, turned the bolt. Opened it. A sticky-note was affixed to the outside:
Dr. L, wasn’t able to get ahold of you today, hope you feel better. Walked the class through Act III, reiterated their assignments re: Marlowe comparison & cut them loose, will check in tomorrow first thing. It was James’s fluid cursive. Even his penmanship was pretty*.*
Lyle turned his attention back to the fascicle. He picked it up carefully, reverently. He felt a surge of glee, an unbridled joy at the power in his hands. When he closed his eyes he could still see the sleep-Word, the constellation of unwieldy letters stood out bright and vivid. His heart raced with the implications of his discovery—
something else something else it’s something else— The term
Grimoire drifted hazily across his consciousness.
He rasped his thumb along the margins and felt immediately the bristle of the damaged page, somewhere in the center. He held the book upright and let it fall open, the single page left standing. He smoothed it carefully down. He looked upon the book.
The empty white stood out easily, in the center column, the exact mid-point. Above it was yet another Word, this one shorter, beginning with an A and three O’s, a sound meant to be moaned. Lyle rummaged for another push-pin in his desk. He pricked his ring-finger, this time—*spread the love, I might be doing this a lot—*and smeared a sizzling patina of blood onto the white paper. The red letters formed on the page, he couldn’t wait for them, he was
greedy for them—
That isn’t Greek, Lyle realized. The new Word was explicated in a much more familiar—and, curiously, more recent—tongue. The new Word was translated in Latin.
libido
Was the first Word I saw translated into Greek? he wondered.
When I ran from the library, from the blood, the first time, were those Greek letters? He couldn’t be sure, it had happened so quickly, and hysteria warped the memory.
He couldn’t be sure, no. But he didn’t think so.
“Libido,” he pronounced into the quiet of the office. “Lust. Desire.” He stood there a long moment, lost in thought. Finally he reached beneath his desk and pulled out a slender leather briefcase. He wouldn’t leave it at the office again, not—
Not knowing what it can do. He placed the fascicle inside, locked the briefcase, and killed the grating fluorescents overhead. As he left the office he crumpled James’s sticky note in his fist and let it fall.
CONTINUED IN PT. 2: https://www.reddit.com/Horror_stories/comments/13wyq9j/ghost_word_pt_2/ Need some insight from internet strangers. I currently drive a 2014 Acura ILX. I bought it in 2016 and it has been an amazing vehicle and perfect for what I needed it for. At the time I was driving a lot for work so I needed something comfy that's good on gas and reliable. I am at about 95,000 miles with absolutely no problems. Kept up with maintenance and it runs like the day I bought it. Paid off as well.
Here is the problem. I had my first kid in 2019 and my second kid in 2022. My wife currently drives a 2021 Palisaide and since she is the stay-at-home parent it works cause it's pretty much the kid hauler. Fits the whole family no problem. My car on the other can barely fit one car seat and even that's pretty tight. Even with only one kid in the car, I feel a little uncomfortable driving around since it's so low to the ground. Financially, at this time we cannot afford another vehicle. I have the ILX paid off so we only have one car payment. I would like another vehicle.
Here is my question. I absolutely love the 1st generation Acura MDX. The new ones look so MEH but the older ones I just love the look. Would it be absolutely crazy to find a way to trade in my current 2014 ILX to get a 2005 MDX? The ones I am finding are around 150,000 miles hovering around $4k-$6k which lines up with the value of my vehicle. From a features standpoint, I was actually surprised to see how much you got with a 2005-2006 MDX. Backup camera, navigation, heated seats, etc. The only thing I would really be losing out on would be Bluetooth capabilities. The best part is it would be significantly more space, even has a third row. My fear is obviously I would be getting an older vehicle that could potentially have problems. It would be a short-term solution. With my wife returning to work in a few years I would be getting another newer vehicle.
Hey everyone, I’m looking to buy an Acura sedan around $25k but I’m not sure if I should go with the ILX model or the TLX model. Any tips or suggestions on which model to choose?
So $10,000 for a car that doesn't run? Alright my guy. Then call the cops? Settle down.
I know this may be an obvious question and I’m dumb for asking, etc, etc, but I’m freaking out a little bit. My boyfriend did me a favor and parked my car last night, but when he turned off the car, he didn’t turn off the headlights. When I went to move the car this morning, my car started and didn’t give me any issues, but I’m freaked out because I just replaced my battery not too long ago and I’ll be pissed if I have to again because of this. He’s done this one other time before and when I freaked out on him he told me something along the lines of they’ll turn off when the engines off, but I saw the lights shining on the garage door when I got into my car this morning. I just need a second opinion because now I’m freaking out that I’m gonna stall the next time I try to go to work.
My boyfriend did me a favor and parked my car last night, but when he turned off the car, he didn’t turn off the headlights. When I went to move the car this morning, my car started and didn’t give me any issues, but I’m freaked out because I just replaced my battery not too long ago and I’ll be pissed if I have to again because of this. He’s done this one other time before and when I freaked out on him he told me something along the lines of they’ll turn off when the engines off, but I saw the lights shining on the garage door when I got into my car this morning. I just need a second opinion because now I’m freaking out that I’m gonna stall the next time I try to go to work.