New Cars and Rentals

The choice and selection of new cars these days (2013) is frustrating.  On one hand, with a new car, you do get the satisfaction of knowing you’re the original owner.  Everything is fresh and new – there’s even that disturbing plastic smell (which I really don’t like).   You have a factory warranty and the negligible likelihood of any problems – especially from an import.  And there are always new features being added each year, some of which strike me as “wipe-your-butt” and not that useful (e.g. reverse camera).   Of course you have to get used to the new controls and everything.

On a cold, rainy morning, November 22, 1992, I bought my first new car: a 1992 Pontiac Firebird, at King Pontiac in Gaithersburg, Maryland, near the corner of Shady Grove Road and 355.  It was black-on-black, with power windows, door locks, remote trunk release, and T-tops.   And it had a V8, although it was a 170 horsepower, throttle-body injected 5.0L.  Not NASCAR, NHRA or Indy car worthy, but certainly enough torque and oomph to get the car out of its own way.   I could pop the hood and count 8 spark plug wires, 4 on each side of the block.  The TBI was kind of weird: the same large circular air cleaner with snorkel you would expect on a carbureted engine, but this was fuel injected.   I could juice it up:  Mobil 1 synthetic oil, K&N air filter, Dunlop SP4000 tires, and a Hypertech PROM chip promising (!) another 30 HP.  I babied that car, and it was in stellar condition when I sold it to my boss in 1995 when I bought my Formula.  After a Cavalier and a Tercel – both boring, economy cars – finally I had my own car that I picked out myself.  It was MINE.

That night, when it got dark, I turned on the headlights, and the lighting was red, not green.  My dad was also impressed: it’s like the Batmobile, he said.  The pop-up headlights were also cool. 

Sadly, circa 2013, there is no Pontiac anymore, and Pontiac itself hadn’t sold a Firebird since 2002.  Chevrolet sells its Camaro, but even the V6 model is $26k, and the V8 SS model is $35k or more.  Although it’s obviously based on the ’69 model, the tiny windows are a symptom of too much modern and not enough retro. It also bugs me that the SS logo is off-center with the bow-tie still in the middle.  The original Camaro SS had the “SS” dead center in the grille.  For that matter, so did the Nova SS and Chevelle SS.

Dodge sells the Challenger: R/T with 5.7L Hemi (370 HP) is $30k, SRT8 with 6.1L Hemi (420 HP) is $40k.  The Challenger is an excellent copy of Dodge’s least attractive car, whereas the Charger – which also comes in the corresponding R/T and SRT8 configurations with similar engines and price tags – is a sedan.   Nope, they weren’t going to copy the ’68-70 model which narrowly lost to the ’68 GTO for Motor Trend car of the year.

The Nissan Altima – which I rented for some time – has impressive acceleration (even in the 2.5L model) and a killer stereo.  Too bad the styling gets an F:  indistinguishable from a Chevy Impala, Toyota Camry or Honda Accord.  Of the economy cars, I find the Honda Civic coupe to be the nicest looking of the 2013 crop.  It’s semi-sporty without being embarrassing. 

Rental Cars.  Part of the problem with rentals is by the time you get used to the controls and idiosyncrasies of the car, it’s time to turn it in.  And they never rent cool cars: sorry, the V6 Mustang and V6 Charger don’t do it for me:  please let us rent the GT and R/T models.   While I realize the insurance and business models heavily disfavor renting classic muscle cars, it’s a major shame that – to my knowledge – you can’t rent General Lee Charger R/Ts, ‘70s Trans Ams, ‘70s Corvettes, 60s GTOs, or similar cars.  Whoever manages to find a formula for that which works – possibly short-term rentals with some higher scrutiny of the prospective renter’s driving record and personality profile – could stand to make a considerable amount of money.  The image of a Hemi Road Runner wrapped around a tree and its 16 year old bonehead driver thrust through the windshield, DOA, is probably too easy to imagine. 

For that matter, wouldn’t it be nice if you could go to a car dealer, and have a choice not merely of the current model year or the prior year’s leftovers, or whatever used cars happen to be on the lot, but put in an order for any model year, any model.  The dealer could scan the Internet throughout the country for suitable models.  A revamping of the restoration industry could be a nice investment for someone like Warren Buffett, Bill Gates, or Paul Allen.  GM already has “Restoration  Parts”, a Taiwanese company makes brand new body shells for many 60s muscle cars.  A factory which could splice new bodies and recycle a host of unrestorable donor cars to be cannibailized, could essentially churn out modern-day versions of classic cars.  Sounds like a lot of work, but possibly a great operation if it could be done.   Dream on….

Facebook, Myspace, LinkedIn, Etc

Like so many others in the US, I’ve joined Facebook.  I even play Mafia Wars, though I’ve resisted the urge to play Farmville or the other Zynga games.  MW takes up enough of my time as it is and has its own quirks and frustrations.

The first such site I joined was Myspace, back around 2004, at the suggestion of my then-secretary Jennifer, who no longer seems to be there….or on Facebook for that matter (see below).  I never found it to be the jailbait meat market as the cynics claimed, but then again maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough to use it as a de facto dating site.  Nowadays it seems 99% of the use for it is bands trying to get exposure.  A lot of times I’ll try to find a band’s website only to be directed to their Myspace page.  But I’ve never seen a band relying on that to be an improvement on a well-designed private web site. 

Tagged.   I originally joined this in 2006 at the suggestion of an ex-fiance who then promptly closed her account after a few tags exchanged for a few nanoseconds.  This site allows you to send “tags” (small box-like comments) or full “comments”.  The tags vary from “Happy Birthday”, “Happy Valentine’s” and other holiday-themes, to “showing love” or humorous.  The comments often seem to be an endless string of pictures of flowers, food, etc. or a warning that so-and-so is a scammer.  I ignore most of them.

            I started Mafia Wars on Tagged, then followed it over to Facebook.  I met my current GF on Tagged, as it is.  40% of the “women” on Tagged seem to be faux porn stars (easy to imagine 50 year old fat guy posting porn girl pics), 40% seem to be overweight black women calling themselves “Chocolate Goddess” and similar boastful names, and 10% ….REAL people.  My GF was one of those real people.  She still is.

Facebook.  This site attracts many family-oriented people like my brother who avoided Myspace like the plague.  Among the posts I see are tons of “you know you’re a Mom when” and some comment about vomit or sick kids.   You know who you are.  Please exercise discretion and only post either extremely brilliant or extremely outrageous stuff.  24/7 coverage of your kids’ shenanigans gets old quickly.   My sister has finally learned this.

            The political posts zone me out.  Listen here.  You may be “preaching to the choir.”  Persons converted?  ZERO.  You may be trying to convince Romney voters to support Obama, or vice versa.  Persons converted?  ZERO.   You may be trying to convince people who are only on Facebook to play Zynga games.  Persons converted?  ZERO.  Does anyone know anyone else who changed their vote in 2012 because of a post they saw on Facebook?  Or by 100 posts in the same day by the same person with the same basic message?  I didn’t think so. 

            Memes etc.  I like some of these. 

            “Y U NO”.  My favorite was: “Air Force: Y U NO PT?”  Response: “Army: Y U NO SMART?”

            “One does not simply” Boromir (Sean Bean) explains why [Mordor cannot be entered.]  Note: this is NOT Ned Stark.

            Thoughtful Raptor, Success Baby, Confused Jackie Chan, Smug Willie Wonka (Gene Wilder) are some other good ones.  Again, please exercise discretion.

I resisted the urge to blog about Mafia Wars earlier because it struck me that either you’re already playing it and know enough about it, or don’t play it and don’t give a s**t.  So I’ll keep my comments brief.  It started out with just a New York location, but before I got bored with it, they expanded to Cuba.  Ok, good – completely new jobs, new items, etc.  That kept my interest.  Then they added Moscow, Bangkok, Italy, Chicago, Las Vegas, Brazil, and London.  It’s always changing and adding things, and I like getting new and badder-ass items.  But I agree it can be “a colossal waste of time.”

Linkedin.  This is the serious, professional hookup site, networking for real people and not trolling for underage girls, and it has no games (yet).  The posts tend to be “so-and-so has a new job”.  Very dull, but it’s meant to be.

Off the Grid.   Some people “don’t believe” in Facebook.  It’s a free country, and having a Facebook account is not mandatory.  It can be a complete waste of time – especially Zynga games.  So I can’t say I blame those people who stay away from it.  There are some good reasons.

            However, one reason I don’t buy is this dedication to maintain zero presence on the Net and stay “off the grid”.  When I hear this I picture John Malkovich’s character in “R.E.D.”, the recent Bruce Willis shoot-em-up which was criminally underrated.  If you haven’t seen it already, do it immediately.  You’re welcome.  ANYHOW.  If you’re dumb enough to post pics of yourself committing crimes or advocating the violent overthrow of the US government, maybe you deserve a SWAT team knocking down your door.   But I’ve yet to hear of someone sent to Guantanamo Bay for playing Farmville.  

Tropic of Cancer

Sacre Bleu was recent, while this book dates back to 1934 (originally published in France), finally published in the US in 1961, and judged “non-obscene” by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1964, a decision I can heartily agree with, not because I enjoyed it so much (I can’t say that I did), but because what passes for “obscene” in the book is too tame to impress me.  It’s very much like that “M*A*S*H” episode where Hawkeye pulls strings in Seoul to get the film “The Moon Is Blue” released to show at the 4077, only to be frustrated and disappointed at how un-scandalous and dull it was when he finally got to see it.  Winchester’s reaction: “I warned you not to read too much into Boston banning that movie.  They would ban ‘Bambi.’”

The writer devotes 25% - 33% of the book to nonsense word-salad bravo-sierra, with which we’re supposed to be impressed.  No, don’t try to find meaning in it.  It’s not there, it never was.  My guess is Miller simply liked stringing together a series of ideas and images with no regard to coherence.  It’s just like the Beatles making nonsense lyrics and laughing at the critics for assigning meaning to them.

The remainder of the story is chapter after chapter about Miller’s relationships with several different shady characters: Boris, Carl, Collins, Fillmore, Van Norden, and Tania.  There’s also an Indian guy he brings to a brothel.  Prostitutes and brothels come up frequently in the book.  With the exception of a seaside excursion to the French coast (Le Havre), the book takes place in Paris, France in the late 20s or early 30s.   Miller is from NYC, he loves to talk about himself as a New Yorker, and so he frequently compares New York to Paris (I’ll relay my theory on that in just a bit).  

Miller is often broke and has to scheme at making his money last in between jobs or bumming off people.  In many ways the story is a raunchier version of George Orwell’s Down And Out In Paris and London, written about the same time.  Naturally, faced with starvation, poverty, squalor, etc. in the midst of the Depression, Miller has a great deal of negativity to work with, but instead of resisting it or dodging it, he absorbs it and allows it to change and define him, not “rolling with the punches” but beaten to a miserable piece of s**t.   He also fancies himself an artist, a writer, a bohemian, the kind of Wally-type slacker who takes pride in his anal-expulsiveness and indolence.  It seems to me that Orwell witnessed just as much crap, poverty, filth, and unpleasantness on his journeys – the same cities at the same time.  In fact, he’d seen much more, in Burma, in Barcelona, in London; and yet, despite all of that, he never descended into the cesspool (like a pig mucking around in the mud) the way Miller did.  Orwell kept a sense of decency and even defiance – 1984 and Animal Farm – to the end. 

None of Miller’s relationships are homosexual, and even the heterosexual ones are sleazy; I suppose after years of Penthouse Forum and (more recently) Fifty Shades, my standard for what I’m willing to consider “erotica” has far surpassed what passes for it in this book.  It’s not really explicit sex or detailed descriptions of acts.  In fact, the Tijuana Bibles of that time were 1000% more explicit than Tropic of Cancer; (I can’t comment on earlier “erotica” which I haven’t read).  ToC’s “sex” is more casual references to nudity, masturbation, and promiscuous sex and not much in the way of play-by-play, so to speak.  It’s like the easy familiarity of an intimate couple who take each other’s nudity for granted with the unspoken assumption that depending on the mood and circumstances, it could well turn into a quickie.   Much of the sex of ToC is really second hand relating of the sexual escapades of his male friends, and when it comes to discussing his own “fun”, it’s mostly him bragging about his prowess, endowment, or allure.  ZZZ.

NYC & Paris.  I’ve seen this preoccupation people who consider themselves “New Yorkers” have with Paris.  In fact, I see people from Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia and L.A. sometimes appear to have an inferiority complex relative to New York City, and in turn New Yorkers turn to Paris with this same complex.  By attaching themselves to Paris so often and trying to make a parallel between the two cities, while somehow (implicitly) acknowledging the futility thereof, they hope to make themselves honorary Parisians and that much more elegant and sophisticated.  Given that Paris as we know it really only took is current form with the Eiffel Tower in 1889, long after NYC was developed, I think New Yorkers sell themselves short by casting their eyes across the ocean.  Both cities have their unique charm and culture.  Let Parisians be Parisians, let Paris be Paris, and let New York be New York and New Yorkers be New Yorkers.   Unfortunately, Paris has no baseball or football team, and I can’t see a rivalry between the Red Bulls and Paris St-Germain. 

Movie.  Made in the 60s with Rip Torn as Henry Miller, and set in that time.  Really you see how it’s just a collection of meaningless and mostly independent sketches – and how horribly pretentious it was.  Not enough sex and nudity to make the supercrap remotely edible.  

Sacre Bleu

I consumed yet another novel, this time an intriguing story by Christopher Moore, Sacre Bleu.  A fictional baker/painter, Lucien Lessard teams up with Henri Toulouse-Lautrec (hereinafter, “HTL”) to solve the mystery of the blue paint and mysterious “Color Man”. 

            This eccentric character – crudely nicknamed “Poop on a Stick” by his ethereal female companion – sells blue paint to various Impressionist painters, while a femme fatale (sometimes quite literally) seduces and inspires the painter to prodigious output.  Moore name-checks practically every major painter of the late 19^th century, even adding in some lesser-known talents whose names have been lost to us in the 21^st century. 

            Many of the painters seem to lose days, weeks, even months traveling and painting, yet their friends report much less time has actually passed, they’ve never left their studio, and somehow all these paintings never see the light of day.  This leads Lessard and HTL to go sniffing around to get to the bottom of the mystery.  While I’m loathe to make yet another “Game of Thrones” reference, with his constant companionship of prostitutes, fondness for wine, and immense wit, HTL is very much the Tyrion Lannister of this story.

            Fortunately, Moore himself lends a hand and gives us some additional information.  I like that he pulls the story along at a comfortable pace; the author weaves historical characters into his story with authenticity and plausibility – aside from the more supernatural nature of the essential elements.  And with a few exceptions, the majority of the story takes place in late 19^th century Paris of the so-called “Belle Epoque”.