At the gym last night, I nearly fell off the treadmill a couple of times--and not just because the Pittsburgh Penguins scored big and won their first game in the Stanley Cup finals. Go Pens!
No, instead, I was no doubt riveted to the twists and turns in the coverage over former White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan's newly released book, What Happened: Inside the Bush White House and Washington's Culture of Deception. In this book, McClellan reports that el Presidente "signed off on a strategy for selling the war that was less than candid and honest," a sell he decided to make at least a full year before the war began.
Further, according to MSNBC, McClellan states that "Bush relied on an aggressive 'political propaganda campaign' instead of the truth to sell the Iraq war." Yet McClellan writes that "he did not believe Bush or the White House 'deliberately or consciously sought to deceive the American people.'"
So, let me get this straight . . . they consciously lied, but they didn't mean to consciously lie? Is that even possible--at least without your head exploding in the process of trying to manage two polar-opposite thoughts in your brain at one time? Only in official Washington perhaps. Only from the pen of a professional spin doctor.
OK, so perhaps I wasn't quite as riveted to the endless discussion on MSNBC, CNN, Headline News, and Fox News, as I claim to be. In fact, I would never claim to be riveted to anything emanating from the mouths--or whatever--of the talking heads at Fox News. Except perhaps if they were reporting on Steve Doocy's sudden, horrific disposal at the hands--or whatever--of a band of rampaging, dysentery-infected baboons.
To be completely honest--a rarity in this day and age, I realize--the entire time, I had the sound down, listening instead to the new Santogold CD on my Nano, and was merely watching the parade of red-faced, apoplectic TV hosts scroll by on the flat screen before me. With no big primaries in sight, the pundits have got to feed on something, and this will certainly do just fine, offering enough fresh meat (yet still with the vague tang of bleach about it) to fill their gullets for a day or two. Chow down, chimps!
So I staggered on the treadmill more out of disbelief, disbelief that the Pens came back from a 0-2 loss record in the finals, and disbelief that anyone is at all surprised by Scott McClellan's assertions. Haven't we known this all along, that the Iraq War was based on trumped up, nay, manufactured, charges? That there was no real national debate about going to war? (There was the illusion of a national discussion but, in reality, there was hand-wringing on the left, jingoism on the right, and a whole lot of stunned silence from the majority in the middle.) That the decision to go to war was a done deal from the get-go? That if you didn't agree with the need to go to war--or anything else the administration promoted--you were a disloyal American, actively supporting terrorism? That this president and his administration would do or say anything to win, to hold power, to be have their way--no matter how severe the consequences and losses are for others? Both in the short-term--the loss of life in Iraq--and the long-term--the loss of a healthy democracy in America?
Granted, it is surprising that McClellan, a former member of Bush's inner circle, handmaiden to the Henchmen of the Apocalypse, put all this in writing, especially while Bush is still in office. Finally! To have dissent come from someone on the inside, rather than an outsider, who could be so easily dismissed as, I dunno, disgruntled or something. And goodness knows, if Dana Perino tells me someone is disgruntled, I feel compelled to believe her, beacon of truth that she is.
Still, Scott McClellan's tell-all feels just a little too little and a little too late. The truths in this book might have made a difference five or six years before, as we were marching off to war. But now? What are we supposed to do with this knowledge now?
Soldiers are often criticized by civilians for unwavering loyalty to a cause, even when the cause is wrong-headed or harmful. But they are soldiers--they are supposed to follow orders, and those who command and lead are supposed to act wisely and responsibly, not misusing or abusing them.
Press secretaries by their nature need to be loyal as well. They are dependent on the wisdom and responsibility of those they represent, too, and, likewise, shouldn't be disabused by the superiors.
But wouldn't a press secretary, especially one with the ear of the president, vice president, secretary of state, and secretary of defense, have a little more leeway in following orders than perhaps a soldier in the field might? Wouldn't, too, a press secretary have some responsibility to the truth (at least some of the truth), no matter what pressures he or she might be under? There's quite a bit about this in journalism education, which is how most press secretaries receive their training, I would imagine. It's a little something called journalistic ethics.
And, finally, wouldn't someone who represents the American government and is, thus, a public servant, bear some allegiance to the government he represents, as well as the people he serves?
Or am I simply asking too many questions? Goodness knows, after this little dirty bomb went off in the public square, all I can pick out of the rubble are questions.
Oh, I'm sure Scott McClellan had his reasons for sticking to the party line and staying quiet until now, very late in the Bush presidency, when telling the truth could do little harm to the administration's reputation. (As in limbo, how low can you go?) Perhaps before something or someone truly sinister was afoot--the wolf was at the McClellan door, threatening to huff and puff and blow down his well-appointed house in the Virginia suburbs should he step out of line and speak with unforked tongue for a change. Karl Rove, the world's most venal troll doll, kidnapped his wife and tied her to the train tracks, while a steam locomotive barreled toward her. Or maybe there were widows and orphans to consider, and a ne'er-do-well, mustache-twiddling banker threatened to foreclose on poor Ma McClellan and all the lil McClellan children would go cold, hungry, and homeless should Sonny go agin him.
Boo hoo, boo hoo. It all sounds very tragic indeed. Like something out of an old melodrama--or maybe a fairytale. In fact, I feel all overcome! Somebody, quick, I need a tissue. But don't give me just any tissue--I need a Scott's tissue. This is a double-hankie weepie for sure.
Make sure it's the real thing, though. That thin, little, one-ply tissue the administration passes around--you know the one, sold under the label Tissue of Lies--just can't mop up a mess like this.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Remember when
Guess what? Despite the title, this isn't another nostalgic post about the merits of classic car ownership. Shocking, I know.
Instead, I'm going to go all serious on you for a moment and remind you that today is Memorial Day in the United States, a day which we have set aside to commemorate those who died while serving in our nation's armed forces.
Granted, nowadays, when we think of the official reason for Memorial Day (if we think of it at all), we view it as a time to commemorate all those who serve or have served in the military. More likely, though, we think of it as the unofficial beginning of the summer season, a great time for shopping and barbecues, a good excuse for a long weekend in ever stingy-with-the-vacation corporate-cultured America, or even the day upon which the Indianapolis 500 takes place. But enough with the cars already.
According to Wikipedia, still my source for all wisdom, Memorial Day was initially begun as Decoration Day, a day set aside to pay tribute, remember, and memorialize those Union soldiers who perished during the American Civil War. Later it was expanded to include all soldiers--men and women--who died in service to their country. However, as there is still a Confederate Memorial Day on the books in some states (I'm not naming names . . .), I'm guessing Memorial Day doesn't necessarily include in the list of honorees those who died in service against their country.
(Editor's note: Oh dear, I've perhaps lived too long above the Mason-Dixon Line. Still, I have seen Confederate flags placed on the graves of fallen Southern soldiers on Memorial Day, at least in Virginia, so perhaps finally we've all moved on.)
Anyway, I think Memorial Day is especially poignant this year. Whether rightly or wrongly, we are a nation at war, in Iraq specifically and somewhat in Afghanistan as well. Despite our best efforts at national distraction (Hillary vs. Barack! Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull! What was Britney/Lindsay/Paris/ Nicole/et al. thinking?!), it is a cold, hard reality difficult to ignore. No matter where you stand on the decision to go to war and on the outcomes of that decision, it is where we are at the moment--and for the immediate future.
I think, too, this Memorial Day is particularly sensitive for me because I keep thinking about my Dad, who passed away more than a year ago. He served proudly in the U.S. Marine Corps for some 30 years but personified the motto, "Once a Marine, always a Marine." He carried the responsibility, discipline, and camaraderie of being a Marine with him throughout his life.
Even in his later years, when he was suffering from Alzheimer's, I can remember being on a visit with him and my Mom to Bandera, Texas, in 2003 or so, and watching his face light up when he overheard a fellow Marine talk about being stationed at Camp LeJeune, where he served in military and civilian posts for many years. Even then, he was able to converse with this comrade-in-arms about their shared experiences as soldiers. Despite his illness, I think some of his strongest remaining memories were positive ones from his time as a soldier in World War II and post-war China.
Frankly, I can't even remember where I was or what I was doing last Memorial Day. In fact, much of last year is a blur at this point, in part because of job change and moving. However, more than anything, things are hazy from last year because I spent most of the year being numb from his rather sudden death.
I've been less numb over the last couple of months, which is both good and bad. Good, if you can call it that, to finally start feeling his loss; bad, if you can call it that, because it comes out at completely unexpected times and sometimes in completely unexpected ways. I can't listen to the song "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel, a favorite of mine, without becoming upset because it reminds me of an ordinary day in the 1970s when my Dad picked me up at school and that song happened to be on the radio. I can't pass a field or a wood and see the new spring growth without feeling emotional--all that newness and beauty, it just makes my soul ache. And little hassles and really stupid things that people say or do, tick me off rather quickly and deeply, much more so than before. I've never been one to suffer fools easily (including my own foolish self), but this past year has been exceptionally challenging.
Nonetheless, Memorial Day isn't all about me.
Instead, for a complete change of pace, I'm trying to think of others and of ways I can make a contribution, however small, to provide comfort to those who are enduring a particularly grueling task in our name. It is cliché to say perhaps, but whether you're for, against, or debilitated from all feeling about the war, we can at least agree (I hope) that those who serve deserve our support.
Support takes many different forms. Maybe for you it is a protest march against the war or a heated discussion with friends and family about its continued existence. Maybe for you it involves displaying an American flag at the front of your house, tying a yellow ribbon around an oak tree, or supporting "the surge" as a way to get the job done and bring home the troops as soon as possible. So be it. Whatever it takes--as long as you can look yourself in the mirror and know that your sincere intent is to honor the troops, their families, and friends, as well as the people of Iraq and Afghanistan. If you're thinking first and foremost what would be best for all of them, and not trying to promote your own pro- or anti-war agenda, then go forward and prosper. I have no argument with you.
But why not put your money where your dissenting opinions and patriotic gestures are? Why not show some love and share some humanity through a donation to a charitable organization that offers support and comfort to soldiers and their loved ones?
I'm by no means an authority on where to go to do this, but I can at least tell you about a few organizations I've become familiar with over the last couple of months. Maybe one of those is the right place for you to share some time, money, or other resources to make things a little better for everyone. Caveat: I know enough about these organizations to be dangerous, but from the outside looking in, they do seem to have their hearts and heads in the right places.
In the meantime, no matter where you stand on the political spectrum, for just today, perhaps we can take a moment to remember our service men and women, past and present. More importantly, in the year ahead, perhaps we can take some time from our busy lives to do something positive for the benefit of our troops.
Instead, I'm going to go all serious on you for a moment and remind you that today is Memorial Day in the United States, a day which we have set aside to commemorate those who died while serving in our nation's armed forces.
Granted, nowadays, when we think of the official reason for Memorial Day (if we think of it at all), we view it as a time to commemorate all those who serve or have served in the military. More likely, though, we think of it as the unofficial beginning of the summer season, a great time for shopping and barbecues, a good excuse for a long weekend in ever stingy-with-the-vacation corporate-cultured America, or even the day upon which the Indianapolis 500 takes place. But enough with the cars already.
According to Wikipedia, still my source for all wisdom, Memorial Day was initially begun as Decoration Day, a day set aside to pay tribute, remember, and memorialize those Union soldiers who perished during the American Civil War. Later it was expanded to include all soldiers--men and women--who died in service to their country. However, as there is still a Confederate Memorial Day on the books in some states (I'm not naming names . . .), I'm guessing Memorial Day doesn't necessarily include in the list of honorees those who died in service against their country.
(Editor's note: Oh dear, I've perhaps lived too long above the Mason-Dixon Line. Still, I have seen Confederate flags placed on the graves of fallen Southern soldiers on Memorial Day, at least in Virginia, so perhaps finally we've all moved on.)
Anyway, I think Memorial Day is especially poignant this year. Whether rightly or wrongly, we are a nation at war, in Iraq specifically and somewhat in Afghanistan as well. Despite our best efforts at national distraction (Hillary vs. Barack! Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull! What was Britney/Lindsay/Paris/ Nicole/et al. thinking?!), it is a cold, hard reality difficult to ignore. No matter where you stand on the decision to go to war and on the outcomes of that decision, it is where we are at the moment--and for the immediate future.
I think, too, this Memorial Day is particularly sensitive for me because I keep thinking about my Dad, who passed away more than a year ago. He served proudly in the U.S. Marine Corps for some 30 years but personified the motto, "Once a Marine, always a Marine." He carried the responsibility, discipline, and camaraderie of being a Marine with him throughout his life.
Even in his later years, when he was suffering from Alzheimer's, I can remember being on a visit with him and my Mom to Bandera, Texas, in 2003 or so, and watching his face light up when he overheard a fellow Marine talk about being stationed at Camp LeJeune, where he served in military and civilian posts for many years. Even then, he was able to converse with this comrade-in-arms about their shared experiences as soldiers. Despite his illness, I think some of his strongest remaining memories were positive ones from his time as a soldier in World War II and post-war China.
Frankly, I can't even remember where I was or what I was doing last Memorial Day. In fact, much of last year is a blur at this point, in part because of job change and moving. However, more than anything, things are hazy from last year because I spent most of the year being numb from his rather sudden death.
I've been less numb over the last couple of months, which is both good and bad. Good, if you can call it that, to finally start feeling his loss; bad, if you can call it that, because it comes out at completely unexpected times and sometimes in completely unexpected ways. I can't listen to the song "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel, a favorite of mine, without becoming upset because it reminds me of an ordinary day in the 1970s when my Dad picked me up at school and that song happened to be on the radio. I can't pass a field or a wood and see the new spring growth without feeling emotional--all that newness and beauty, it just makes my soul ache. And little hassles and really stupid things that people say or do, tick me off rather quickly and deeply, much more so than before. I've never been one to suffer fools easily (including my own foolish self), but this past year has been exceptionally challenging.
Nonetheless, Memorial Day isn't all about me.
Instead, for a complete change of pace, I'm trying to think of others and of ways I can make a contribution, however small, to provide comfort to those who are enduring a particularly grueling task in our name. It is cliché to say perhaps, but whether you're for, against, or debilitated from all feeling about the war, we can at least agree (I hope) that those who serve deserve our support.
Support takes many different forms. Maybe for you it is a protest march against the war or a heated discussion with friends and family about its continued existence. Maybe for you it involves displaying an American flag at the front of your house, tying a yellow ribbon around an oak tree, or supporting "the surge" as a way to get the job done and bring home the troops as soon as possible. So be it. Whatever it takes--as long as you can look yourself in the mirror and know that your sincere intent is to honor the troops, their families, and friends, as well as the people of Iraq and Afghanistan. If you're thinking first and foremost what would be best for all of them, and not trying to promote your own pro- or anti-war agenda, then go forward and prosper. I have no argument with you.
But why not put your money where your dissenting opinions and patriotic gestures are? Why not show some love and share some humanity through a donation to a charitable organization that offers support and comfort to soldiers and their loved ones?
I'm by no means an authority on where to go to do this, but I can at least tell you about a few organizations I've become familiar with over the last couple of months. Maybe one of those is the right place for you to share some time, money, or other resources to make things a little better for everyone. Caveat: I know enough about these organizations to be dangerous, but from the outside looking in, they do seem to have their hearts and heads in the right places.
- Knitting for charity--I recently was fortunate enough to visit the National Museum of the Marine Corps in Quantico, Virginia. The day I visited, there was a group from a local charity knitting helmet liners and other useful clothing for soldiers. Why I didn't take down the name of the charity, I don't know. However, this article from About.com lists some of the major U.S. organizations that accept knitting for charity, including Operation Homefront.
- Books for Soldiers--This seems like a great idea, especially since they encourage you to donate books and other media that soldiers actually want, rather than letting you send any ol' thing. The one complication, though, is that they want you to fill out an application and have it notarized before you start sending materials. Seems like an unnecessary extra step, but I'm sure they have their reasons. Anyway, if that's too onerous, you can also make financial contributions to their operations.
- Tunes 4 the Troops--This organization was recently featured as part of the "Heroes" series on CNN, an increasingly useless source for information on practically every topic. Still, I found the story behind this organization impressive. Clearly, sharing music with others is something I'm committed to, if recent postings in this blog offer any evidence. Granted, some of the tunes I would send along might not help a soldier (for example, does a U.S. soldier really need the entire back catalog of the Spice Girls? don't ask, don't tell . . .), but it is a neat idea, and one that would be easy to assist with.
- The USO--The USO has been providing support, comfort, and recreational opportunities for soldiers for nearly 70 years. You can contribute to their efforts by offering your money or your time.
In the meantime, no matter where you stand on the political spectrum, for just today, perhaps we can take a moment to remember our service men and women, past and present. More importantly, in the year ahead, perhaps we can take some time from our busy lives to do something positive for the benefit of our troops.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Un zeste de Citroën
I am both haunted by and enamored with aesthetics. I can spend hours choosing the right type font and color for my email. I am not shy on the use of color in my home or wardrobe either, and it will drive me a bit loopy when pieces are out of complement with one another--or when they complement each other too well. And my constant, slavish worship of French pop culture (I have no idea what they are saying, but I am compelled to love the look of it all), the quest for better urban design, and now it would seem, the search for the perfect automobile, well, they're all part of my disease.This latter thing--choosing the most aesthetically appealing and practical mode of transportation for my personage--has been quite the challenge, as you can imagine. This is, after all, the era of the fast-fading Dodge(y) Behemoth (with gas mileage of under 15 mph and needing only two parking spaces to reside in), where a Chevy Suburban is considered standard issue and a Cadillac Escalade implies street cred of a sort I've yet to comprehend. Shopping for a car at a time when automotive aesthetics (at least those available in my price range) are at an all-time ebb is a miserable, daunting task. There is so little to choose from in terms of the truly distinctive, with the short list consisting of the too-too-retro PT Cruiser (I thought anyone who remembered the 1950s was dead already?) and, come to think of it, that's about it.
Even the hyper-efficient Japanese cars look tragically dull, aping more their lesser-made American counterparts in design although thankfully not in handiwork. The Toyata Solara convertible? Please do not make me laugh with sushi in my mouth. The pre-2007 Honda Civic? Good lord, are they still mad over the outcome of World War II? When the inverted pregnant cockroach that is the Toyota Prius is considered an exciting, innovative design, we are aesthetically doomed, I tell ya, doomed.
All this talk of aesthetic appeal may seem a bit silly to you, but it, in fact, can have life-altering repercussions. A case in point: I half suspect one of the lesser reasons I didn't move to Canada in 2006 was because the country (at least Ontario) is overrun with the dowdiest-of-the-dowdy--ladies and germs, I present you, the industrial output of GM and Ford in a highly concentrated dose, i.e., a landscape overfilled with big-shouldered, suburban ennui in vehicular form, stretching from Ottawa to Sarnia and beyond.
While Canada may be both a former British and French outpost (and thus one would assume offering at least good comedy and fine cuisine in major swaths of the nation, although not necessarily in peaceful coexistence) and Motor City may (for now) still be located in Michigan, there is far too much of Detroit design being pumped out of plants in Oshawa and Windsor for anyone's own good. Especially Canada's.
It perhaps shouldn't be, but it is just enough to make one seek one's fortunes elsewhere. At least until the outcome of the 2008 election is known.
If nothing else, the Mini Cooper is distinctive--a perfect May-December romance between the 1960s and today, in my opinion--and if all goes well, I hope to indeed make my next car a Mini. It is a lucky combination of retro and now. It is sporty, but not embarrassingly pimped out. It is practical in its fuel efficiency and its fold-down seats. And it is practically begging me to buy it 'cause I would just look so darn good driving it (at least in my own mind's eye, which still envisions me aged 25 or so). All in all, it's a good aesthetic fit for me, while still being a reasonably functional mode of transport.
* * *
Despite my misgivings about the PT Cruiser, I can clearly understand the appeal of nostalgia in matters automotive. During my search for the perfect car, mentally, I have kept harking back to my childhood in the '60s when there was more variety in automotive transportation, much of it quite exceptional (or at least quite interesting) in design.
For example, one of my cousins in Virginia drove a Corvair in the 1960s, cruelly taken off the market by presidential candidate-for-life Ralph Nader (and you thought John McCain was the only senior in the race, tsk tsk) for a little thing like a flaming gas tank, flying doors, or no brakes. Or something.
There were our next-door neighbors in North Carolina, who had his-and-hers late 1950s/early 1960s Renaults--forever pronounced Ren-alts down South--sweet little models in odd colors, like cranberry bog scum and toxic effluvia green, from what I remember. I could have that wrong though.
One of my uncles had an original VW Beetle, which he somehow managed to maneuver across every icy patch on every switchback and hairpin curve in southern Kentucky. Another drove a Ford Edsel, which, while truly being a car only a Detroit mother could love, was, if nothing else, distinctive. (Distinctively ugly, but distinctive all the same.)
There was my sister's high school boyfriend's Saab 8-1/2 (or whatever), a car as a child I forever accidentally insisted on calling a "Slaab." It was anything but. Just a little hunchbacked is all.
Another neighbor--the classic sexy divorcee of the town--drove a cherry red convertible Stingray and used to take me on rides in the country with the top down, enjoying the breeze in my hair, which was only a little fuller than it is today, I of the neverending buzzcut.
Later, too, there was my cousin's aforementioned maroon, 75th anniversary MGB, as well as our own used, second family car, the Blue Bomber, a 1962 Plymouth Belvedere station wagon. Yes, a station wagon--but a wagon with style! One that we all fought to drive to school in, even in the mid- to late-1970s. Bench seats, an AM-only radio, and those cat-eye-glasses tail lights. How could you not love a vehicular punum like that?
Oh, my people, in those days, throughout the land, there were Triumphs and Fiats and even the occasional Citroën (as seen in the photos accompanying this post, snapped recently outside of a hotel in Carlisle, Pennsylvania)! Even the Opels were in abundance, and we looked (somewhat) the better for it. Why, in those days, the streets were paved with ambrosia, and the gods ate
gold like it was buffalo chicken wings. People were blissfully happy--there was no war, no divorce, no disease. Complete strangers would give you a million dollars for just saying please and thank you. It was a different world, dear hearts. But, sigh, it's all over now Baby Blue Ford Thunderbird.
Instead, now we have lots of horribly designed-by-committee stuff, like the Scion xB, clearly aimed at the gangbanger market, but sadly only attracting the World of Warcraft set. We have the Saab 9-3 convertible, a car I actually like but one that has been so streamlined for seating the Swedish royal family that, as a result, it's had its clunky-quirkiness from just a decade ago steam-ironed right out of it. Even the aesthetic bright spot of the Volkswagen New Beetle has some minor aesthetic downsides--oh, say, like a body integrity bested by a 1970s "banana bike" (in a landfill no less) and a tragic reliability rating, by courtesy of Consumer Reports, that makes a Yugo look misunderstood. Still, it's a step in the right aesthetic direction, VW--but it's no Carmen Ghia.
Unfortunately for me, the VW New Beetle, despite its aesthetic appeal, is considered something of a girly car. Penelope Pitstop may call, but even I can't pick up the receiver on that one. Although, I'll admit, it was a very close call indeed.
* * *
So, world, all we are saying is give good aesthetics a chance.
In the meantime, until Detroit and Japan get right with better design, make mine a Mini, please. I'll even ride it side-saddle to make up for my latent sexism.
Nevertheless, if you happen to have a spare Citroën hanging around your garage, well, hey, maybe I'm your girly man after all.
* * *
About those photos
The photos in this post, taken on a rainy Friday morning in Central Pennsylvania, really don't begin to do justice to the Citroën.
This model, I think, was produced in France in the late 1960s, but looks like something from another solar system, let alone another country and decade. There is that swept-back tailoring of the body. There is that skirting over the wheels, which shows just enough tire in a come-hither-and-drive-me pose. There is that delicate, pastry layer of a roof, dotted with two candied fruit lights on the ends.
As best as I can figure, the vintage Citroën was less a perfect, stylish melding of steel, leather, and color, and more a delicately carved, plum-and-creme-colored marzipan perched upon Michelin tires.
So vive la différence and, by all means, vive la France. And, while we're at it, vive side, front, and curtain airbags, along with stability control and anti-lock brakes. While I'm nostalgic for a bygone era in automotive design, I'm not so enamored with aesthetics that I can't appreciate the finer safety features of modern life.
* * *
About that title
The title of this post is a play on the title of a hit single, "Un zeste de citron," performed by father-daughter pop act, Serge and Charlotte Gainsbourg, which was recorded sometime in the 1980s.
Of course, it's Serge Gainsbourg, so even his title is a play on words, and a rather vulgar one at that: He translated the song's title into English as "Lemon incest" (sound it out: un zeste de citron . . .), which is decidedly creepy given that this was a father-daughter audio partnership.
Nevertheless, it's pure Gainsbourg. That ol' Serge was nothing if not a lover of puns and a provocateur, although even I think he may have gone too far with the joke that time (even if I'm not above ripping him off in the process of expressing my reservations). You are undoubtedly shocked, and, as a result, he died happy, I'm sure, with a Gitane in one hand and a bottle of absinthe in the other.
And now you are also undoubtedly shocked--and perhaps quite uncomfortable--with the close bond I've begun to form with my future Mini Cooper. But in matters of the auto(mobile) erotic, as the French might say, oh la la, vive la différence . . .
Thursday, May 15, 2008
I don't know shift
I have decided that the key difference between those of you who are age 21 (and, let's admit it, not likely to be reading this blog) and those of us who are age 46 comes down to this simple example: You, oh young one, would spend on the spot $20k on a car with a manual transmission, even though you don't know how to operate a stick shift. You would learn how to drive the car in the parking lot of the dealership, thanks to assistance from the especially perky (yet ultimately venal) salesperson. You would eventually drive the car home, stalling it out several times along the way, but wouldn't become too flustered, finally getting the hang of it. Then you would praise the benefits of standard transmission to any and everyone.
I, on the other hand, would not. I would not buy the car because the thought of plonking down $20k on a car (or at least securing a loan for such an amount) with a stick shift that I do not know how to drive seems the height of folly. Even if I've already skidded dangerously into deadman's curve folly territory by agreeing to a "test ride" of a tricked out 2005 Mini Cooper with 45,000 miles and, oh yes, lest we forget, a manual transmission, which, as mentioned, I do not know how to drive. Nor am I willing to learn how to drive on the spot of a Carmax dealership in Columbus, Ohio, even if it means that I have 200 miles ahead of me for practice.
* * *
I have, as you might have guessed, been car-shopping. In fact, I have been car-shopping for the last three or four years. Or, rather, I have been "car-talking," or better still, "car-musing"--thinking out loud about buying a car for that long. I've certainly checked listings, read reviews, scoped out Vehix, Cars, and Edmunds dot coms, and purchased updated editions of Consumer Report's guides to new, used, and best of cars for at least the last couple of years.
And, yet, I didn't really get serious about buying a new car (at least a new-to-me car) until this spring. My 12-year-old, unforgivably teal-colored Subaru finally rounded up to and over 150,000 miles. While it's still running gangbusters, even as I make treks across the Commonwealth for meetings in Harrisburg and the like, I worry that its time is running out.
And at 46 years of age with the toll plaza on life's turnpike that is 47 looming just down the road, I worry that my time is running out as well. The time may be now, in the throes of mid-life, to finally go all-out and buy a slightly wild, kinda crazy, reasonably distinctive car. A car that says "I'm equal parts fun and practicality, but right now I'm concentrating on the fun."
Thus, this urge led me this past weekend to a Carmax in Ohio to try out a Mini Cooper. A magnetic blue Mini Cooper with sunroof, sound system, leather seats, a sporty engine, great gas mileage, a stick shift (as we well know by now), and no discernible trunk space. So much for practicality, but I am liking this concept called fun.
I came to the car-buying game late in life, only having purchased my first car at age 39, the same one I have now. Heretofore, I have managed to live in places where I rarely needed a car (Washington, D.C., for seven years) or benefited from the generosity of parents and siblings with their high-quality hand-me-down vehicles. (Hondas, lots and lots of Hondas.)
I've tended to see cars as what they are--a personal mode of conveyance, something to, as Edina Monsoon from Absolutely Fabulous would say, "get me from A to B and [to] do a little shopping." Except, unlike Edina, when I needed to downsize to a smaller vehicle, I went with a Subaru Impreza, not a Porsche Boxster.
Even in auto-centric Texas, where the car is el rey, la reina, y sus hijos, all I really cared about was my car's functionality and reliability--most importantly, whether the air-conditioning was working properly, which was one of the auto's most necessary functions in the climatic Hell on Earth that is the Lone Star State. Mostly I drove to work, to dinner out, and to parks to go hiking. Occasionally, I also drove to Houston, to Big Bend, to Dallas, the Rio Grande Valley, Corpus Christi, or los dos Laredos. Or, once even, away from the state entirely to God's Jagged Little Pill, Pennsylvania.
But for anything else, Texas was so big, I just ended up flying. Currently, I have enough frequent flier miles on Continental to go to Asia, Australia, or Africa, which I really need to do at some point. By the time I turn 50 perhaps, should Continental still be in business at that moment, and as soon as I get this fun thing down pat.
Since moving back East in 2004, I have spent a lot more time in cars--commuting from Frederick, Maryland, to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, then commuting from the Harrisburg area to Gettysburg. Now, even though I commute on foot to work most days, I make regular jaunts up and down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which requires the use of a sturdy, reliable vehicle to maneuver at 65 mph (OK, 70 mph . . . OK, OK, 75 mph) over hundreds of miles, thousands of patches, and seemingly millions of tar strips.
Not that my Subaru hasn't been the epitome of sturdiness and reliability. It has, in fact, been all you could ask for in a utilitarian vehicle, offering reasonably decent gas mileage (22-24 or so mpg in the stop-start city, 28-30 mpg on the open road). But I find myself wanting a bit more luxury and glamor at this point in my life, something a wee more stylish and devil-may-care--without necessarily requiring me to sell my soul to the devil to make the monthly payments. Something that states (but doesn't scream) that I've worked hard, I've "arrived," and I deserve to treat myself well by driving a nice car.
Oh, and I should look good driving it, of course.
* * *
Which, once I put it in writing, sounds not merely ridiculous but downright embarrassingly pathetic. I have, after all, tried somewhat not to be defined by consumer goods and labels (although a good sale at Filene's Basement is a joy indeed). I rarely rush out to buy the latest gadget, toy, or fashion. For instance, I've only this past winter joined the iPod generation, despite it seemingly being designed for me and my so-called lifestyle, that is, I am one who is more than willing to spend $0.99 every few hours on some obscure digital download and carry it with me wherever I go to provide a soundtrack to my so-called lifestyle.
So letting myself be enticed by a car (of all things) to help me validate my sense of aesthetics and self-worth . . . ugh. Please. Why don't I just bend over now and let Butch Capitalism and Master Commerce have their way with me?
What happened to your hopes and dreams, Middle-Aged Man? You were gonna change the world, oh Big Chilled One!
But, you know? So be it. I'm 46 after all; perhaps I could at this point worry a little less about what others think of me. Maybe even I could worry less about what I think of me. Although both sea changes are somewhat akin to asking Oprah to shut up, Lindsey Lohan to go cold turkey when it comes to garnering attention (god forbid it should happen with alcohol and drugs), and Madonna to forgo sucking the blood of our youth and wearing another Living Playtex bra and girdle set straight from the 1973 Montgomery Ward catalog in her next video.
If only it were that simple, just a wave of a psychic wand, and poof! I would have no more worries over bad hair dye jobs or my average and not unpleasant but not necessarily perfect physique and facade. Another wave and poof! Maybe I'd even stop keening over my lack of knowledge on most things in life or my inability to make more time to write and create. Poof! And perhaps I'd even relax enough to buy a Mini Cooper with a sunroof, satellite radio, British racing green in color, and an automatic transmission--because that's what I know how to drive after all--instead of feeling inappropriately prodded and poked by some automobile advice columnist who admonishes me that if I were a serious driver, I would have to have the stick shift, 162 horsepower, and a bucketload of torque (whatever that is), and nothing less.
Because I'm a guy, and I apparently need lots of sheer, raw, internally combustible power to be happy. Even if this guy has always been more about the undulating intangibles, the color and the comfort, and the soft aesthetic pleasures in life. I don't mean that my car has to be something pink and frilly like Penelope Pitstop's preferred mode of transportation in the Wacky Races. It should, however, offer me a rosy outlook on life whenever I sit behind the wheel.
But there's no magic wand--if there were, I might opt for a vintage Citroën that I saw recently in Carlisle, my cousin's 75th anniversary MGB softly rusting in his garage in North Carolina, or a Mini Cooper with a little more trunk space--but not the oversized Mini Clubman, thanks all the same.
Still, maybe just maybe I need to start worrying less and learn to love the Hiroshima mon amour in my head. Just buy the damn car and be happy with life's simple (albeit $20k) pleasures already. It--my maturity, my happiness, my consciousness, my life, my car payments--needs to start sometime.
And a Mini Cooper with me behind the wheel--and no pink detailing in sight--sounds like a good start indeed. Vroom!
I, on the other hand, would not. I would not buy the car because the thought of plonking down $20k on a car (or at least securing a loan for such an amount) with a stick shift that I do not know how to drive seems the height of folly. Even if I've already skidded dangerously into deadman's curve folly territory by agreeing to a "test ride" of a tricked out 2005 Mini Cooper with 45,000 miles and, oh yes, lest we forget, a manual transmission, which, as mentioned, I do not know how to drive. Nor am I willing to learn how to drive on the spot of a Carmax dealership in Columbus, Ohio, even if it means that I have 200 miles ahead of me for practice.
* * *
I have, as you might have guessed, been car-shopping. In fact, I have been car-shopping for the last three or four years. Or, rather, I have been "car-talking," or better still, "car-musing"--thinking out loud about buying a car for that long. I've certainly checked listings, read reviews, scoped out Vehix, Cars, and Edmunds dot coms, and purchased updated editions of Consumer Report's guides to new, used, and best of cars for at least the last couple of years.
And, yet, I didn't really get serious about buying a new car (at least a new-to-me car) until this spring. My 12-year-old, unforgivably teal-colored Subaru finally rounded up to and over 150,000 miles. While it's still running gangbusters, even as I make treks across the Commonwealth for meetings in Harrisburg and the like, I worry that its time is running out.
And at 46 years of age with the toll plaza on life's turnpike that is 47 looming just down the road, I worry that my time is running out as well. The time may be now, in the throes of mid-life, to finally go all-out and buy a slightly wild, kinda crazy, reasonably distinctive car. A car that says "I'm equal parts fun and practicality, but right now I'm concentrating on the fun."
Thus, this urge led me this past weekend to a Carmax in Ohio to try out a Mini Cooper. A magnetic blue Mini Cooper with sunroof, sound system, leather seats, a sporty engine, great gas mileage, a stick shift (as we well know by now), and no discernible trunk space. So much for practicality, but I am liking this concept called fun.
I came to the car-buying game late in life, only having purchased my first car at age 39, the same one I have now. Heretofore, I have managed to live in places where I rarely needed a car (Washington, D.C., for seven years) or benefited from the generosity of parents and siblings with their high-quality hand-me-down vehicles. (Hondas, lots and lots of Hondas.)
I've tended to see cars as what they are--a personal mode of conveyance, something to, as Edina Monsoon from Absolutely Fabulous would say, "get me from A to B and [to] do a little shopping." Except, unlike Edina, when I needed to downsize to a smaller vehicle, I went with a Subaru Impreza, not a Porsche Boxster.
Even in auto-centric Texas, where the car is el rey, la reina, y sus hijos, all I really cared about was my car's functionality and reliability--most importantly, whether the air-conditioning was working properly, which was one of the auto's most necessary functions in the climatic Hell on Earth that is the Lone Star State. Mostly I drove to work, to dinner out, and to parks to go hiking. Occasionally, I also drove to Houston, to Big Bend, to Dallas, the Rio Grande Valley, Corpus Christi, or los dos Laredos. Or, once even, away from the state entirely to God's Jagged Little Pill, Pennsylvania.
But for anything else, Texas was so big, I just ended up flying. Currently, I have enough frequent flier miles on Continental to go to Asia, Australia, or Africa, which I really need to do at some point. By the time I turn 50 perhaps, should Continental still be in business at that moment, and as soon as I get this fun thing down pat.
Since moving back East in 2004, I have spent a lot more time in cars--commuting from Frederick, Maryland, to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, then commuting from the Harrisburg area to Gettysburg. Now, even though I commute on foot to work most days, I make regular jaunts up and down the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which requires the use of a sturdy, reliable vehicle to maneuver at 65 mph (OK, 70 mph . . . OK, OK, 75 mph) over hundreds of miles, thousands of patches, and seemingly millions of tar strips.
Not that my Subaru hasn't been the epitome of sturdiness and reliability. It has, in fact, been all you could ask for in a utilitarian vehicle, offering reasonably decent gas mileage (22-24 or so mpg in the stop-start city, 28-30 mpg on the open road). But I find myself wanting a bit more luxury and glamor at this point in my life, something a wee more stylish and devil-may-care--without necessarily requiring me to sell my soul to the devil to make the monthly payments. Something that states (but doesn't scream) that I've worked hard, I've "arrived," and I deserve to treat myself well by driving a nice car.
Oh, and I should look good driving it, of course.
* * *
Which, once I put it in writing, sounds not merely ridiculous but downright embarrassingly pathetic. I have, after all, tried somewhat not to be defined by consumer goods and labels (although a good sale at Filene's Basement is a joy indeed). I rarely rush out to buy the latest gadget, toy, or fashion. For instance, I've only this past winter joined the iPod generation, despite it seemingly being designed for me and my so-called lifestyle, that is, I am one who is more than willing to spend $0.99 every few hours on some obscure digital download and carry it with me wherever I go to provide a soundtrack to my so-called lifestyle.
So letting myself be enticed by a car (of all things) to help me validate my sense of aesthetics and self-worth . . . ugh. Please. Why don't I just bend over now and let Butch Capitalism and Master Commerce have their way with me?
What happened to your hopes and dreams, Middle-Aged Man? You were gonna change the world, oh Big Chilled One!
But, you know? So be it. I'm 46 after all; perhaps I could at this point worry a little less about what others think of me. Maybe even I could worry less about what I think of me. Although both sea changes are somewhat akin to asking Oprah to shut up, Lindsey Lohan to go cold turkey when it comes to garnering attention (god forbid it should happen with alcohol and drugs), and Madonna to forgo sucking the blood of our youth and wearing another Living Playtex bra and girdle set straight from the 1973 Montgomery Ward catalog in her next video.
If only it were that simple, just a wave of a psychic wand, and poof! I would have no more worries over bad hair dye jobs or my average and not unpleasant but not necessarily perfect physique and facade. Another wave and poof! Maybe I'd even stop keening over my lack of knowledge on most things in life or my inability to make more time to write and create. Poof! And perhaps I'd even relax enough to buy a Mini Cooper with a sunroof, satellite radio, British racing green in color, and an automatic transmission--because that's what I know how to drive after all--instead of feeling inappropriately prodded and poked by some automobile advice columnist who admonishes me that if I were a serious driver, I would have to have the stick shift, 162 horsepower, and a bucketload of torque (whatever that is), and nothing less.
Because I'm a guy, and I apparently need lots of sheer, raw, internally combustible power to be happy. Even if this guy has always been more about the undulating intangibles, the color and the comfort, and the soft aesthetic pleasures in life. I don't mean that my car has to be something pink and frilly like Penelope Pitstop's preferred mode of transportation in the Wacky Races. It should, however, offer me a rosy outlook on life whenever I sit behind the wheel.
But there's no magic wand--if there were, I might opt for a vintage Citroën that I saw recently in Carlisle, my cousin's 75th anniversary MGB softly rusting in his garage in North Carolina, or a Mini Cooper with a little more trunk space--but not the oversized Mini Clubman, thanks all the same.
Still, maybe just maybe I need to start worrying less and learn to love the Hiroshima mon amour in my head. Just buy the damn car and be happy with life's simple (albeit $20k) pleasures already. It--my maturity, my happiness, my consciousness, my life, my car payments--needs to start sometime.
And a Mini Cooper with me behind the wheel--and no pink detailing in sight--sounds like a good start indeed. Vroom!
Saturday, May 10, 2008
We're no. 1! Just not in the way we want to be.
Really, The Onion says it best:
http://www.theonion.com/content/amvo/pittsburgh_no_1_in_soot
But if you need something more substantial, some context, you might turn to the Post-Gazette for the full story--that Pittsburgh is America's sootiest city, with only Los Angeles (Los Angeles, ferchrissakes) having dirtier air.
Personally, I don't see it. Or smell it. Or breathe it. Or taste it. Soot, that is. But then, we are talking micro-particles, so it's understandable that perhaps I don't or shouldn't or can't.
Pittsburgh may be a lot of things--and, conversely, a lot of things it is not--but sooty? No. Not at least in the classic "coals to Newcastle" or "iron ore to Pittsburgh" way of yore.
Old-timers here (and that's pretty much everyone who grew up here) talk about the old Pittsburgh, the pre-1985, heavy industry Steel City, where driving down the quaintly named "Parkway" (the high-speed Formula One racetrack that is Interstate 376 leading you from the Pennsylvania Turnpike into dahntahn), you were greeted by great fire-belching smelters and the strong stench of at least one coke plant on your way into the city.
In the not-too-distant past, the skies at midday were as grimy and overbearing as anything from a Charles Dickens' novel apparently. Adults of a certain age talk about being at school in the middle of a spring day with all the lights on and the windows closed to prevent the smoke and soot from invading their environs and lungs. You still see older stone buildings covered with the stain of soot on their facades.
There are a still couple of steel mills in existence along the Mon, the Ohio, and the Allegheny. But nothing is as it was, even remotely on the same scale as before.
Now it's all bio-med, university, research, and service industry, along with a fair number of pensioned-for-life blue-collar types--you know, those bitter, small-town Pennsylvanians, who can be found even in the heart of 2-million+ metropolitan region. But not much in the way of soot production.
So Pittsburgh is many things--overcast, springlike, working class, elite, attractive, ugly, interesting, dull, sophisticated, downhome, pretentious, provincial, but, most of all, bipolar. But sooty? I don't see it.
Or smell it. Or taste it. But I'll have to take it on faith that I may well breathe it.
http://www.theonion.com/content/amvo/pittsburgh_no_1_in_soot
But if you need something more substantial, some context, you might turn to the Post-Gazette for the full story--that Pittsburgh is America's sootiest city, with only Los Angeles (Los Angeles, ferchrissakes) having dirtier air.
Personally, I don't see it. Or smell it. Or breathe it. Or taste it. Soot, that is. But then, we are talking micro-particles, so it's understandable that perhaps I don't or shouldn't or can't.
Pittsburgh may be a lot of things--and, conversely, a lot of things it is not--but sooty? No. Not at least in the classic "coals to Newcastle" or "iron ore to Pittsburgh" way of yore.
Old-timers here (and that's pretty much everyone who grew up here) talk about the old Pittsburgh, the pre-1985, heavy industry Steel City, where driving down the quaintly named "Parkway" (the high-speed Formula One racetrack that is Interstate 376 leading you from the Pennsylvania Turnpike into dahntahn), you were greeted by great fire-belching smelters and the strong stench of at least one coke plant on your way into the city.
In the not-too-distant past, the skies at midday were as grimy and overbearing as anything from a Charles Dickens' novel apparently. Adults of a certain age talk about being at school in the middle of a spring day with all the lights on and the windows closed to prevent the smoke and soot from invading their environs and lungs. You still see older stone buildings covered with the stain of soot on their facades.
There are a still couple of steel mills in existence along the Mon, the Ohio, and the Allegheny. But nothing is as it was, even remotely on the same scale as before.
Now it's all bio-med, university, research, and service industry, along with a fair number of pensioned-for-life blue-collar types--you know, those bitter, small-town Pennsylvanians, who can be found even in the heart of 2-million+ metropolitan region. But not much in the way of soot production.
So Pittsburgh is many things--overcast, springlike, working class, elite, attractive, ugly, interesting, dull, sophisticated, downhome, pretentious, provincial, but, most of all, bipolar. But sooty? I don't see it.
Or smell it. Or taste it. But I'll have to take it on faith that I may well breathe it.
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