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 . . .

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!

Slowly I turn . . . another year older

Obviously, there was a great gap (and, no doubt, gasp, as we all need to come up for air sometime) between my last post in September and my first post in October--the reason being that I turned another year older (rising to 46 on the Hot 100, still with a bullet, which is probably heading straight for my cranium) in the interim and decided to celebrate by making a marathon motor tour of Central New York and the Niagara region of Ontario.

I have a few stories to tell from the adventure and hopefully I'll get to those before I've forgotten all about them (age can do that to you) or have moved on to some other blogworthy (one can but dream) observations about life, love, and a certain senator's testicles.

But today I'm pressed for time at the mo', traveling a fair amount for work until mid-November. So instead I'll give you the short version (for me) and share a few photos from my travels.

I had a wonderful time visiting my friend, the Itinerant Professor of Chinese in New York State, and also enjoyed a splendid retreat on my own in Niagara Falls and Niagara-on-the-Lake.

While in New York, I did some hiking with the Itinerant Professor, traveling to Chittenango Falls, Green Lakes State Park, and another nature preserve near Earlville and Hamilton, New York. I also dined out a lot, went to the movies, made some new acquaintances, and did the antiques roadshow circuit of Central New York.

In the Niagara region, I made myself quite at home at the Brock Plaza Hotel, the same hotel in which Marilyn Monroe stayed while filming the appropriately titled Niagara in the early 1950s. It was as camp a decision as I've ever made (other than my antiquing adventures mentioned above). I just had to do it--it seemed like a charming and slightly fabulous way to spend one's birthday. Heck, I even splurged and spent the extra $30 a night (woo hoo!) for the fallsview room, instead of the one with the vista of the late '70s modern parking deck. Despite my fear of heights, I even opened all the windows of my 11th floor room and let the roar of the American and Canadian falls lull me to sleep.

On my last day, before heading home, I spent the afternoon in the sublime Niagara-on-the-Lake, situated just so with a perfect view of Lake Ontario. I could have done more there--such as get my Anglophilia groove on while enjoying afternoon tea at the Prince of Wales Hotel--but it was hot and humid that day. Just call me Lily White of the Valley--I must be the only person who goes to Canada and gets a sunburn.

So I headed home to Pittsburgh, vowing to return another time for a longer visit. All in all, it was a splendid way to spend a birthday.

Perhaps it all sounds very lowkey and a "small" way to celebrate one of life's milestones. I mean, $30 extra for a fallsview room? Maybe I need to learn to expand my definition of splurging.

Nevertheless, it was exactly what I needed, precisely what I had been craving. Some time away, some time with friends, and some time alone, in a lovely and tranquil setting.

Oh, it's come to this, has it? First, gardening and origami, now beauty and peace over excitement and frenzied adventure?

Yes, thankfully so, it has.

To dye for

Boy, is my face red. Or at least a very deep brown.

After a few recent photos taken of me in which I more closely resembled the Talking Snowman (as voiced by Burl Ives) in the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer Christmas special--all portly good cheer, all incredibly, indelibly white--I have taken up the habit again of dying my facial hair. I've done it before, but it's always been before some big event--a job interview, a date, a photo op for a spread in Hello! or OK! to show off my fabulous celebrity lifestyle. I've never exactly been consistent with it, though, usually doing it once, then not touching it again (or, as the case may be, re-touching it) for weeks or even months.

Of course, facial hairs are short and tough. As I'm no ZZ Top-wannabe, I am prone to trim, pluck, cut, and otherwise maim mine regularly. Thus, after a dye job, if all goes well, I have about a day or two of hmmm-that's-kinda-dark, followed by a week-and-a-half of hey-that's-more-like-it, before gradually fading into someone who looks like they should whip out a gee-tar and begin the conversation with "Well, you know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen . . . ."

However, you could replace "Vixen" with "Geezer" and perfectly describe me at that stage.

Normally, if things don't go well, it's a case of shoulda-left-it-in-longer. If I'm lazy (who me?) or haven't trimmed the facial hair in a while, then I'll only hit the top hairs on my mustache and goatee, leaving the underside still gray and white. Thus, it will look like I've barely done anything--"something's different about you . . . did you get new glasses?"--but by week's end, all will have returned to its formerly gray, Eastern Bloc state. Day wear, evening wear, swim wear. Blah.

To my surprise, though, I have discovered that there is a third state of being, heretofore unexeperienced by me--that is, leaving in the dye for way too long and combing in the color thoroughly from root to tip. After walking around town all day looking as though a mad clown attacked me with a Sharpie during my sleep, I'm beginning to long for my holly-jolly, Burl Ives-ian self.

The dye I use, Just for Men ('cause goodness knows, none of us he-man types could be caught stocking up on bottles of Lady Clairol or Garnier "Shilled by a Former Star of Sex and the City" Nutrisse) gives you just 5 minutes to achieve magic in the mirror, discovering your new "Mystery Date" self. (Will I be a dream? Or a dud? Or an utter horrorshow?) Just for Men previously made three shades in my range--medium brown, ash brown, and light brown. Ash brown was probably the closest match for me. Despite having medium brown eyebrows and, in a previous life, medium brown hair, my facial hair was a mix of brown, blond, gold, and red. And ash brown, whatever shade that is exactly, seemed to be the shade du moi.

However, apparently, I wasn't the only one confused about what color ash brown actually represented, as I can no longer find that shade on the market, only the light and medium browns. You know, we guys--even us gay ones--lack the gene that distinguishes robin's-egg blue from blue-green, teal, or aquamarine. Keep it simple, Corporate America.

Light brown works OK. I use it, but often the effect is fairly negligible, plus I suspect it's a shade better suited to a man with different, fairer coloring, hair or otherwise. But what do I know? From my understanding, when doing the dye-jobbing, the rule is to go with a shade darker or lighter than your own coloring. But which coloring? Skin? Hair? Original hair--or gray hair? Hair hair--or mustache hair? Eyebrow hair? Eye color? Hunh? I'm confused.

Medium brown definitely colors and covers things up, much like hot asphalt covers the faded, cracked surface of a Pennsylvania highway. But the match is a little too good, so that after a dye job, I end up for a day or so looking a little like Chuck Norris--he of the hair, eyebrows, and beard in an exact match of monochrome-ocrity. Everytime I see him on a commercial for the Total Gym or in a rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger, I tsk-tsk and think, didn't some stylist tell him never to do that? Couldn't someone buy him a rug that contrasts a bit more with the dye? And does he dye his body hair, too? 'Cause from my HDTV vantage, the carpet is matching the drapes a little too well.

But now I'm maybe slightly more sensitive to Chuck's dilemma. Especially after trying to be hyper-efficient and multi-task the other morning (read: just hyper), and while doing so, leaving in the dye for a little longer than 5 minutes. Possibly 6, maybe even a little closer to 6 and 30. I kinda lost count. Now I suddenly am faced (quite literally) with a color that best resembles Hershey's dark chocolate and was probably only 15 seconds away from blue-black. Or, if you prefer, azure.

Not pretty. But, gratefully, not robin's-egg blue either.

So I've gone from the face of some '60s folk singer to that of one looking as though it is covered with a mass of very angry, very brown, flesh-nesting caterpillars--in just five minutes or more! Better living through modern hair products and cosmetics.

I considered calling in sick to work the day I did this--or donning a burka and telling everyone my name is Fatima, and I'm a temp, then ending all further discussion with a loud uuluuluuluuluuluuluuluuluu, followed by the query, "Now where is the photocopying device, please?" But I endured, faced the mirror and the music, and counted myself lucky that I know only a couple of people in this city well enough that they might realize my aesthetic, cosmetic faux pas.

I'm sure Chuck Norris would understand--but would he find it in his chest fur-matted, L'Oreal-colored heart to forgive me? Or would he just laugh, roundhouse kick me in the cojones, and look into the camera to say, "The chief export of Chuck Norris is PAIN"?

I'd be content with the understanding, Mr. Norris. 'Cause, really, I'm worth it.