A Little Humility, If You Please!

“Hello John, Rick Wagoner here”. “Hey Dog, wazzup”? “Well John, as you probably already know, Alan Mulally, Bob Nardelli, and I will be going down to testify in D.C. this week to see if we can get our butts bailed out of this financial mess”.

“OK, so what can I do for you today Rick”? “Well John, when GM’s board of directors hired you as the Director of Common Sense, they made it mandatory that anyone in the company with a total compensation of $1 million or more per year run everything past you for approval”.

“Well, first of all, how are you planning to get there Rick”? “As usual, I’ll go down there in one of the corporate jets”. “No, I don’t think so Rick”. “What do you mean you don’t think so John”? “Well, yesterday the CFO stopped by my office whining about the cash flow problems. One of the things I told him to do was to sell all our aircraft on EBay and fire the pilots and crew.

“You mean, you mean……”? “That’s right Rick, you’ll have to fly commercial”. “Yikes! I haven’t done that in decades! How does that work these days? Do they still have 1st Class seating”? “Not for you Rick, I’ve already got your tickets. You’ll be sitting in Coach, seat 27-C, just behind the wing. You’ll also have a one hour lay-over in Newark.”

Long pause. “Hello Rick, you still there”? “Yeah John, I’m still here. Is there anything else you want me to do”? “Yeah Rick, listen up. There’s some things I want you to leave behind. Do NOT wear your William Fioravanti suit, or your A.Testoni shoes, or your Dolce & Gabbana silk tie, and shed that Cartier diamond-encrusted watch for Pete’s sake”.

“Now Rick, on the way home tonight, stop at Kohl’s and pick up a new wardrobe. You can probably do the whole shebang for under $500 bucks. Shucks, have you seen this sport coat I’m wearing? Nice, huh? I got it there for $89 bucks. Oh, and while you’re at it get a Timex watch with a big dial so people will see that it’s a real Timex”.

“John, ………….you’ve got to be kidding! I’ll arrive there looking like Joe Six-Pack”! “That’s right Rick. When you go before Barney Frank and his gang of hypocritical thugs, they’re going to look for anything they can find to beat you over the head with. You want to go before them dripping with humility and sincerity. If you’re going there to beg, then look like a beggar. Also, before you go in there loosen your tie, slop a little coffee on your shirt, muss-up that expensive haircut, and rub a little salt in your eyes. You want to look like you’ve been working frantically day and night to find solutions to this mess”.

“Is there anything else, John? Please tell me it doesn’t get any worse than this”? “Yeah Rick, that reminds me, I had the CFO shut down the suite at the Ritz-Carlton in D.C. You’ll be staying at the Motel 6 over by the zoo. I got you a room right next to Ron Gettlefinger. You and he can have a continental breakfast in the morning and share a cab over to Capitol Hill. So, what do ya think”?

Ka-thud! “Rick? Ricky Boy? Rick, ya still there? Hello! Come back to me Rick! Hello! Hello!

Coming Together

There was a time in my life when I thought I possessed the Midas Touch, that anything I touched would turn to gold. I had had some financial successes earlier in my life and had deluded myself into thinking it would always be that way. Since that time, experience has taught me differently. Nothing stays the same forever, and these days it can be weeks, days, or even hours between radical changes. What works today can fail tomorrow.

I’m facing retirement in about five years and I’m not so sure that I will be as financially prepared for it as I always thought I would be. Actually, I’m not sure I even know what retirement is. No one in my family has ever tried it.

In today’s market my house is probably worth less than I’ve put into it and my 401K has tumbled into the pooper along with everybody else’s. My two major investments, ownership in a printing company and a hunt club, are looking less like a sure thing with each passing day.

I’m not really complaining because there are so many others that are truly struggling to make ends meet. Those I am particularly concerned for are people that are already retired or about to, and have to live on investments that have faltered so badly this last year.

Because my home is close, in proximity to Chrysler HQ, a lot of my neighbors are nervously watching the developing absorption of their employer into the General Motors fold. There are only about a dozen families that live on my street and the incomes of every one of them are directly tied to the auto industry. More than half of these derive their livelihood from Chrysler.

This morning I spoke with someone that is close to the situation at CHQ and if the merger is completed they expect an immediate wholesale slaughter to occur among the white-collar employees. Because GM will probably scratch many or most of the Chrysler and Dodge vehicles, many blue-collar workers will also be cut loose.

My next-door neighbor is manager of a large Chrysler-Dodge-Jeep dealer here in the Metro area. I haven’t spoken to him yet about how this pending merger will affect his company, but I’m sure he has some major concerns. The neighbor directly across the street from me is an executive at Chrysler and his employment is also at risk.

In the long run, the merger between GM and Chrysler may be necessary for the survival of both, but in the short run a lot of people will be hurt. And I may loose some really great neighbors.

Fleecing The Flock For Fun & Profit

Robert Tilton has a “word” from God,..... just for you. Send money!

Well, I’ve already talked about politics, race relations, hedonism, narcissism, the economy, gun control, hotrods, employee relations, bad drivers, education, confusion, dogs, and decapitation. BUT, have you noticed how skillfully I have (so far) avoided any discussion about RELIGION? Even at the risk of being tarred and feathered and run out of town, I shall press bravely forward on this mercurial subject.

Church life and spirituality have always been a big part of my life. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my uncle were all ministers. My father was an elder in the church and chairman of the board of a Christian college for many years. They were all fine men who did much for many, and asked for nothing in return. I know I’ve been a disappointment to my family for not pursuing such lofty endeavors. I am probably considered by some to be the family reprobate.

One definition of a reprobate is: A morally unprincipled person. Shameless. One who is predestined to damnation? OUCH! Come on now, I must possess SOME redeeming qualities. After all, my business partners tolerate me. My mother kinda likes me. And my wife, kids, grandkids, and dog love me. And even if they don’t, I know that Jesus does.

I confess that I haven’t been the most devoted sheep in the flock (a gray sheep?), but my basic beliefs in the Trinity are alive and well. I attend services at least three out of every four Sundays, I try not to drink, smoke, or cuss too much, and I tithe a lot more than Joe Biden does. Surely all this puts me at least one notch higher on the salvation ladder than most politicians.

It’s a well-established fact that I have the attention span of a small child on a caffeine diet. I don’t actually watch TV. I just surf the channels. If a channel can hold my attention more that 3 seconds, I may watch it for several minutes before moving on.

One thing that always gets my attention (and my ire) is the fraudulent televangelist. And, there is a plethora of them about. It seems that you can’t go more than a few channels without landing on one of these broadcasts. I’m not talking about the preachers that actually preach about salvation and ask for little or nothing at all. I’m talking about the hustlers that are in it for the (your) bucks. These are the purveyors of “health & wealth” religion. (Name it and claim it.)

These guys absolutely fascinate me. They have commercialized Jesus to the Nth degree. They’ve become the masters of shakedown. Their performances are slicker than KY Gel. Ponzi schemers and ambulance chasers pale in comparison to this new breed of shyster. They wear arrogance like a uniform as they strut across the stage waving the bible in the air. Oh, they may have read the words in that book, but somehow they completely missed the Word.

Most of these guys are very wealthy thanks to all those folks that are looking to purchase a miracle or two. They live in mansions, own expensive beach homes, drive expensive cars, stay in luxury hotels, dine at the best restaurants, wear custom made clothes, wear $20k watches, and make sure that all their relatives live well too. It seems like they all have their own multi-million dollar private jets. Some even have a fleet of jets at their disposal. Is life good for them or what?

So where are they getting all this money to live so well? Unfortunately, they target the poor, the gullible, the uneducated, the sick, the lonely, and people that are desperate for any improvement in their life. But, they also prey on people’s greed. They flaunt their wealth and convince people that they too can live the good life.

They really work the greed angle. All you have to do is send them a “faith seed” (send money) or “partner with them” (send money) and God will begin to work miracles in your life. I’ve actually heard some of them claim you will get back ten times what you send. You may even get more if you have enough faith. Frequently they name specific amounts of money that God wants you to send them. It might be $77.00 this month and $1000.00 next month (depending on their avaricious lifestyle). Occasionally they will trot someone out who sent Rev. (put name here) $2000.00 and the following month their mortgage was just magically paid off.

They treat God like He’s just a big lottery pool in the sky. And since they have “been anointed”, they can get you connected to the jackpot. I’m not sure who anointed them, but I don’t think it was God.

If they even had a cursory knowledge of the Bible, they would know that the One who’s name they cast about so freely, lived as a simple carpenter and had none or very few possessions. They would know that the Apostle Paul, even though he was a highly educated Roman citizen with political connections, sewed tents to support himself while spreading the word to the Gentiles. They would know that Jesus told the wealthy young ruler, “Sell all that you have and give it to the poor, and THEN follow me”. Luke 18:18-30 NIV. You’ll notice He didn’t say, “Take from the poor and get even richer”!


Kickin’ Butt and Takin’ Names!

There are far too many of these scalawags to name them all, so I’ll just mention a few of my favorites.

Mike Murdock struts across the stage at his Wisdom Center giving Wisdom Keys to all us dimwits, cause (Duh!) we’re too stupid to understand simple scripture. He will say something completely meaningless, then put his hands on his hips and bob his head up and down as he scans the audience with a smirk on his face. But, do not fear, he will get around to asking for that seed money.
Entertainment Rating: 2

Benny Hinn may very well be the scariest guy on earth. He is fabulously wealthy and arrives in a Roll Royce when he comes to speak down to the multitudes. He is surrounded by bodyguards and is completely unapproachable. On stage he rants and raves and speaks in tongues. When he asks for money he suggests that you be “obedient” and fork it over. If you should publicly disagree with his eminence, he’ll send demons against you. Hmmm,…I wonder whom he’s really working for???
Entertainment Rating: 0

Jesse Duplantis is fun to watch. Jesse is high energy. He runs up and down the stage screeching, laughing, singing, and telling tall tales. He openly brags about his wealth and insinuates that if you’re living in poverty, it’s your fault for choosing to do so. Wow!
Entertainment Rating: 3

Robert Tilton is the undisputed champion in this game. No one holds a candle to Bob. He exudes such passion and sincerity. He almost sweats blood when he prays (that you’ll send him money). His preaching (pointless drivel) is highly animated and he can twist his face into contortions I didn’t know were humanly possible. He can find the most obscure scriptures in the Bible to change into whatever he wants it to say.

Frequently, during one of his impassioned sermonettes, he will break into the speaking of tongues. If you listen closely to this jibber you’ll hear the same dozen sounds over and over again. Frequently he’ll stop preaching to say that God just gave him a “word”. “There’s someone out there that’s been suffering with back pain and if you plant (with him) a seed of $1000.00 today, God will remove your pain forever”.

Well now, old Bob could charm the scales off a cobra. And if the FTC or the IRS should ever shut him down, he will quickly make a new fortune selling ice to the Eskimos.
Entertainment Rating: 4

There are many passages in scripture that foretell the fate of these flock-fleecers and false prophets. If they truly knew the Word they would know what’s in store for them.

WWJD? Well, on Judgment Day Jesus will probably just forgive these scoundrels. WWJD? What Would John Do? On Judgment Day I would give ‘em a choice. “OK boys, what would you prefer, being barbequed, fried, roasted, skewered and shish kabobed, impaled on a flaming sword, or returned to earth as a grindingly poor, blind, homeless person with leprosy?” Knowing how greedy these maggots are, they would probably want it all.

And, I would gladly give it to them.

Can I get an Amen?

Been Totin’ Your Roscoe Lately?

July 18, 1984, San Ysidro, San Diego, California. At 3:40 p.m. 41 year old James Oliver Huberty walked into a McDonalds armed with two semi-auto pistols and a 12 gauge shotgun. He opened fire on the unsuspecting patrons and staff and continued firing and reloading for one hour and seventeen minutes. When he was finally taken down by the SWAT team, 22 people lay dead on the floor and 19 lay wounded.

During this massacre not a single police officer nor a trained, licensed civilian with a gun was present to stop the carnage.

October 16, 1991, Killeen, Texas. George Jo Hennard drove his pickup truck through the front window of a Luby’s Cafateria. He got out of the truck and yelled "This is what Bell County has done to me!" He then opened fire on the restaurant's patrons and staff with a Glock 17 pistol and later a Ruger P89.

About 80 people were in the restaurant at the time. He stalked, shot, and killed 23 people and wounded another 20 before committing suicide. He reloaded several times and still had ammunition remaining when he committed suicide by shooting himself in the head after the police finally arrived.

During this massacre not a single police officer nor a trained, licensed civilian with a gun was present to stop the carnage.

April 20, 1999, Columbine High School, Columbine, Colorado. Two students, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, embarked on a massacre, killing 12 students and a teacher, as well as wounding 23 others, before committing suicide.At 11:19 a.m. the shooting started. The SWAT teams entered the school at 1:09 p.m.

During this massacre not a single police officer nor a trained, licensed civilian with a gun was present to stop the carnage.

April 16, 2007, Virginia Tech University, Blacksburg, Virginia. There were actually two separate attacks approximately two hours apart committed by undergraduate student 23-year-old Seung-Hui Cho, a South Korean citizen with U.S. permanent resident status living in Virginia.

During the two attacks, Cho killed 5 faculty members and 27 students before committing suicide. The Virginia Tech review panel reported that Cho's gunshots wounded 17 other people; 6 more were injured when they jumped from second-story windows to escape the slaughter. Again, the police did not arrive until long after the shootings had taken place.

During these massacres (and others) not a single police officer nor a trained, licensed civilian with a gun was present to stop the carnage.

I could go on and on, but I think the point has been made. The police are not your bodyguards and can’t anticipate when the next wacko is going to lash out at innocent civilians. The police don’t know when or where you will be robbed, raped, car-jackted, kidnapped, or murdered by someone with a weapon. But, they will investigate after the crime has been commited.

There are a few stories where someone that was legally armed with a gun was present to keep another would-be butcher from doing his worst. Unfortunately, these success stories are in the minority.

The Three Amigos

Several months ago I had lunch with a couple of friends at a local restaurant. These other guys are both well respected men in our community. They are both highly educated with doctoral degrees in their separate fields of endeavor. So, you might ask, why in the world were they hanging with me? Must be my boyish charm.

To the casual observer, we were just three harmless old guys havin’ lunch and talking about sports or politics. What was not apparent is that we are all highly skilled shooters and amongst the three of us we were carrying enough firepower to take down a small army of deranged miscreants.

We are not cops. We are not vigilantes. We are citizens with concealed pistol permits that carry our registered handguns within the confines of the law. The Michigan State Legislature has given us permission to do this. The Michigan State Police and the FBI have scrutinized our pasts and determined that we are not a threat to society. We have taken the prescribed firearms class and passed our range tests for gun knowledge, safety, and marksmanship. We have practiced, trained, and become proficient with our guns.

We are not “gunshop commandos” seeking glory. We do not belong to any para-military groups. We are not suffering from paranoia, expecting an attack at any moment. However, we are people who refuse to be the victims of other people that don’t abide by any laws or codes of conduct, except their own. We do not accept the “victim mentality” that has permeated our society for so long. We are alert. We are ready to defend ourselves and our loved ones if necessary. God forbid that this should ever happen.

The object of defending yourself with a gun is not about killing your attacker. It’s about stopping the attack. If you have to shoot, shoot until the attacker has stopped. If the would-be attacker sees the muzzle of your gun pointing directly at him or notices the laser beam dancing between his eyes, he may just drop his weapon and start crying like a little girl. This would be the best case scenario. “No shots fired!” The worst case scenario is being attacked and having NO way to defend yourself.

Carrying a gun is not for everybody. Some people are afraid of guns. No amount of education about guns will change their mind. They believe all guns should be banned. In a perfect world, this would work nicely. Unfortunately, in the world we live in, if guns are banned we law-abiding folks would turn our guns in to be destroyed. Can you guess who would NOT be turning their guns in? Duh! Could it be the people who use guns to commit crimes? You know, those guys that don’t get themselves licensed or their stolen guns registered. I know some very well-meaning people who just can’t seem to process this reality.

Because women (in general) are ususally smaller and lighter in stature than men, they are considered an easier target for crime. It doesn’t have to be that way. I would especially encourage women to get licensed and carry a gun for self defense.

I think many women who would like to carry a gun are intimidated at the thought of going to a gun store/range because they think it’s “man country”. Both of the places that we patronize have women working behind the counter. They are openly packing some serious hardware and they know their stuff. It’s common to see women in the store or on the range when my wife and I are there. Good instruction is available and affordable.

My wife has her own Smith & Wesson, Air-Lite snubnose revolver with a Crimson Trace Laser Sight. She chose the gun herself and enjoys shooting it. She handles the gun with ease and is a very good shot. She keeps it loaded with some very nasty jacketed hollow point ammo and keeps it close to her whenever she’s home alone. I pitty anyone that breaks into our house when I’m not there to protect them from her. She’s ready.

So far, there has only been one time when I thought I might have to draw my weapon in self defense. July 5th, 2005 at around 5:00 a.m., David Lee Bingham, 38, was pumping gas into his truck at a Sunoco station in Pontiac, Michigan when 2 young men approached him. One of the men stuck a gun in Bingham’s face and demanded his truck keys and his wallet. Bingham complied and the two men started to drive off in his truck. Bingham ran into the station and told the attendant he had just been robbed at gunpoint.

As Bingham was talking to the 911 operator, the robber came into the station and shot him 4 times in the chest at point-blank range. Bingham was dead before he hit the floor. He had done everything he was “supposed” to do. Why did the punk have to gun him down after the fact? When David was brutally murdered, two children lost their father.

Because I usually leave for work about 5:00 a.m. and usually stop for gas on the way in, this incident really disturbed me. Even though I had been shooting guns most of my life and already had a permit to carry, I had not been doing so. The next morning I strapped on my .38 ultra-lite snubby before leaving the house. I stopped at the my usual gas station and began fueling my truck. I was the only one there, or so I thought.

While I was standing beside the truck I noticed an older car parked in the shadows beside the station. I could see movement in the car and some rather heavy looking smoke drifting out of an open window. A lone car turned the corner and it’s headlights swept across the parked car just long enough for me to see four scruffy looking young men sitting in the car, all staring directly at me. I was not alarmed, but I was on high alert.

A rear passenger door opened and one of the men stepped out and began walking straight for me while the others looked on. He was holding his right hand behind his back. I pretended that I didn’t notice and turned to look at the pump. As I turned, I casually brought my right hand up pushing my jacket back slightly and placed my hand on my hip in a relaxed stance. Directly below my hand, the gun shown brightly in the light from the canopy above me.

In my peripheral vision, I saw the guy stop dead in his tracks. He stood there for a moment, then spun and walked quickly back to his friends. He wasted no time getting back into the car. The car started and with the headlights off they quickly left the station.

They may have just been looking for directions, but the situation was just way too suspicious for me to have done anything else. It bothered me that I had been put in situation where I felt forced to let my weapon be seen. On the other hand, I probably looked like an easy mark for a robbery until they saw that it wasn’t going to be so easy after all. I’ve since upgraded my carry weapon to a semi-auto with a high capacity magazine and I practice with it frequently.

I’ll discuss home defense in a future post. In the meantime, if I’m in a restaurant with my wife and grandchildren and a guy comes in wearing a long trenchcoat on a warm day, my level of alertness may rise. If he’s having a heated conversation with himself and his gaze is bouncing all over the room, I may become alarmed. If he begins nervously fidgeting with something under his coat I’ll begin positioning myself for whatever may happen next.

If I’m NOT packin’ that day, I just hope there will be some lady sipping coffee in her booth with one eye on the weirdo and one eye on her newspaper as her hand is casually moving into her purse for that S&W LadySmith .357 Magnum that she’s become such great friends with.

Malignant Narcissism

Above: Hugh Hefner at his 97th birthday party being propped up for the photo by his great-granddaughters, Ditzi, Glitzi, and Dopey.


Malignant Narcissism. Say what? Is it a disease? Is it contagious? Can it be avoided? How will I know if I’ve got it? Is there a cure?

It was by sheer accident that I came across this magnificent term. Like you, I get lots of emails each day that I’d rather not get. I got one recently from a quasi-religious news organization that contained an article comparing the contrast in spiritual beliefs between Sarah Palin and Oprah Winfrey.

The author describes Sarah Palin as your basic bible totin’ believer in God. He describes Oprah as a “New Ager”. You know, “I am God, so who needs the real one?” According to the author, James Bowie Johnson, Jr., "Oprah believes that divine revelation comes from her new age guru, Eckhart Tolle -- and that he is infallible and that his words supercede the words of Christ and all of scripture."

The article goes on to say, Tolle is author of the bestseller A New Earth. The book encourages readers to find the so-called goodness that is already in them, and allowing that goodness to emerge.

Johnson describes Tolle as "a case study in the development of the mental illness of malignant narcissism" and someone who is "obsessed with the two-dimensional reflection of his own image."

Ouch! I’m not sure, but I think Mr. Tolle just got his arse kicked!

A lot of people suffer from this malady, malignant narcissism. Many of them seem to be celebrities that have long since lost contact with Planet Earth. They’ve spent so much time thinking about themselves and looking into the mirror that all perception of reality has abandoned them. They begin to believe the false image they have created for the public is really who they are.

I love it when the media interviews some of these afflicted people. They’re actually convinced that what they think and say to be good and beneficial for us, the unwashed masses. I think members of the media sometimes deliberately goad them into saying things that will make them sound stupid on TV or in print.

Sometimes the interviewers themselves suffer from malignant narcissism. Have you ever listened to what is said by those ditzoids on The View. When we start to take advice from the likes of Whoopi Goldberg, you know, as a society, we’re in a heap of trouble.

One of my favorite examples of this illness is Pamela Anderson. She is drop-dead gorgeous from head to toe. But, when she opens her mouth, incoherent drivel spews forth and she becomes the poster child for Stepford Women advocates.

Some might want to accuse The Donald of this ailment, but not me. I like the Don. He’s got a great sense of humor and he keeps his celebrity in a balanced perspective. OK, I really like him because he picks on Rosie O’Donnell.

When I first saw the term malignant narcissism, the first person I thought of was the King of Hedonism himself, Hugh Hefner. No one in all of human history has loved himself more than Hef has. Even in his old age he desperately wants to project an image of supreme virility to himself and to the world.

He lives in a castle in Holmby Hills, Los Angeles, California with three beautiful young women. Holly seems to be his main squeeze and is always talking about her and Puffin getting married. Yeah, right. This may not have occurred to her, but her Puffin was a grandfather long before she was even born. All the Viagra in California couldn’t jump-start any action here.

I will confess that I really like Hef’s TV show, “The Girls Next Door”. It’s a cute show. It’s one of the few shows on TV that I will even sit down to watch. Wherever the girls go or whatever they’re doing, there’s Hef toddling along behind them, working hard just to keep his balance.

My favorite character on this show is Kendra, the baby of the bunch. She is beautiful, but whenever she says something she makes Pamela Anderson look like a Rhodes scholar. She laughs a lot, usually after she says something absurd. Her laughter is contagious and she makes me laugh. She really, really, really likes the “F” word and tries to work it into each sentence at least three times. That amounts to a whole lotta bleepin.

Its too bad Hef didn’t stick with Barbi Benton. She was probably the best thing that ever happened to him. She’s 58 now and still quite beautiful. Actually, Hef is only 82, but since he refuses to grow old gracefully, I hope he lives to be at least 102.

And so does he.

The Color of Politics

In April of 1962 I went with my family to Florida for Spring Break. My dad was a pilot and we flew to Ft. Lauderdale in our own airplane. Since we frequently traveled out of state like this, I took it for granted. I hadn’t yet realized that I was a child of privilege and that most people did not live like this. I was about as naïve as any kid could be.

Among the many things I didn’t know was the extent to which blacks were being discriminated against right here in the United States. In school we studied that the Emancipation Proclamation that Abraham Lincoln had issued in 1863 had guaranteed their equality. But, having freedom on paper wasn’t quite the same as being able to live freely with dignity.

Mostly through church affiliations my parents and my grandparents had friends that just happened to be black. I had friends at school that just happened to be black. To me this was all quite normal. To the best of my knowledge I didn’t know anyone who was a racist.

I had heard the “N” word used in reference to blacks by whites that I considered to be low-class. I was aware that something in the south was stirring called Civil Rights, but really had no idea what it was all about. Like most kids, whatever was on the nightly news was of little interest to me. But, my protected, insular world was about to be invaded by a dose of harsh reality.

We took off about 7:00 a.m. from the small airport in Romeo, Michigan where Dad kept our plane hangered. We landed at the airport in Macon, Georgia that afternoon to refuel and get something to eat. Mom and my sisters headed for the terminal restaurant while Dad supervised the refueling.

I loved these stops at airports that I had never been to before. I headed for the hangers to see what planes were being stored or worked on. I promised Dad that I would join them at the restaurant in about twenty minutes.

The mechanics in the hangers were friendly enough and answered whatever questions popped into my head. I was satisfied with my little exploration; so I decided I’d better get on over to the restaurant.

As I was leaving the hanger I saw a sign that said, “Restrooms” with an arrow pointing down a sidewalk along the side of the building. I had to go so I headed down the walkway. I saw the word Men on a door that was half open. As I walked in I barely noticed a sign above the doorway.

I only got a few feet into the room when I stopped. A feeling came over me like something was very, very wrong. But, I didn’t know what it was. I turned and walked out of the room back onto the sidewalk. I looked up at the sign that was over the doorway. It just said, “COLORED”.

Confused, I stood there staring at it for several moments. Does that mean what I think it means? I turned to look at the doorway that was behind me on the other side of the walkway. Above that men’s room door it said, “White Only”. I opened the door and looked in. It had fresh paint on the walls and appeared to be very clean. The other bathroom was dirty and in a state of disrepair.

I felt a little wave of nausea come over me. So, is this what racial discrimination looks like? Is this for real? They can’t do that, can they? I decided not to use either restroom and walked on to the restaurant. I did not share this experience my parents. As is my way, even to this day, I withdraw when something really bothers me.

Over the last 46 years, I’ve thought of this incident many times. I remember this as a day that I lost a large piece of my childhood innocence. From that day forward, I began to notice the ugly things in life.

The evening news became something of interest to me. I became more aware of the struggle that blacks faced to gain equality. I became aware of the leaders in the civil rights movement. I was there in downtown Detroit that hot summer day in 1967 when the riots began. I saw how sorrow had turned to anger, anger had turned to rage, and the rage could no longer be contained.

I remember feeling admiration for those brave souls that marched in Selma. I remember feeling out rage when the police beat them to the ground, turned the dogs loose on them, and blasted them with fire hoses. I remembered feeling stunned and saddened when that church was bombed and four innocent little girls were killed. I couldn’t imagine hatred on a scale of that magnitude.

I remember being fascinated by the bravery of Rosa Parks. This was one gutsy little lady whose single refusal to submit fueled a movement that brought a major southern city to a standstill. Shortly before she died, she became my hero when I heard her being interviewed. The interviewer asked her, “What is it like to be a considered a champion of the civil rights movement here in America”? She laughed and in a small, frail voice said, “It really wasn’t like that. I had had a long hard day and was just too tired to get up and move to the back of the bus”. What awesome and rare humility!

As you are well aware, Barack Obama is running for President of the United States. As you are well aware, Barack Obama is black. In my mind, this makes it the most fascinating presidential election in American history.

I will probably not vote for Mr. Obama. Not because he is black, but simply because our politics just don’t align. Were he to join the NRA and show some sincere concern for the small business owner, I might be swayed in his direction. He wouldn’t even have to shoot a moose! I’m easy.

If Barack Obama should happen to win this election, all black parents could at last tell their children that, “This is America, you can become anything you want to become, even President of the United States”! And, they could point to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as proof.

Of all the things I like to do, target shooting and hunting are near the top of the list. Most of these activities I do with a friend that just happens to be black. Even though we spend a lot of time together, we don’t get into deep philosophical conversations about politics, religion, or race. We’re just a couple of old farts that enjoy each other’s company.

Coming home from a hunting trip last Saturday, with our usual bag limit of ….nothing, I asked him for some help with this story that you’re now reading. I told him when I was a boy; blacks were referred to as Negro or Colored. Now it’s either Afro-American, black, or Black. (No, that isn’t a typo.) “What is proper?” I asked him. He said, “I don’t know, it all depends on the situation or who is talking to whom about what”. I asked, “What do you prefer?” He said, “Why don’t you just call me Paul?”

Hey Paul, that works for me.

Here We Go Again!

It probably seems like I pick on GM a lot. It’s not because they’re the Big Dog or that I don’t like them. I’ve been a fan of GM since I was a toddler and I have agonized for them as their market share has slipped over the years to a historical new low.

During the late sixties and seventies, I drove Chevys and Pontiacs. During the eighties I drove nothing but Oldsmobiles. I currently drive a Cadillac STS and I don’t think I’ve ever driven a car that I liked as much as this one.

However, I do get frustrated with GM. I heard last month that Cadillac would be bringing out a four banger vehicle in 2010. I saw this as a knee-jerk reaction to the “gas crisis” and I was sure this turkey would never fly. But now, it looks like they may actually go ahead with it.

In today’s Automotive News, there was a great article by senior editor John K. Teahen, Jr., who is old and may even know more stuff than me. To sum up his article, he says, “Get real, GM. Nobody’s gonna buy it”! He reminds us of the Cimarron that Cadillac brought out in the early eighties. Jim suggests that they call it the Cimarron II.

You do remember the Cimarron don’t you? Oh, you don’t? That’s OK. It was quite forgettable. It was a previous knee-jerk reaction to the fuel-efficient imports that were flooding our shores. The Cimarron was basically a Chevy sub-compact with Cadillac stickers on it. I remember watching people’s reaction the first time they saw one. They would walk up to it, give it a quick glance, look at the window sticker, and laugh out loud. I was embarrassed for GM.

One thing I do know is that Cadillac has always been about “image”. Image sells and image needs to be protected. Lose it and it’s hard to get back.

I recently had dinner with a GM executive who I’ve known for about thirty years. I asked him about GM’s tenuous future. He told me, “Not to worry! We’ve got some great products in the pipeline and I’m feeling very optimistic about our future”! I smiled and said, “That is good news”.

I considered giving him the link to my blog, but I do value his friendship and besides his parting words were, “Hey John, when you’re ready for an ’09 STS, let me know and I’ll get you another executive plan discount”.

OK, So who am I to make trouble?

Totem Pole, Ted’s, and Crusin’ Woodward

Another Woodward Dream Cruise has just come and gone, and again it was a smashing success. There are now cruises all over the country, but none come close this one. I’ve heard estimates of between one and two million people that show up for this festive occasion.

That’s a whole lot of people. And, they come from all over the world to be a part of this spectacular automotive event. It’s the kind of event that you’d expect to take place in the Detroit area, the automotive capital of the world. Officially, it’s only for one weekend each year, and you can’t possibly see it all in that short amount of time.

Cruising Woodward is something that goes way back to the 1950’s and 60’s. My first experience was in 1962. I wasn’t yet old enough to get my drivers license, so I had to ride with other guys. My cousin Bob (R.L.) Utley took me out to Woodward in his 1960 Jaguar convertible.

We cruised through the Totem Pole and the Big Boy then headed north to Ted’s on Woodward at Square Lake Road. I was absolutely sure that I was the coolest dude in town and that all the girls were looking at me. They probably liked the car too.

At all of these drive-in restaurants there was a continual flow of Baby Boomers in hot rods and sports cars. On Woodward Avenue it was sorta like American Graffiti on steroids. The trick was to back into a parking spot where you could see and be seen. But, if you parked, you had to buy something. French fries and a Coke were the usual fare.

The next year I got my drivers license and going out to cruise Woodward became a regular activity on Friday and Saturday nights. If memory serves me correctly, and sometimes it does, my favorite place to park was at the Big Boy facing the street. There was a stoplight there and every time the light turned green a drag race occurred. Pretty girls, cool cars, loud music, greasy fries, watered down cokes, and screaming, smoking tires. Ah, those were the days!

Sometimes I get real melancholy when I think back to those glory days. But then I remember that I married Christine (my Woodward Avenue co-pilot) many years ago and life is still good. It’s especially good when my grandson Gabe tugs on my arm and says, “Papa, would you take me for a ride on your John Deere tractor”?

Well, it isn’t a tire burner, but it is kinda fun to ride and it will do the quarter mile in less than 6 minutes. “OK Gabe, let’s rock-n-roll”!

A Bit Long In The Tooth

My dad, Bob Utley, was a Marine during WWII. He fought in the South Pacific against the Japanese on Iwo Jima, Saipan, and Tinian. These were bloody battles fought under miserable conditions. As a Radioman in the 4th Marine Division he would relay coordinates directing the artillery crews where to fire their big guns. He was there when that band of brave souls from the 3rd Division fought their way to the top of Mount Suribachi to plant Old Glory.

“Once A Marine – Always A Marine!” is a phrase you’ve probably heard at least once in your life. In Dad’s case it was true. Along with that truism came a lot of military phrases such as, “Get the lead out!”, “Front and center!”, “Take all you can eat, but eat all you take!”. Since most of my friend’s dads were also veterans of the Big War, this kind of talk was common around the neighborhood when I was a kid.

When Dad was a kid he lived on a farm so he also had a few farm phrases that he used on occasion. My favorite was, “A Bit Long In The Tooth”. I understood it to be a way of describing an old horse. Since his generation wasn’t constrained by political correctness, he would usually direct this description to an aging member of the other gender. He would say something like, “Yes, she’s still good lookin, but she’s gettin to be a bit long in the tooth”.

This month marks the 100th birthday of General Motors. That may seem old, but as carmakers go, GM is still a youngster. There are other car companies still around that are as old as dirt. Oldsmobile had been around since 1890’s. Gottlieb Daimler and Wilhelm Maybach, founded Daimler Motoren Gesellschaft in 1890. Henry Ford built his first car back in 1896 and was selling to the public by 1903. The first combustion engine vehicles were being pioneered back in the 1860’s. There were even steam-powered cars dating back to the 1700’s.

So, even though she’s gettin to be a bit long in the tooth, turning 100 is no big deal in the auto world. But, we wish GM a Happy Birthday anyway and hope she makes it to 200.

You Are What You Drive

Christine had gone shopping and I was slaving away on her “git-it-done before winter list”. She didn’t trust me to wait until fall, and rightly so, because this was stuff I should have done the previous summer. As I painted away on the front porch, the sky became dark and raindrops began to splat around me. It was time to put down the brush and go inside.

Since there weren’t any inside projects on the list, I decided this would be a great time to take a nap on the couch. I’ve always considered taking an afternoon nap on Saturday or Sunday to be somewhat of a sacred rite. It is like getting a reward for all the hard work that I hadn’t actually done that week.

I can only nap on the couch because napping on the bed seems to carry a certain degree of shame and guilt with it. Of course, taking a nap with the TV on is even better. Turning on a football or basketball game (unless the Lions or Pistons are winning) to me is like taking a handful of Lunesta on an empty stomach. Before the first whistle blows I’m gone.

When the TV came on, it was another one of those moronic reality shows. I hate reality shows. I mean I really HATE THEM! I sometimes even yell at them and Christine will hand me the remote and say, “John, don’t yell, just change the channel”. The only problem is you can wade through a dozen of these reality shows before getting to something worth watching.

I was about to change the channel when the front end of a pimped-out, white Range Rover began to fill the screen. That looked kinda cool, so I decided to watch for a moment. The Rover came to a stop in front of a Beverly Hills fashion boutique known as Dash. The doors opened and out stepped three young women jabbering about something that had obviously caused them great distress. What horrible tragedy could have befallen these fair maidens?

It only took a moment for me to realize they were complaining bitterly about a homeless man that had the sheer audacity to stand near the driveway to the little mall where their store was located. They were terrified that their upscale Dash customers would have to look upon this un-kempt malingerer as they pulled in. Why did he have to hang out near “their store”? They even sent their cameramen down the driveway to zoom in on this guy so that we, the audience, could grasp the nature of this heinous crime.

What incredible arrogance! I was furious. But, being a glutton for punishment, I sat down to watch more of this twisted mentality unfold before my eyes. And it did.

It seems that these people belong to a certain tribe known as the Kardashians. Being indigenous to the Hills of Beverly, they are obviously wealthy. And they want you to know it. The apparent leader of this tribe is known as Kim Kardashian. Even though she is only twenty-something, she is a deep well of wisdom and knowledge that the others depend on for daily guidance.

The more I watched, the more fascinated I became. You have no idea what rocky shoals this family has to navigate each and every day. What makeup should I wear? Which party should I go to? Which club is the IN CLUB right now? Will Paris or Britney be there tonight? And most importantly, which car should I drive today, the white and pink Rover or the riced-out black Rover.

To add even more weirdness to the show, Bruce Jenner was constantly drifting in and out of these little dramas. You remember Bruce. That is if you’re old enough. He won the decathlon at the Summer Olympics way back in 1976. It seems that he is married to the mother of Kim. Bruce is a real-life Dorian Gray. He still looks like he’s in his early thirties, but you know he’s got to be tired from carrying all that plastic around that holds his face together.

I never really did figure out what Kim Kardashian is famous for. Other than being the daughter of Robert Kardashian, who was O.J.’s lawyer, making a porn movie with her boyfriend, and driving a customized Range Rover, why is she a celebrity? Oh well, it’s all too much for me to ponder.

A number of years ago, I visited a cousin of mine who lived in West Los Angeles. When he picked me up at LAX, he was driving a very nice sports sedan of Germanic origin. The next day we drove up to Malibu and took a detour into the canyon country. He wanted to show me how his car handled those hairpin curves. I was sufficiently impressed.

It seemed to me that all of his friends also drove upscale foreign cars. I asked him about this odd coincidence. His exact words were, “In L.A., you are what you drive”!

Well, I never did get my nap that day, thanks to Kim & Co. But I did learn a lot about arrogance and narcissism. If you’re going to be somebody, ya gotta look the part.

So Bunkie, if you’re sick and tired of being disrespected by the valets every time you pull up in your old domestic clunker. Don’t feel discouraged, there is hope. All ya gotta do is plunk down your $78,450 plus tax on the counter of your local Rover dealer, add another $10, 000 for options, then have it taken to a custom shop, where for another $20,000 they’ll give it that Beverly Hills look. Then, at last, you can get some respect.

Oh, and don’t forget to look down on those that are less fortunate.

All Together Now - Let's Panic

News Flash!!! The government does not control the economy. This is something most politicians don't understand. In the race to be the next president, both Obama and McCain each claim to have their own magic wands for fixing the economy. So no matter who wins, we all win, right?

OK, so if the government doesn’t control the economy, then who does? The media does! It’s all about perception. The economy in general is as healthy (or unhealthy) as we believe it to be. When we’re scared we stop spending. When we’re feeling confident we shop-till-we-drop.

Over the last month or so, all the Chicken Littles of the media have been running around shouting; “The sky is falling, the sky is falling”! The economy is suddenly in a free-fall. Inflation jumps 1% in one month, the most in twenty-five years. The price of GM’s stock fell to its lowest point since Eisenhower was president. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac are shaking in their boots.

Suddenly, we’re all wondering how we’re gonna cope with this new economic collapse. For the first time in forty-one years of marriage, (same participants) my wife and I are getting serious about living on a budget. She’s even suggested that we give up one car (mine) and she could drive me to work. I may even have to give up my main addiction, dark chocolate, which is imported from San Francisco.

All this panic because the price of gasoline broke the $4.00 a gallon barrier. Of course, one minute later the media starts talking about the price going to $5.00 a gallon by the end of the year. Before we can recover from the first bad news, the media is rushing in to throw more gas on the fire. (You knew I’d work that pun in somehow.)

Well, as of today the Dow is soaring again. The bulls have rushed in to scoop up the bargains that were created by all the panic selling. Once again, the rich get richer and we just tighten our belts. If you live long enough, you’ll see it happen over and over again.

Not too long ago, the pastor of our church said something that stuck in my mind. Between naps, I heard him say that the primary job of the media was to scare us and that we shouldn’t be overly concerned with all the bad news they bring us.

Someone once said, (I think it was me) “If it weren’t for bad news, we’d have no news at all. Therefore, if we stopped watching the news, just imagine how stable the economy would become and how happy we’d be”.

What a concept! Maybe I should get into politics. Ya think?

Gone Too Soon

Gary “Butch” Hanlin
October 5, 1947 – December 10, 2005

Tribute To An Old Car Guy

It was the summer of ’66. It was a good time to be young. If you had any interest in cars, it was a good time to live near Detroit, the Automotive Capitol of the World.

Gary and I were 1st cousins, descendants of an old Irish/American family, the Hanlins. Being the same age we were always friends, but we became much closer that summer. We would take our girlfriends on picnics to Hines Park in Dearborn or go to any event that had anything to do with hotrods. Gary was fun to be with.

One Saturday morning that summer, Gary called me to say he wanted to race his car at Detroit Dragway that day and wanted to know if I was interested in racing mine. My girlfriend Christine was working that day, so I was free to go play with the boys.

Eddie Palmer and I drove to Gary’s house in Dearborn, where we met up with some of his friends and we all headed to the racetrack. Gary had a red ’66 Chevy Impala SS and I had a ’66 Chevelle SS-396. I had more mods on mine than Gary did, so we had to race in different classes.

We both made it through eliminations to the trophy runs. Gary beat his opponent by a nose and won the trophy for his class. I was up against some guy in a Plymouth Belvedere with a 426 Hemi.

Coming off the line, my opponent sat there frying his slicks while I rode the clutch and pulled way out ahead of him. I could see the finish line coming up fast and began to envision Eddie holding my trophy all the way home. With about one hundred feet to go, I heard that big Hemi roar up beside me in the left lane and glanced over to see him crossing the line ahead of me by one full car length.

All the way back to Gary’s house I drove behind him with a big yellow T on my windshield, but no trophy. Every single time he stopped at a traffic light, he would hold his trophy out the window and wave it at me. I was green with envy.

Shortly after that Gary was drafted and went to Vietnam. If I remember correctly, he was a door gunner on a Cobra Gunship. He survived the war, but he came home a different person. He never really talked much about his experience over there. The war had aged him as only warfare can. From that time on, he had a quiet sadness about him. I know for a fact that he struggled with his memories of that horrible time.

Gary and I worked together for Utley Brothers over the years. Gary had a brilliant mind. You could show him a production layout for the plant and he would show you a dozen ways to improve it. He was the plant manager for many years before his retirement.

On December 10th, 2005, Gary had a massive coronary and died in his sleep. He left behind three beautiful women, his wife Linda and his two grown daughters Stacey and Amber. He also left behind a lot of family and friends that loved him.

An Irish Wish

May the roads rise to meet you,
May the winds be always at your back,

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields,

And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.

Gary, we’ll see you on the other side.

Turning The Titanic

Turning The Titanic

They say that memory is highly subjective. Mine is not only subjective, it can be quite flexible depending on whatever point I’m trying to make. I believe it was way back in January of ’04, I saw the ’05 Mustang at the Detroit International Auto Show. For me it was instant lust. Those boys at Ford had really knocked themselves out with their new, but very retro ponycar. Once again, just like in 1964, Ford had gotten the jump on GM.

Lo and behold, at the ’06 auto show, there was a new Camaro concept on display. It wasn’t as retro-ish as the new Mustang, but it was gorgeous. It looked mean, like a muscle car on steroids, with a bad attitude to boot. Once again, my eyes were filled with lust. So when is it coming out? Spring of 2009? You’re bringing it out more than 3 years after you introduce it and more than 5 years after the intro of the new Mustang? In today’s world, that’s an eternity.

According to the U.S. Department of Labor, Bureau of Labor Statistics, when the new Mustang was introduced in January 2004, the price of crude oil was $33.73 per barrel. The average price per gallon of gas was $1.63.

A lot can happen in 5 years. As of this writing the price of crude is $128.26 per barrel. The price of gas has already climbed over $4.00 per gallon. By the spring of 2009 the price of gas at the pump could be considerably higher.

The point here is that the window of opportunity for the new Camaro may have already opened ……and closed. The new Mustang has already stolen all the thunder over the last 3 years and bringing out a new Chevy ponycar next year with a 400 horsepower V8 just doesn’t make much sense. This is especially disappointing to me because I have always loved both cars and was hoping to see them go head-to-head in the marketplace again.

For all the organizational shakeups General Motors has been through over the last few decades, the old culture of “we know best” is still deeply entrenched. It isn’t that they don’t want to listen to the buying public, they just don’t know how. By the time the message gets from the street to the boardroom, it has mutated into something that agrees with the status quo.

Considering the staggering amount of market share that GM has lost over the last twenty-five or so years and the escalating price of fuel today, you’d think alarm bells would be going off all over the RenCen. They are not exactly awash in small fuel-efficient vehicles right now. Two of their five domestic divisions (Cadillac and Buick) don’t even have any.

When Toyota came ashore back in the late ‘50s, they were considered somewhat of a joke by Detroit standards. They were small and funny looking. Even the name Toyota suggested to many that they were just “toy cars”. Since then Toyota has grown exponentially. They are now neck-n-neck with GM for the title of world’s largest automaker.

GM, wake up! Iceberg dead ahead!

Wupped With The Ugly Stick

Wupped With The Ugly Stick

When I was a kid I had to walk three miles to school, …..through the snow, ….every day, ….barefoot! No, hold it, wrong story! That’s the line I handed my sons when they asked if they could drive the car to school. Sorry, I’ll start over.

When I was in junior high school I sat in class behind a couple of guys that seemed to be obsessed with insulting each other’s mother. Their talent for this seemed to know no boundaries. Aside from this odd behavior, they appeared to be good friends.

“Yo mama sho is ugly!” “Yeah, well yo mama is so ugly, she has to sneak up on a glass of water just to get a drink!” They seemed to enjoy this banter almost as much as I did. When I would laugh out loud, they would go straight-faced. The teacher would stop and say; “What’s so funny, Mr. Utley? Perhaps you could share with us.” Of course, I couldn’t.

Since that time, whenever I would see something that had obviously been severely thrashed with the Ugly-Stick, I would say to myself; “Self, that Sho Is Ugly?” For me, this especially applied to cars.

Sometimes a car is so ugly that it’s cute. Sometimes the line between ugly and cute gets blurred. I remember (as a kid) the first time I saw an Isetta (shown above). It was difficult for my brain to process what my eyes were seeing. Was it a small car or a large insect? Was it ugly or cute? At that time big fins on big American cars were all the rage. We were told that was beautiful. It was art deco. Who was I to question what was art?

The original VW Beetle was very popular for decades. It was so ugly that it was cute and Volkswagen capitalized on this trait.

The first time I saw an original British Mini, I thought it was so ugly that I fell in love with it. It became the most successful automobile in British history. I was happy to see BMW pick it up and bring it back to life, keeping it …..beautifully ugly.

No one has produced more ugly cars than the French or the Russians. Come to think of it, they’ve never produced one that isn’t. It seems like they were in heated competition to out-ugly each other. All dogs, but nary a cute one in the litter.

To me, a synonym for the word ugly is Peugeot. The video on the link below shows you what to do with a Peugeot.

But alas, we Yanks have had our share of ugly vehicles too. The Pacer, Gremlin, Pinto, Edsel, and many others come to mind. Every once in a while, one of the automakers trots out something that is so ugly, it just nauseates you at first glance.

There is one American vehicle that should get the World’s Ugliest Vehicle Ever Award. Can you guess what it is?

Is it………….?
(1). The Pontiac Aztec?
(2). The Pontiac Aztec?
(3). Or ….the Pontiac Aztec?

The first time I saw an Aztec I became physically ill. It pulled up beside me at a traffic light. It was yellow. Had I been a man of lesser stamina, I would have left my cookies on the steering wheel. It was so hideous I had to look away. Never before have my eyes experienced such a violent assault. What madness could have overtaken the mucky-mucks at Pontiac HQ to approve such a visual disaster?

I guess that beauty is truly in the eyes of the beholder. As my mother once told me, “Everyone is entitled to his or her own stupid opinion”. Even me.

OK, here’s that video I promised you. Click on the link.
http://videos.streetfire.net/video/Tank-Crushing-Peugeot_150208.htm

Stickin' It To OPEC

Stickin’ It To OPEC

The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries has something we want. They are willing to give it to us for something we have. This is the fundamental basis of economics. Unfortunately for us, they want to give less of theirs in return for more of ours. That’s called gouging. They can charge us whatever they want and we have no choice but to pay it.

They are in the Cat-Bird Seat. We Americans hate it when that happens. We certainly can’t go back to the horse and buggy days. Can you imagine what a mess that would be on the expressway? Who’s gonna clean that stuff up? If you don’t know what I’m talking about, just go spend a few days on Mackinaw Island. It’s a smell you never get used to and it follows you everywhere.

So what are we going to do? Well, this situation will force new technologies to the forefront. Hybrid and electric vehicles, and bio-fuels are already available, but it’s going to take a lot more than that to keep us as mobile as we like to be.

There is one particular technology that has captured my interest. That is the air-powered vehicle. Cars are actually being developed that run on compressed air and these may be available as early as next year. Hybrid versions of this are expected to go as far as 500 miles before getting an air refill. Imagine air stations replacing gasoline stations. An air fill-up might cost $2.00 and take about 3 minutes.

MDI or Motor Development International is preparing to introduce such a vehicle within the next few years. Imagine cheap fill-ups; zero air-polluting emissions, and all the fuel you can ever use. It sounds too good to be true.

But if it is true, we can count on the Opekians to buy up all the new manufacturers and charge us whatever they want for these new cars. We can also count on our own Congress to find a way to put a hefty fuel-tax on air.

Oh well, you know what they say about death and taxes.

If you’d like to see this new type of vehicle in action, go to this page and watch the video.
http://www.celsias.com/2007/02/23/air-car-tantalisingly-close/

Got Muscle?

For several decades, I’ve been whining about the disappearance of the mid-sized muscle cars from the street scene. I’m talkin’ about the kind of muscle cars we had back in the 60s & 70s, like the Pontiac GTO, Olds 442, Chevy SS396, Hi-Po Mustangs and Fairlanes, and those awesome MoPar offerings with the 426 Hemi engines. Nothing made a sound like a 427 Vette with dual-quads, solid lifters, and full-race cam winding it out on Woodward Avenue. My all-time favorite was the 427 A.C. Cobra.

Coming off the line, these fire-breathing beasties would snap your head back, push you into the seat, take your breath away, and leave you with sweaty palms and white knuckles. The sound, vibration, and torque coming out of those engines and transferring to the black top would give you a rush you’d never forget.

I occasionally see one being gently driven by an old guy like me or in a parking lot with the hood up and a bunch of old guys walking around admiring it. I don’t even stop at those parking lots anymore. It’s just too depressing for me.

Yeah, OK, those glory days of big street muscle are long gone and only live on in movies like American Graffiti or in old songs by the Beach Boys and Jan & Dean. The domestic auto manufacturers no longer build cars like that and the streets are probably a lot safer without them. Even the new Chrysler/Dodge products with those smaller, watered-down Hemis in them can’t compare in raw power to what they offered thirty or forty years ago. (Son, can you say, “Wimpy Hemi”?)

One consolation to me is that the cars they make now are superior in all other ways to what they made back then. They are much more reliable, more fuel efficient, and far more eco-friendly. Even though I miss the hotrods of my coming-of-age days, I wouldn’t want to go back to driving one of those monsters on a daily basis.

But, there is that part of me that never really grew up, which still likes hot cars and rock-n-roll. My wife is probably the only person that truly knows how much of me is stuck in the past. I still drive with my right hand on the shift knob, even though I hate that sissified, boy-racer, automatic bump-shift crap. There ain’t nothin’ like ridin’ the clutch on a car with a real manual shift.

However, there is a bright spot on the horizon for guys like me. The last few years, I’ve begun to notice some of those cute little 4-cylinder pocket rockets. Even though my big-iron Detroit friends snicker and call them “rice-burners”, I’m really starting to like ‘em. I’ve even gone out lately to test-drive some of them and they’re a real hoot to drive.

With the price of petrol going out-of-sight these days, they’re becoming even more interesting to me. Most of these little hotrods cost between $20k and $35k. They range between 200 and 300+ h.p. and will do 0-60 in the high 4’s and 5’s. Some are naturally aspirated and some are blown (turbofied). They won’t make your ears bleed comin’ out of the hole, but you will get quite a rush.

I think I’m going to buy one just to get it out of my system. I think I’ll go with the Honda Civic Si Coupe. No wait, I’ll go with the Mazdaspeed3. No, I think maybe the VW GTIMkV. Or how about that Subaru Impreza WRX STI. Ah, but then there’s the Chevy Cobalt SS Coupe. But, I can’t overlook the Mitsu Lancer Evo.

OK, I’ll have to think through this and get back to you. If I don’t stop obsessing like this, they’re going to send me back to Happy Valley for another six months. Man, I really hate that padded room they keep me in.

Zoom! Zoom!

Ode To Corvair

On page 3 of this week’s Automotive News there was a short article about Ralph Nader and the Chevrolet Corvair. In 1965 he wrote a book called Unsafe At Any Speed that took particular aim at the Corvair and was probably the catalyst for the demise of the car.

The reason for the article was mainly to tout A.N.’s GM 100th anniversary edition. For me it triggered a flood of memories that I had about the Corvair. The first car I ever drove (legally) was my Mom’s 1961 Corvair coupe. It was black with a red interior , had bucket seats, and a 3-speed manual trans mounted on the floor. It wasn’t a tire burner, but it was fun to drive. After I had sufficiently broken (literally) it in, she traded that one in for a 1965 Corvair Monza that had a bit more pep to it. I bought that from her the next year after my Falcon died. Coincidently, when I got married, my wife was driving a ’64 Corvair.

The Corvair was unique among Detroit’s offerings at that time. The engine was in the rear and the trunk was in the front, similar to the VW cars. The engine was a flat, air-cooled, six-cylinder power plant. Corvair’s main competitor was likely Ford’s Falcon.

One thing that particularly stood out about the Corvair was the sound it made. The sound would be difficult to describe, maybe sort of a whirring noise. It just sounded sporty. It was fun to drive, was good on gas, and it was cute. It was cool to drive a Corvair. I miss them.

Employee Relations 101

Frequently, people ask us how we manage to keep good long-term employees here at Utley Brothers. Well, it’s really very simple; we NEVER allow them to get the upper hand.

Since we are no longer allowed to whip them (except for Donna in our Automotive Department), we’ve had to really get tough. We have what we call our NEVER POLICY that each employee must memorize his or her first day on the job. Here it is:

1. Never say you can’t, because we'll just make you do it anyway.
2. Never say, “It’s easy”, because we’ll just make it harder.
3. Never say, “I want to leave early”, because you’ll be put on overtime.
4. Never fall behind, because we’ll just double your workload.
5. Never complain, because we’ll never listen.
6. Never argue, because you’ll never win.
7. Never scream or cry, because it only encourages us.
8. Never look like your enjoying your job, because we’ll transfer you to a worse job.
9. Never get sick and die on the job, because we’ll have to fill out a lot of paperwork.
10. Never lie or cheat, because we know the truth and you’ll live to regret it.

OK, so try this with your employees and let us know how it goes.

Yes, I Am Smarter Than A Fifth Grader!

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, my fifth grade teacher once told me that I was very smart. I have clung tenaciously to that fallacious assessment ever since. Even though I carry this heavy burden of lofty intellect, I have never doubted for one moment that my wife is much smarter than I am. She has graciously tried to keep it hidden from me all these years to protect my fragile (pronounced fra-gee-lay) ego.

While growing up, our three sons all thought they were smarter than me and spent most of their waking hours trying to prove it. Even my beloved dog, Jake, constantly tries to outsmart me.

Now, I have a car that thinks it’s smarter than me and that’s where I draw the line. When all the papers were signed and after I had forked over more money than my house is probably worth, the friendly Cadillac salesman handed me the keys to the pimped-out STS.

As we walked out to tour my new black beauty, I whipped out the key fob to unlock it. “You won’t need that. The car knows you’re here”; he said. “Oh, really?”. “Yes, the car knows when you’re within a hundred feet of it”; he said, with a slight tone of superiority in his voice. Uh-oh! Ego alert! I was already feeling challenged.

“In fact, if you want it to start BEFORE you get in, just push that center button on the fob and it will warm up for you”. Well, golly shucks, what will they think of next? Sure enough when I pulled gently on the handle the door opened. The steering wheel and the driver’s seat began a series of odd gyrations anticipating my entry. When I got in and shut the door, the seat moved forward and the steering wheel lowered to greet me.

Again, I produced the key fob to start the car. Again, I was told I wouldn’t need that. “Just touch your foot to the brake and touch that green button on the dash to start the car”; I was told. I pushed the green button and a myriad of green, red, white, and orange lights began flashing in front of me. Way cool! Just like the Space Shuttle!

“JOHN” appeared on the screen in front of me. Now, wait a minute! How did the car know it was ME in the driver’s seat? Almost immediately, Mel Torme (the velvet fog) began to croon from 28 different places in the car. The center screen told me I was tuned into Frank’s Place on XM Radio. How did the car know that was my favorite kind of music?

I was feeling very threatened. What had I gotten myself into? The last straw came one cold winter morning when got in and started the car. “18 DEGREES – ICE POSSIBLE” flashed across the screen in front of me. Ice possible? Gee, ya think? At only 18 degrees? Well, I guess I no longer need to know anything. I’ll just ask the damn car the next time something befuddles me.

OK, so my car is smarter than me. Maybe I’m being too harsh on it. After all, it has a fabulous ride, the seats are so comfortable, the sound system is divine, the engine is so smooth and powerful, and it looks so good parked in my driveway. But, best of all, if I’m a long way from home and I’m craving a Starbuck’s Blended Frappuccino Mocha Latte Grande Supremo Gimungo, all I gotta do is ask some guy up there in a satellite where I should go.

Now, after wading through all that horse pucky, wouldn’t you like to tell me where to go?

Hey, a special thanks to my old college pal Homo Florensiensis for letting me use his photo. Way to go, Homo!

Good Drivin’ Gone Bad

I’ve only been the recipient of road rage once in my life. That was fifteen years ago one morning on my way to work. It was about 5:30 a.m. and there was almost no one on the road except one certifiable nut case and myself.

I was headed southbound on a four-lane road doing just slightly over the speed limit when I noticed a vehicle coming up very quickly behind me. If this had occurred on the expressway I would have pulled over into the right lane to let him pass. But, this was a full access road and the right lane was wide open for him to get around me. At the last moment he swerved into the right lane almost clipping my rear fender then swerved back into the left lane in front of me and stood on his brakes.

In turn, I had to slam on my brakes and swerve into the right lane to avoid running into him. I brought my car to a complete stop and just sat there until he was long gone. If I had reacted in any other way the situation probably would have digressed into something much worse. To say the least, I was quite shaken by this bizarre incident.

A psychologist friend of mine once told me; “Never argue with a crazy person, they will always win, …..even if it kills you”. I’ve never considered asphalt real estate something worth fighting over. In fact, if someone in traffic really wants to occupy the space that I’m using, I will try my best to help him (or her) out.

Rudeness in traffic is something that we see everyday and we’ve become used to it. We even expect it. Almost everyday I see something occur in traffic that’s causes me to think; “Now I’ve seen everything”. Then the next day something tops that. Most of the time it’s just a case of poor judgment or lack of common sense.

Over the last fifteen years I’ve replayed that road rage scenario in my mind many times. I would like to know what I did that may have triggered such dangerous behavior in this person. It very likely had nothing to do with me at all. It may have been someone that was very angry at the world and just needed to vent his frustration on the first person he saw.

Since that incident, I try to be mindful of the fact that there are truly unstable people using the same roads as me. Some of them carry guns and would be happy to prove their point, whatever that might be.

I’d like to extend a special thanks to Officer Taylor of the RPD for demonstrating what it’s like to be pulled over and arrested. Oh, and thanks for skipping the demonstration of baton therapy.

Igor, are you still confused?

Someone contacted me recently to say that they had read The Miata Chronicles III and they were confused. They said they liked it, but couldn’t figure out what was going on. I asked if they had read parts I and II. They said no.

Well, that’s like reading the last chapter of a book and not understanding why the hero didn’t get the girl. The Miata Chronicles is a 3 part series. Start at the beginning with part I. Then read parts II and III. Then and only then will YOU be smart like me and know stuff.

Got that, Igor?

Man's Best Friend

In this world of uncertainty, there is one thing I know to be true. My dog Jake loves me. He has loved me from the moment he chose me. I can take out the trash, walk to the mailbox, pickup a few bits of litter from the lawn, and all the while he is watching me from the window. When I step back into the house ten minutes later he races around the room, jumps up to lick my face, and almost knocks me over in the process. He is really glad to see me. You’d have thought I’d been gone for a month.

So what does this have to do with the automotive world? Nothing. It’s my blog, and I was told by The Blog Nazi ( my nephew Andy) that I could write whatever I wanted to. BUT, this is a darn cute little ditty, so just read it and shut up.

Earlier today, someone laid a copy of this test on my desk and I liked it.

Man’s best friend….

A dog is truly man’s best friend.
If you don’t believe it, just try this simple experiment.

Put your dog and your wife in the trunk of the car for one hour.
When you open the trunk, who is really happy to see you!?

Point made.

Miata Chronicles III - Decapitation

Decapitation, It Only Hurts For A Little While

Along the far side of the huge parking lot is a drainage ditch. This is not your ordinary drainage ditch. This is the King Kong version. It’s very wide and very deep. The only thing between the parking lot and the ditch is an 8-inch high cement curb and a strip of grass about 10 feet wide before the drop-off. And we were racing straight for it.

At some point it occurred to me that he should begin slowing for the next turn, but he wasn’t. “Why isn’t he slowing down?” I thought. My anxiety level was quickly rising as we hurtled toward oblivion. Doesn’t he realize we’re not going to make the turn at this speed? I had an instant mental flash of what was probably going to occur. We would hit the curb, go airborne, crash on the far side and roll 5 or 6 times back into the ditch, decapitating both of us in the process. Can’t he see what’s about to happen? We were already far too close and going way to fast for any graceful last-chance maneuvers. Then I remembered; “HE’S BLIND! HE DOESN’T KNOW WE’RE GOING TO DIE”

I’ve only experienced sheer terror a few times in my life. This was one of those times. Somehow the words got from my brain to my mouth. I screamed, “HARD LEFT! HARD LEFT!” With the precision reflexes of a combat pilot, J.T. hit the brakes, downshifted, and swung the steering wheel counterclockwise until it locked. The force of the turn threw me hard against the passenger door. With my head and right arm hanging over the side, I watched as that cement curb rushed up to within inches of the tires as we raced past it. If those wide Potenza tires hadn’t gripped and we had struck that curb broadside, it would have flipped us into a death roll. If he had hesitated for even a fraction of a second, I would not be here to tell the story.

J.T. brought the car to a stop and shut off the engine. We sat there for several moments without speaking. Finally, I offered; “Well that was fun. Shall we go around again?” “No, John, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day. I’d like to go home now,” he said softly. When I dropped him off at his house, he thanked me and told me that no one had ever done anything like that for him before.

He’s never asked me about the details of that brush with death, and I’ve never offered any. Maybe some things should be left that way.

Finito

Thanks For The Memories

I want to thank all of you who have responded to my blog with such kindness. As for that elderly woman who sends an unsigned letter to me every week, telling me I’ll never amount to anything, KNOCK IT OFF, MOM! I recognize your handwriting. And, to that jealous other blogger that accuses me of deliberately misspelling or making up words just to be cute, I say to you, “that is a compleat and udder lye”! I will not be intimated!

According our stats-tracker I seem to have developed somewhat of a cult following. Now there’s a scary thought for you! If you have joined my cult, you are a very sick person and need to seek counseling immediately!

Gort! Klaatu barada nikto!

Miata Chronicles II - Little Old Lady from Pasadena

What was I going to tell his wife? She wasn’t just his wife; she was one of the most respected criminal prosecutors in the state of Michigan. One evening at dinner she shared with me how much she enjoyed her former job as a federal prosecutor. She told me how she loved going up against big drug dealers and their high priced lawyers. And how satisfying it was to break them down, get them the maximum penalty, and strip them of their ill-gotten wealth. Somehow I just couldn’t picture this pretty little woman, who sings like an angel in church, bringing down the kingpins of the drug world.

So yeah, no problem! I’ll just tell her that I killed her husband in the church parking lot and I’m really sorry about it. But, if it’s any consolation, he died a very happy man.

Suddenly, the engine began to rev again. Then he spoke. “John, that’s the first time in over thirty years I’ve seen a tachometer.” I think I actually saw the needle moving. Considering he is blind, that was quite a feat. Feeling great relief that he wasn’t dead, I said, “J.T., you have no idea how happy I am to hear that!”

I guess I should probably give you a little background on J.T. now. I’ve been blessed to know some outstanding people in my life, but J.T. may be one of the most accomplished people I have ever known. A helicopter pilot and decorated war hero, he was shot down twice over Vietnam. The last mission he flew cost him his eyes and almost his life. During his long recovery and numerous surgeries in Washington, DC, he managed to get a law degree at Georgetown University Law School. He went on to be a spokesperson for the White House and a federal prosecutor. For a number of years now, he has been teaching at a local college. He harbors no bitterness towards his former enemies or about the loss of his sight. His humility is nothing less than inspiring.

“Well J.T., let’s rock & roll!” I said. He slipped the shifter into first gear, eased in the throttle, and let off on the clutch. He began slowly as I verbally guided him through the turns at each of the four corners of the parking lot. His speed increased as he gained confidence in himself and in my ability to direct him safely. He was really enjoying himself. He reminded me of a boy who was at the wheel of a go-cart for the first time.

We had been listening to the oldies station on the radio all day. J.T.’s favorite oldie was “The Little Old Lady From Pasadena”. The second time around, as we were coming into the turn at the back of the lot, his favorite song came on. I turned up the volume and began to sing along while he accelerated rapidly toward the next turn. “She had a brand new, shiny red Super Stock Dodge”.

Then it happened. I forgot he was blind.

To be continued.