Old Car Stuff

Got Sign?

2009-12-10T08:20:00.000-08:00

Not long ago I was standing in the checkout line at Target when I noticed a man and two women in front of me that were using hand sign language to communicate to each other. I was amazed at the ease with which they did this. I assumed they were deaf since they were not speaking at all.

In this world of noise pollution where the rest of us live, this seemed like a refreshing alternative to verbal communication. There is something soothing and graceful about it, like dancing with your hands and fingers. I have always been fascinated by signing and have always wanted to learn to do it.

The cashier rang up their purchases and announced the total. The man smiled and handed her his charge card. She put it in the card scanner and frowned. “Your card’s been rejected”, she said loudly. The man turned toward the two women and signed something. He could read the cashiers lips, but had no way of communicating with her. The cashier then threw the card down onto the counter and said even more loudly, “Your card is no good”! She became rude and impatient with them.

Obviously spawned in the shallow end of the gene pool, the cashier had no idea why these people were silent and just waved their hands in the air. If it had gone on for a few more minutes, I suspect she would have called security. The man picked up his card and they left. Humiliation and anger were clearly written on their faces.

I stepped forward and placed my item on the counter. I did not speak to the cashier. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth she would have a really good reason to call security. I don’t know if I was angry with her or angry at myself for not being able to help those people.

Recently I shared this experience with a friend of mine who was raised by deaf parents. He had witnessed this scenario many times growing up. He told me that people who are hearing impaired frequently appear to by angry and frustrated in pubic. They are often ignored, shunned, and treated badly by people that have hearing, but don’t sign.

I finally decided to learn this beautiful language. I have four friends that are my mentors. One is deaf, one is a translator for the deaf, and the other two are fluent signers. My wife, upon seeing my commitment to this, has decided she will also learn to sign. Since she is a natural hand talker anyways, I expect her to zoom right past me.

My goal is to be proficient at signing by the end of 2010. Gracefulness and fluency may take a bit longer. Maybe someday I’ll be in another situation where I can help someone who does not hear.

Am I a great guy or what?

Please Sir, May I Have Some More?

2009-11-11T06:56:00.000-08:00

My Social Security statement arrived last month. Even though I’ve been getting them for years I’ve only recently begun to actually look at them. I was surprised to learn that my account was up to $253,000.00. Of course that represents my and my employer’s contributions over the last 45 years.

To me that’s a lot of money. But, I can’t help but wonder what it would have been worth had it been deposited regularly into some type of compounded daily interest bearing account or into a mutual fund that averaged 12% annual growth.

Had this been done for me by my Uncle Sam, I suspect I would have already retired and be lounging on the beach in Hawaii, at a fabulous resort….that I owned. Thanks uncle.

However, because anything done in Washington is done completely void of any logic, I will consider myself fortunate to receive a pittance of my forced investment in the Social Security System.

Mind you, I’m not complaining; when I retire I can always get a job greeting you at Walmart or taking your order at McDonalds. In my spare time I can peruse the local dumpsters for a pair of modestly worn sneakers or shop for deals on cat food at PetSmart. Hey, that Meow-Mix Tuna and Crab Delight is to die for. Slap a little on a Saltine and you’re in heaven.

Since the “Change You Can’t Count On” by our current Marxist regime will probably fail me, I can always sneak into Mexico as an illegal alien. There, I’ll be well taken care of by President Felipe de Jesus Calderon Hinojosa. I speak a little Spanish (un poco) so I’ll just blend right in.

This morning someone sent me a forward of a letter to our Messianic Overseer. The letter contains what may be the most logical plan to properly take care of us (the unwashed masses), ever devised. It’s brilliant. I wish I could take credit for it.

You're not likely to see it in the mainstream lapdog media, so here it is;

Dear Mr. President,

Please find below my suggestion for fixing America 's economy.
Instead of giving billions of dollars to companies that will
squander the money on lavish parties and unearned bonuses,
use the following plan. You can call it the
"Patriotic Retirement Plan":

There are about 40 million people over 50 in the work force.
Pay them $1 million apiece severance for early retirement
with the following stipulations:

1) They MUST retire. Forty million job openings.
Unemployment fixed!

2) They MUST buy a new AMERICAN CAR.
Forty million cars ordered - Auto Industry fixed!

3) They MUST either buy a house or pay off their mortgage.
Housing Crisis fixed!

It can't get any easier than that!!

P.S. If more money is needed, have all members in Congress
pay their taxes...

Mr. President, while you're at it, make Congress retire on Social
Security and Medicare. I'll bet both programs would be fixed pronto!

So Long, Soupy!

2009-10-26T12:04:00.001-07:00

A good friend of mine died last week. Actually, I never met him in person, but since he came to my home 5 times a week I did consider him to be a friend. If you were lucky enough to have been a kid back in the 50's, you would rush home about noon each weekday to have "Lunch With Soupy".

White Fang and Black Tooth were his constant companions. You never actually saw more than their large paws, but Soupy made you believe that the large unruly, doglike creatures were there.

Mom would have the black & white TV turned on and my lunch ready on a small table in the living room. I would rush in, throw my coat on the floor, kick off my boots, take my seat, and wait for Soupy to come on.

He would always encourage us to eat our food, drink our milk, and take our vita-minees. He had us all saying, "Over the teeth and through the gums, lookout stomach here it comes".

During the show he would get a least one pie in the face and even though I new it was coming, I would always laugh. During his long entertainment career, he claims to have had over 9,000 pies thrown in his face.

Soupy was 83.

Flying Beneath The Radar

2009-09-14T20:03:00.000-07:00

When I was a student pilot long ago, I enjoyed hanging around the office at the small airport where I was learning to fly. After scaring the B’Jeezus out of my flight instructor, he would hop out of the aircraft, take his heart medication and lay down in the grass beside the runway. After parking the plane I would head back to the office to get some coffee and chat with the other pilots. On the wall near the big map of the U.S. was a poster that I looked at every time I went in there. It said; “There are Old Pilots. There are Bold Pilots. BUT, THERE ARE NO OLD-BOLD PILOTS”!

Combat pilots know that by skimming the treetops they can avoid being detected by most enemy radar. The objective is to get in there, do some damage, and get out safely. Getting a fireball enema from a SAM (surface-to-air missile) could be the penalty for becoming a blip on the radar screen.

A number of years ago I saw an old black and white movie about the WWI war hero Sergeant Alvin C. York who single handedly killed 28 enemy soldiers and captured 132 with just his rifle. He likened his battlefield success to shooting turkeys. “Ya just have to get ‘em to pop their heads up, then shoot”!

Early in the movie Alvin (played by Gary Cooper) was shown as a young Tennessee backwoods boy competing in a Turkey Shooting contest. That turkey was acutely aware that people were shooting at him and did his best to keep out of sight. That crafty critter just refused to be a target and kept hiding behind a tree stump. No one was able to get a decent shot at it.

When it was Alvin’s turn he stepped forward, licked his thumb and wiped off his front sight. Once satisfied that things had quieted down a bit, he let out an ear-splitting gobble. The turkey popped its head up to see what was going on and Alvin shot it off.

I’ve decided that life is a lot like a turkey-shoot. It’s good to know when to pop your head up and when to lay low. There are times when it’s good to be noticed and other times when it’s best to just blend into the scenery.

During my hot-rod days back in the sixties I had this uncanny ability to attract every cop within a 10 mile radius every time I got behind the wheel. At the time I just thought it was bad luck. It all came to a head when my dad received a notice from the insurance company that we were being cancelled because of my horrific driving record. I still have that letter.

Dad explained to me that my problems had nothing to do with luck; it was just about making myself highly visible with my stupid behavior. Being a pilot and an ex-Marine he would frequently explain things in military terms. He said; “Boy, you need to learn to fly beneath the radar”! It took me a while to figure out what he was talking about, but when I did it made good sense. He was talking about a sensible way of living rather than a set of rules to follow.

I must have taken those words to heart. I have not received a moving violation, had an accident, or even been stopped by the police since 1973. According to my calculator, that’s 36 years. My driving record is so clean I think AAA should be paying me to be their customer. I could be their poster boy for safe driving. I contacted them about this possibility. They told me that anyone could be classified as a “good driver” if they haven’t killed anyone on the road for at least 6 years or gotten a ticket in three years. So much for playing by the rules.

The strange thing is I pretty much drive like everyone else. If there are any differences, they are very subtle. Even though I frequently drive over the speed limit, I keep it reasonable. If the limit is 40, I might do 44. If it’s 45, I might do 49, etc. If I’m in a School Zone, I will drive exactly the speed limit.

If someone wants to get ahead of me at the stoplight, I’m happy to let them run interference for me. If I’m driving a high performance car and I’m feelin’ “the need-for-speed”, I will take it out to a country road where there is little or no traffic and it’s safe to digress to my teenage driving behavior.

I have never owned or even used a radar detector. Oddly enough, most radar detector aficionados that I’ve known seem to get a lot tickets. I am always aware of what the speed limit is and I frequently use the cruise-control to keep me at a reasonable speed.

But, living beneath the radar doesn’t just apply to driving behavior; it can apply to many things in life. If you complain too much about something, you will be made Chairman of the Committee to Fix It. If you get too creative when filing your income tax return, you will get flagged by the IRS.

These days, identity theft has become a huge problem. If you have 6, 7, or more charge cards you are at risk. If you are having credit problems and you have collectors calling, you are at risk. The more credit activity you have going on out there, the more you are at risk of having your identity stolen. According to Dave Ramsey (the personal money-makeover guru), once that happens you will have a new hobby. You will spend several hours every day for at least six months trying to get your life back.

I’m certainly not implying that one should live their life in obscurity and not take any risks. Since I have spent much of my life taking risks, I could write a book on the subject of “What Not To Do”. I have learned that common sense, planned effort, measured response, and integrity usually wins the day. And, if you’re going to take a risk, make sure it’s worthwhile.

Black Monday

2009-06-01T13:34:00.000-07:00

A Day That Will Live In Infamy!

For Whom The Bell Tolls!

The Day The Earth Stood Still!

The Thing That Ate Detroit!

Where Have All The Car Guys Gone? Long Time Passin’!

I know, I know, that’s just a bit melodramatic. You already knew that Government Motors (formerly General Motors) had formally declared bankruptcy. But, it’s still a spectacular event any way you look at it.

Growing up in the shadow of the Big Three, I believed the auto business to be the most dynamic, stable, and exciting industry in the world. In the 60’s and 70’s GM produced 1 out of every 2 automobiles on the road in the U.S. Since then their market share had slipped to 19% and their debt to equity ratio had climbed to more than 2 to 1.

That reminds me of the old cowboy movie where the guy gets shot again and again. But, he just keeps staggering on and on until he finally collapses in a heap. GM had become a walking corpse, but no one at the top of the Ren Cen seemed to know it. The world changed, but GM didn’t. The old culture within just wasn't flexible enough in this fast changing world.

GM will probably stagger out of bankruptcy a pathetic shadow of its former self. Despite CEO Fritz Henderson’s scripted optimism, GM will have a huge stigma to overcome in the eye of the public for quite some time. Full recovery, if ever, won’t be quick.

With the government running GM it’s unlikely that future profits will ever provide an ROI on those billions of (our) tax dollars being poured down its gullet. It certainly isn’t Washington’s job to run companies and as we all know, the government shouldn’t be running anything.

In the current administration’s rush to Eurofy us and with encouragement from the militant environmentalistas, GM will be pumping out tiny little gas-sipping vehicles before you can say, “No thanks, I don’t want one”. But alas, that will not discourage them. Your government will just slap a $5.00 per gallon additional tax on gasoline and you will have no choice except to buy one. "You will be assimilated"!

Oh, I’m sorry, what’s that you say? You thought Washington was working for you? Yeah, that’s right. Silly me, I must have forgotten.

When Being Right Is Wrong

2009-05-29T12:36:00.000-07:00

I’m sure at least once in your life you’ve heard the expression, “Discretion is the better part of valor”. I’ve long since learned (the hard way) that being right is OK, but pointing it out slowly and thoughtfully will serve me well. That is, if it even matters.

Whenever my wife and I have a disagreement, I always get the last word in! “Yes, Dear”. Of course, I smile when I say this and whatever the issue was seems to deflate. If it’s something that warrants further discussion, I’ll wait for a more appropriate time to bring it up again.

A few years ago I attended a specialty printing trade convention in San Diego. It’s held each year in a different location around the country. At these gatherings there is always an obligatory round of golf to be played. Actually, even though I’m not much of a golfer, I enjoy these outings just for the social aspect. A lot can be learned at the meetings and seminars, but the real education happens on the golf course.

If you attend these gatherings long enough, you get to know the other participants on a personal level. When people are comfortable with each other they are far more likely to share information and “trade secrets”. These relationships can be extremely valuable for building your business.

On this particular trip in October the weather was beautiful, except on the day we played golf. About an hour into the game the temperature dropped about 20 degrees, it began to drizzle, and the wind picked up. Most of us were ill-equipped for these conditions and it became rather miserable.

I was playing with a couple of guys that owned printing companies that were similar to ours. I had known them from previous conventions and had a good rapport with them. The fourth player in our group was the marketing vice president of a multi-national corporation that was a major supplier to our industry.

This younger guy was somewhat full of himself and didn’t do much to hide it. He was obviously foreign, but had mastered English quite well. His clubs were expensive and his game was pretty good. He was a stickler for playing by the rules and kept a close eye on us sloppy Americans.

Even though he had risen quickly through the ranks of his company and knew much about our industry, he obviously had no concept of how the “Bubba Network” functioned here in the States. It has nothing to do with nationality, ethnicity, race, or religious persuasion. It’s all about relationships that you cultivate over time.

By the time we finished the game it was almost dark and we were all cold and soaked with rain. All we could think about was getting a table near the fireplace in the pub and ordering some Irish coffee. As we were coming off the 18th green this young foreigner turned to one of my friends and said, “So, how is our product working for you”? Caught off guard, my friend said, “OK, I guess. I haven’t heard any complaints”.

“You’re not even using our product. You’re using another brand”, said the young man, practically shouting with anger. He might just as well have slapped my friend across the face with his glove and called him a liar in front of everyone. The effect would have been less damaging.

As it turned out, my friend was not a micro-manager and had turned production over to some very capable people. This freed him up to concentrate on growing the business. By then he didn’t know or even care what brand of product was being used in his plant. But, I do know what brand will NEVER be used in his plant.

I was reminded of this incident recently while attending a meeting. One participant corrected another participant over a trivial statement that was made on a subject that just didn’t matter. This was done in front of others. I could see that the person who had been corrected felt humiliated and angry by this.

This isn’t the first time the person doing the correcting had done this. This person doesn’t realize it, but by being “right” too often they are undermining their own ability to lead others in the future.

Growing up I heard the phrase “constructive criticism” far too often and was frequently the recipient of this malignant device. All criticism is destructive, Period!

I can tell you from personal experience that being right is not all it’s cracked up to be. I have learned to be wrong occasionally and I think others appreciate that about me.

Respect is something you earn and return. There are no shortcuts. You can drive cattle, but people prefer to be lead by someone they trust.

"Cogito, ergo sum"

2009-05-27T11:42:00.000-07:00

I Think, Therefore I Am!

Jake, the consummate hunter, sat at the back of the yard by the English garden staring straight ahead. Occasionally he would ever-so-slowly turn his head in one direction, then the other. His eyes were wide with anticipation. A long glob of drool hung from his mouth almost touching the ground.

He was scanning his domain, patiently waiting for a squirrel, a rabbit, or a bird to trespass. And if they did, they would be severely punished for the infraction. He would sit like this for hours on end. To passersby he probably appeared to be a statue, but Jake was totally alert and ready to pounce. He was there in his own little world.

As I worked at the desk in my home office, I would occasionally glance out the window to see if he was alright. He had not moved one inch since I checked on him thirty minutes ago. I couldn’t help but wonder, what in world is going through his mind. Was he contemplating the possibility of a parallel universe, or perhaps how many angels can exist on the head of a pin, or maybe just his attack sequence on the next hapless critter to wander by?

When I have to sit in one place for hours at a time, I’m usually deep in thought or I’m sound asleep. Since I’ve found that deep thought makes me sleepy, I try to avoid it whenever possible. Over the years, I’ve cultivated the ability to sleep in meetings with my eyes open. This has proven to be especially helpful in church. I can sit upright during the most boring of sermons and have a wonderful nap. Even my wife isn’t always sure.

I finally decided that there was absolutely nothing going on in his head. His mind was completely blank. Because of our ability to think and create, we humanoids tend to think of ourselves as the dominant species on this planet. But I have come to believe the dog is.

Consider these facts. Jake does not worry about where his next meal comes from. He doesn’t worry about trivial matters like wealth, poverty, mortgages, car payments, utility bills, insurance, civil rights, weather, property taxes, time, credit rating, politics, spiritually, war, peace, crime, 401K, speed limits, personal appearance, public image, hygiene, family relations, career, or even the draconian Internal Revenue Service.

To some degree, I find myself envying him. He lives “in the moment”. He doesn’t care what happened yesterday and he’s not worried about tomorrow. Food and water are regularly supplied to him. He lives in the house where it is cool in the summer and warm in the winter. He can sleep in his doggy bed, his kennel, or on the rug. He has a companion (me) to play with and a mother (Christine) to love him. He doesn’t have a single concern in life.

But, the “fait accompli” occurs each evening when Jake takes us for a walkabout in the neighborhood. Rather than do his business somewhere in our yard, he saves it up for the journey. After he’s found a spot down the street that meets his specific criteria, he drops the goods.

At this point I don the latex gloves, go down on one knee, and proceed to place his donation in the plastic bag. He’s happy to watch me do this and wags his tail with approval. However, I suspect he’s not the least bit grateful of my involuntary servitude. I am further obligated to carry this prize for the rest of the trip. What was that I said about the dominant species?

I’m not a believer in reincarnation, but if I were I’d be pleased to return as dog.

There was a farmer had a dog,
And Bingo was his name-o.
B, I, N, G, O!
B, I, N, G, O!
B, I, N, G, O!
And Bingo was his name-o!

P.M.D., ...R.I.P.

2009-04-30T12:49:00.001-07:00

In July of 1983 Clark Griswold (played by Chevy Chase) decided to take his family out west on vacation in a brand new (light green) station wagon. The car had been cosmetically altered to mask the brand’s identity. However, with my x-ray vision and my in-depth knowledge of all things automotive, I was able to tell that it was either a Chevrolet or a Pontiac in disguise. Their cross-country trip was fraught with improbable calamity from start to finish. ‘Tis a very funny movie.

The first time I saw the movie it was 98 minutes of déjà vu. In July of 1960 my father Bob Utley (played by Bob Utley) decided to take his family out west on vacation in a brand new (light green) station wagon. It was a Pontiac Catalina station wagon. It did not have air-conditioning. In the month of July in the Mojave Desert, when the temperature hits 120 degrees you really, really, really need air conditioning. The locals probably thought we were visitors from the Middle East when they saw us racing down the two-lane road with water soaked towels wrapped around our heads.

We didn’t have nearly as much excitement as the Griswold’s did, but overall it was a great vacation. We all liked the new Pontiac wagon. It was big, roomy, comfy, powerful, and wasn’t bad lookin’ either. Thus began our family’s affair with Pontiacs.

In the summer of ’63 Dad came home one night with a new Pontiac Grand Prix (see photo above). In those days the Grand Prix was just about the sexiest car on the planet. To me, about to get my drivers license, this was a very big deal.

The two-door Prix was long and sleek with a Naugahyde (pleather) interior. The chrome shifter for the auto trans sat atop the console between the bucket seats. A large chrome tachometer sat up and stared back at you from the front of the console. Sporting a 389 CID-V8, a big thirsty quad carburetor, 3.90:1 rear end, and a limited slip differential this car was “street-ready” right out of the box. It was also a chick-magnet when cruising through Ted’s on Woodward.

By 1965 I had fallen madly in love with the Pontiac GTO, “The Goat”. For a year all I could think about was getting a GTO. (Just for the record, I also thought a lot about my girlfriend and future wife Christine.) My favorite song at that time was (of course) “Little GTO” by Ronny and the Daytonas. I think I sang it in my sleep.

When it was time to get my first new car in ’66, Dad and I went shopping the Pontiac stores to get me a GTO. Since I was only 19 at the time, Dad would have to sign for the loan and the car, and I would have to make the monthly payments. I was working full time as press operator at Utley Brothers and going to Macomb Community College at night.

It just so happened that the Rinke brothers in Warren, MI had exactly the GTO I had envisioned. Before hand, I had made a pact with my dad that we would not spend over $3000.00. But we couldn’t get the salesman to go below $3200.00 on this car. We left the dealership with my dream of driving a new Goat in shambles.

A few days later I found a new Chevrolet Malibu SS-396 that I liked almost as much. It had virtually the same amenities and performance as the GTO and we got the Chevy salesman down to $2900.00. On the street, the GTO and SS-396 were considered archrivals for drag racing. I had a lot of fun with that Chevy, but I’ve always had a special place in my heart for a ’66 GTO, even to this day.

Back in ’77 I bought a Pontiac Catalina station wagon to haul our three small boys around in. It was a great car and we had it for 11 years. It even had air-conditioning

Pontiac has been around since 1926, but it’s roots go back to 1893 when the Pontiac Buggy Company was building horse-drawn carriages in Pontiac, Michigan. In 1907 the Oakland Motor Car Company was formed to get in on the automobile business as the demand for carriages was decreasing.

A few years later General Motors bought Oakland and it eventually became the Pontiac division. Over the years millions of Pontiacs have been sold to the American public. Pontiacs have always been especially popular with performance enthusiasts.

It’s been painful to watch the Pontiac Motor Division decline to its present state. Now that GM has publicly gored it, let’s hope they give it a more humane death than Oldsmobile got a few years ago. It will soon be part of history like other auto brands that have been put to rest.

I think what GM has been forced to learn is something Ford has always known. If you have too many brands and too many models the view gets blurry in the eyes of the consumer. When the consumer quits buying, it’s time to go back to basics and get a new vision.

Pontiac Motor Division, …..rest in peace.

Little GTO, you're really lookin' fine

Three deuces and a four-speed and a 389

Listen to her tachin' up now, listen to her why-ee-eye-ine

C'mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out GTO

You oughta see her on a road course or a quarter mile

This little modified Pon-Pon has got plenty of style

She beats the gassers and the rail jobs, really drives 'em why-ee-eye-ild

C'mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out GTO

Mixture: Gonna save all my money (turnin' it on, blowin' it out)

and buy a GTO (turnin' it on, blowin' it out)

Get a helmet and a roll bar (turnin' it on, blowin' it out)

and I'll be ready to go (turnin' it on, blowin' it out)

Take it out to Pomona (turnin' it on, blowin' it out) and let 'em know

(turnin' it on, blowin' it out), yeah, yeah

That I'm the coolest thing around

Little buddy, gonna shut you down

When I turn it on, wind it up, blow it out GTO!

Canis Latrans

2009-03-06T07:59:00.000-08:00

“Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone? Oh where, oh where can he be? With his ears cut short and his tail cut long. Oh where, oh where can he be?”

One summer night a few years ago I was jolted out of a sound sleep by loud screaming in the back yard. It took several moments for my brain to engage, but when it did I recognized the sound as that of a rabbit that had become fatally trapped in the jaws of a coyote. The sound was identical to the sound made by the predator calls that I use for hunting coyotes.

Since I moved to Rochester Hills, a northerly Detroit suburb 16 years ago, I have seen just about every kind of wild animal that used to live in the wild. Now it seems they live in my neighborhood.

It’s quite normal to see as many as 10 deer in our yard at one time, day or night. We’ve pretty much given up planting flowers. We haven’t found any yet the deer won’t eat. We’ve seen bucks fighting over does and does giving birth. One fawn was born right next to our patio. They are so common that Jake (our dog) completely ignores them. And they ignore us when we try to shoo them away.

Part of the animal problem is the “green belts” that exist in place of fences between the houses. These “mini-forests” make great places for the animals to live. They are virtually infested with deer, squirrels, rabbits, woodchucks, raccoons, opossums, skunks, chipmunks, hawks, owls, and who knows what else. So far, the only critters I haven’t seen in our yard are black bear, bobcat, wolf, and coyote. But, I may have to scratch coyote off that list before long.

A big part of the problem is the misguided neighbor that feeds wild animals “cause they look hungry”. Why should an animal scrounge around in the woods looking for food like they’ve been doing for millions of years when they can just go to someone’s back porch and get all they want. Before long, instead of one squirrel outside your window you’ll have twenty of them demanding a meal. Most of these will have been born within 200 feet of this neighborhood restaurant. Folks like this should be publicly flogged, or at least educated.

There is one animal that benefits greatly from this nouveau hodge-podge of critteria in the neighborhood. Mr. Coyote has come to town and brought his family with him. Why should he work hard in the wild to catch the occasional animal to eat when he has a smorgasbord to choose from in our backyards?

The coyote (Canis Latrans) is a fascinating creature. It’s highly intelligent, clever, resourceful, and adaptable. Nose to end of tail, the average size is about 3 ½ to 4 feet in length for an adult and will weigh 25-45 lbs. They are supreme opportunists and will eat anything from mice to deer to carrion. Coyotes can be found almost anywhere in North America. Because they are nocturnal and so elusive, you may never actually see one in your neighborhood, but if you know what to look for you’ll know they’ve been around.

Occasionally after a fresh snow I’ll see coyote tracks where they’ve wandered through my yard on their nightly forays. While raking out the greenbelts around my yard I’ve found the remains of small animals and the telltale coyote scat (feces).

One day last fall my next-door neighbor told me he saw a wolf trotting across the back of his yard with a rabbit or something in it’s mouth. Knowing his idea of spending an afternoon in the great outdoors was going to a baseball game, I knew he had no idea what he was talking about. The nearest wolf was probably 200 miles north of us. I asked him if perhaps it could have been a fox. He said no, he had seen a fox at the zoo and this was much larger. Besides the fox he saw was reddish colored and this was kind of a gray/tan color with a long bushy tail. What he described to me was a large healthy coyote.

In most suburban areas hunting is not allowed within the city limits. Because of that there is nothing to keep the coyotes in check. With the abundance of small animals around they prosper in this type of environment. They also provide a service by keeping the small animals from overpopulating. But, they’ve also developed a taste for domestic animals as well.

Not long ago there was a story on the local evening news about a woman whose small dog was snatched by a coyote. As usual each evening she let her dog out to do his business while she stood at the door and watched him. The dog became agitated and began to bark at something in the bushes. When the dog darted in to investigate the lady heard one loud yelp and then silence. She got her flashlight and went looking for him. There was no trace of her little dog to be found.

In the spring when the coyotes have lots of little mouths to feed they become especially active in their hunting. One of their favorite prey is the deer fawn. It is easy to catch and provides a substantial meal for their family.

The coyote is here to stay and caution should be observed when letting pets out at night. Even a large dog can easily be taken down by a pack of coyotes and smaller pets are just a quick snack.

We’ve all seen those signs tacked to utility poles offering a $25.00 reward for finding their Fluffy the dog or Boots the cat. As sad as it may be, if they’ve been missing for more than a day a car has probably hit them or they are now just a hairball in some coyotes scat pile out in the woods.

The Z Lives!

2009-03-01T13:42:00.001-08:00

In 1969 Datsun (later Nissan) brought the 240Z to our shores. Less than a year later demand for this little sports car was so high that even used ones were selling for more that the stickers on the new ones. Since then the Z’s have worked their way into our hearts and into racing legend.

I was in love with that first Z car and have been fascinated by the evolution it has gone through over the last 40 years. I couldn’t begin to mention all of the stages of that evolution or the accomplishments it has achieved, so I’ll just fast forward to the latest offering.

The Nissan 370Z is the 4th generation Z and it’s what’s new for 2009. Under the bonnet is a 3.7-liter V6 with 332 H.P. and 270 lbs of low-end grunt. To quote Kramer, “That’s a lot of giddy-up”! Even without all that growl it looks like “sex on wheels”!

It’s also got some cool stuff going on with the tranny. According to Nissan’s hyperbole it’s got the “World’s first SynchroRev Match manual transmission technology, available on the Sport Package, monitors the 6 speed’s clutch pedal operation, shift lever movement, and vehicle speed. Shifting to a lower gear automatically “blips” the throttle to the ideal engine rpm for a smooth downshift. Smoother shifts help keep the chassis balanced, meaning this transmission delivers handling and power.”

Anyone that’s ever done some slalom racing and downshifted a gear too low going into a tight turn can appreciate that. Not only can the mis-shift slow you down too much, it can throw off your concentration trying to regain a productive balance between engine, transmission, speed, and handling. It can also be pretty hard on the car.

I confess I want one. I want one real bad. If I go to test-drive one I will have to take my wife, Christine with me. She knows I will be like a 4 year old in a candy store. She will remind me of the last time I tried it on my own and came home with a new sports car.

It wasn’t totally my fault though. The dealer had it parked out on the grass in front of the store knowing some fool like me would drive by and become void of any ability to resist. I was just driving by, minding my own business when I spotted it. I swear, it called to me like a siren of the deep. I stopped, jumped out of my car and walked briskly over to it. After inspecting it for a full 3 or 4 seconds, I wiped the drool off my chin, put on my toughest negotiator look and walked nonchalantly into the dealership. The salesman had been watching me. He already knew the questions and had the answers.

“May I help you, sir”, said the spider to the fly. But, I tricked him. I had no questions. Not wanting to look eager I just smiled and gazed intently at the ugly sedan parked in the showroom. He persisted, “You really like that MX-5 parked out front don’t you? You know we’ve only got two of those M-Editions and we won’t be getting anymore. I expect both will be gone by 5:00 p.m. today.”

I was trapped! Mustering all my strength, I said, “I’ll take it! Right now”! “But, don’t you want to take it for a test drive? Don’t you want to know how much it cost”? he said with a sly grin on his face. “No” I said. “I want to buy it right now and drive it home”! I thrust my Amex card into his hand and before I knew it I was power-shifting down the road with the wind in my hair and bugs in my teeth. At last, I was BMOC!

Once I got it safely into the garage, I quickly set up rules for the family to observe. For Christine the rules stated she might drive it, but only on sunny dry days and never on a gravel road. If she took it to the mall, it had to be parked at least 100 feet away from any other cars.

For my teenage sons the list was a bit longer. It went; don’t ask if you can drive it, don’t sit in it, in fact just stay out of the garage unless you have a good reason to be there. But, the most hated was the “3-foot rule”. If you have to walk through the garage, stay at least 3 feet away from the car. With their backpacks, hockey sticks, and other things they might accidentally scratch it. Our youngest son, David, came to hate the car.

I sold it almost ten years later, sight unseen, to some guy out in Las Vegas. When it was backed off the truck the guy couldn’t believe his eyes. It was immaculate. You could have parked it in a showroom and people would have mistaken it for a new vehicle. With only 37k on the odometer and at least 50 coats of wax on the paint it literally sparkled. The guy called me at midnight to tell me he was just ecstatic with it. I had successfully passed the curse on to someone else.

Back to the Z. I do digress, don’t I? The new 370Z can be had for a paltry $30k for the base model and about $38k for the gussied-up model. That’s a lot of bang for the buck these days. It ain’t gonna beat a Lambo, Ferrari, Vette Z06, or a Viper in the straight-away, but it won’t limp home in shame either.

The Eye of the Beholder

2009-02-26T16:30:00.001-08:00

My perception is my reality. It’s the same with all individuals and societies. So, if we all believe the same thing, it must be true. Right?

What do you see in the photo above? What is your perception of it?
A. Smug rich guy gloating beside his Lamborghini.
B. Thief about to steal a Lamborghini.
C. Senile old guy waiting for his 401K to recover.
D. All of the above.
E. None of the above.
F. I couldn’t care less.

It’s common knowledge that the American Auto Industry is in a heap o’ trouble. There is some talk that the formerly Big Three automakers may even go away. Therein lies the real danger. If enough Americans, Canadians, and others stop buying vehicles from GM, Chrysler, and Ford because they’re afraid they won’t be around in a few years to handle warranty problems or provide service, then that collective perception could become reality.

Being the optimistic fool that I am, I choose to think otherwise. I believe our domestic auto industry will rebound. To put my money where my mouth is, I decided to invest what little money I have left in one of these companies. For some very unscientific reasons, I chose Ford. Those reasons are:
1. It’s an old family company. I can relate to that.
2. It’s been around since my grandfather was in diapers.
3. They have not taken any handouts from the government.
4. I have always liked Mustangs.
5. They actually have cash in the bank.
6. My wife loves her Mercury Mariner.
7. The stock is temporarily in my price range.

After watching my 401K slide into a black hole, I decided to take matters into my own hands and do my own investing. I noticed that Ford stock had sunk to $1.01 per share back in November. By the time I got around to buying some it had gone up to $1.50. I bought 1500 shares. I emptied my piggy bank and continued buying all the way up to $2.50 per share. It closed today at $1.98.

Last April Ford stock was going for over $8 per share. The 5-year high was over $15 per share. Over the next 5 years I expect Ford stock to skyrocket up to over $20 per share. Then I will sell and reverse my modus operandi of buying long and selling short.

I encourage all of you to scrape up any money you can to buy all the Ford stock you can right now while the share price is easy pickin’s. This will help to ensure that my retirement will be comfy. Thank you very much.

Oh yeah, about that Lamborghini. I wish I could tell you it was mine, but that would be a fib. It belongs to a very bright young man who decided to skip the “work ‘til you’re old and get a pension thing” and go straight to “millionaire by age 25 thing”. It seems he came up with something that competes with something else called Craig’s List. I don’t know what that’s about, but it seems to be working for him.

Well don’t just sit there reading my silly blather, go buy some Ford Stock!

Get Over It!

2009-01-20T07:50:00.001-08:00

My guy lost the election. Boo-hoo, what will I do? On November 5th, I walked around all day in a fog of depression. But, then I got to thinking this may not be such a bad thing after all.

I consider myself to be an American first, a Republican second. I don’t think of myself as a hard-nosed conservative, maybe a soft-nosed one at best. Among some of my conservative friends, I’m now considered a turncoat. But, that’s OK. It’s been my experience that people either love me or hate me. The others don’t quite know what to do with me.

In just a few moments, Barrack Hussein Obama will become the 44th President of the United States. And I’m excited about it. I believe our country (and the world) is in desperate need of change. I don’t believe Mr. McCain could have brought that to the office.

It isn’t that Mr. Obama is qualified to be president. No president-elect ever truly was. But, that will quickly change. He faces a vast array of problems to solve from the very moment he says, “I do”. Wisdom comes only from experience and wisdom will come to President Obama.

I am especially happy for Afro-Americans. This inauguration is testament to the fact that the civil rights struggles of the last fifty plus years has been worth it. We have finally arrived as a truly “free nation”. Only the narrow-minded and stagnant of spirit could feel otherwise.

It’s time for all of us to set aside our partisan politics and get behind our new president. For two hundred and thirty three years the United States has been a beacon of hope to the world. Let’s keep that light shinning.

President Obama, we salute you. Do us proud.

A Little Humility, If You Please!

2008-11-20T11:57:00.000-08:00

“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

2008-10-31T12:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-29T16:46:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-19T19:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-24T08:03:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-09-22T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-03T10:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-02T12:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-18T10:48:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-17T11:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-06T13:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-05T20:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-03T06:23:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-02T10:06:00.001-07:00

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?

2008-05-30T16:58:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-04-09T18:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-09T11:39:00.001-07:00

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?

2008-03-20T08:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-01T13:19:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-01T12:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-29T07:15:00.000-08:00

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.

The Miata Chronicles I - Jeez, I Killed Him!

2008-02-28T11:02:00.000-08:00

Someone once described the climate here in Michigan as nine months of winter and three months of bad sledding. But for the most part, summertime here is beautiful and it’s a great time to drive a convertible.

This was one of those perfect summer days. Pure blue skies and a warm breeze beckoned all ragtop owners to come out and play. I pulled into his driveway about 11:00 on Saturday morning to see him standing there waiting. I came to a stop and got out. “Hey John”, he said, “it’s really sounding good. Did you do something to it?” “Yeah, I put a Racing Beat exhaust system on the other day. I was expecting it to sound like an old MG or something. It didn’t give me quite the low grunt I was hoping for, but it’s not bad. I guess I’ll just settle for a more mellow sound,” I replied.

To protect his pristine reputation, I’ll just refer to him by his initials (J.T.) in this story. For several months I had been promising J.T. we’d spend some quality road time in my Miata when our schedules and the weather permitted. My “baby” was a 1995 Mazda MX-5 M-Edition in Merlot Mica, which is sort of a dark wine color with a high gloss finish. I kept it immaculately clean and covered at all times. It never saw snow, slush, ice, road-salt, or a gravel road. In fact, I would get a weather report before even taking it out of the garage.

“O.K., J.T., where would you like to go today,” I said as we sped off. “Well, I’d like to go to a nursery up in Clarkston. I’m thinking about putting a small pond in my backyard and I wanted to find out what kind of supplies they had for that,” he said.

He didn’t seem to mind the wind that was lashing us at 80 miles an hour as we headed north on I-75 with the top down. He told me of his love affair with an MG he had back in the late 60’s before going off to Vietnam. He loved driving it so much that if it started raining, and the top was down, he would just speed up to let the water blow over him. We stopped for lunch along the way and took some two-lane roads on the return trip.

We were having so much fun that neither of us was ready to call it a day. “Hey J.T., would you like to drive it,” I offered. “Yes, I’d like that, John,” he said “But I’m pretty rusty. We’d better find a safe place to do it.” We decided on the large parking lot behind the church where we both attended. We arrived to find only a few cars parked up close to the building. That left us acres and acres of blacktop to play on. I brought the Miata to a stop and we switched seats.

He fastened his seatbelt, pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and the little engine rumbled to life. Immediately, this huge grin came across his face. He put his right hand on the big chrome gearshift knob and began to expertly feel out the gear positions. He sat there for several moments just revving the engine. I watched in shock as he slumped forward, his face falling against the steering wheel. He did not move. He must have gotten so excited he had a heart attack and died right here in my car. Jeez, I killed him!

To be continued.

"Who's Your Daddy"?

2008-02-26T06:20:00.000-08:00

OK all you car buffs and buffettes. Here’s your chance to win a Ten-Day All-Expense Paid Trip to Hawaii for two. The first person to respond to me with correct answers to all 10 questions on the quiz wins. NO CHEATING! NO GOOGLE! The winner goes to Hawaii. Cheaters get nothing. Now, let’s play, “Who’s Your Daddy”?

STOP! READ LEGAL DISCLAIMER. Any resemblance to the name of this quiz and The Maury Povich Show is strictly coincidental and does not obligate me to take the DNA test.

Name the Parent Company for each car model listed:
(1.) XLR
(2.) MDX
(3.) Malibu
(4.) S600
(5.) M6
(6.) GAZ 24-10
(7.) G35
(8.) Mustang
(9.) Z4
(10.) Pacer

Well, how’d you do? Be sure to respond quickly. Of course, the two no-brainers were the #3 Chevy Malibu and the #8 Ford Mustang. You older dudes will know that the #10 Pacer was made by AMC (which no longer exists) back in the ‘70’s. But, what about those other names that are just meaningless alphanumeric characters? What’s with that?

There was a time when car names made sense. It’s bad enough that most cars now look alike. The least they could do is give them interesting names. When I was just a small kid I could name every car on the road, and drove my parents crazy constantly pointing them out. It wasn’t because I was a boy genius. It’s because (1) the names were easy to remember, (2) all the names were phonetically different, and (3) the cars all had their own unique designs.

OK, responses to the quiz are now coming in. All of you that had correct answers to all ten questions have been disqualified for cheating. I know (and you know) that you went straight to Google for your answers. You may have known most of the answers to the quiz, but NOT # 6.

To get the correct answer to #6, you would have had to:
(1.) Have been an auto mechanic in the Soviet Union during the cold war period. (unlikely)
(2.) Be someone with no life, so you actually study boring trivia like this. (get counseling)
(3.) OR you cheated; you lied, and went straight to a search engine. (cheater)

Even though I’m disgusted with your lack of integrity, I’m going to give you the answers.

(1.) Cadillac XLR
(2.) Acura MDX
(3.) Chevrolet Malibu
(4.) Mercedes S600
(5.) BMW M6

(6.) Volga GAZ 24-10

(7.) Infiniti G35

(8.) Ford Mustang

(9.) BMW Z4

(10.) AMC Pacer

I’m really disappointed that none of you won the contest. O well, I’ll be back in 11 days with a new entry to my blog. Aloha.

Falconry - The Art of The Deal

2008-02-22T10:52:00.001-08:00

John: “Hey Bill, how much are you asking for that old Falcon?”
Bill: “$100 bucks”
John: “I only have $50 bucks right now.”
Bill: “Ok, give me $50 bucks and it’s yours.”

It was the summer of ’65 and I was eighteen. I had just been promoted to apprentice pressman at Utley Brothers. The guys in the shop gave me a certificate declaring that I was now a Printer’s Devil. With that great honor came the grungiest jobs in the plant, but the pay was worth it.

At that time, I was making the princely sum of 90 cents per hour, which I believe was the minimum wage then. Obviously, my father (Bob Utley) did not believe in nepotism. He had already talked me out of several other cars that I would have had to borrow money for. Dad wasn’t very impressed with my shrewd negotiations. When I took him out to see my new beauty, he said; “ I think Bill should have given you $50 bucks to dispose of it.”

OK, it wasn’t the car of my dreams, but it was mine. For several years, I had borrowed my parent’s cars, but those weren’t always available. Now I could come and go as I pleased.

It was a well-used white1960 Ford Falcon that had not been pampered. In fact, it looked like it had been used as a truggy in the Baja 1000 and finished dead last. The odometer froze long ago at 74k. This car had absolutely no amenities, not even have a radio. It had power nothing. It had a six-cylinder engine with a standard shift (3-on-the-tree) and no synchromesh. That means if you wanted to downshift to first gear, first you had to bring the car to a complete stop. The original specs said that it had 90 ponies. But, I think about 40 of those ponies had long since moved out to pasture.

Now, mind you, this bird-of-prey was no chick-magnet, but since I was already dating the prettiest girl in town, it didn’t matter. Actually, the exterior of the Falcon wasn’t all that bad, with some dents and some rust here and there. A few hours with the ball-peen hammer, some Bondo, some white paint, and she was looking pretty good. For good measure I painted a couple of bright blue racing stripes up the hood, over the top, and down the trunk. Magnifico! If you glanced at it quickly enough, you might have mistaken it for something Carroll Shelby had thrown together. Yeah, right!

Eddie Palmer and I spent most of that summer working on the old Falcon. For some reason that I can’t recall, we pulled the engine out of it. As we worked, we put all the parts into a large cardboard box to make sure we didn’t lose anything.

When we put the engine back in and cranked it up, she purred like a kitten. Neither of us were real mechanics, so we just figured we were really smart guys. While we were cleaning up our mess in the garage, we noticed there were four large bolts still in that cardboard box. Well, the car ran beautifully without them, so they must have not been necessary to begin with, right? We tossed the bolts into the trunk and forgot about it.

For several months I drove it back and forth to work and around town without any major problems. Stopping at a red light at the top of a hill was always a challenge. When the light turned green it took some fancy gas and clutch work to get it over the top. Also, it would frequently fail to turn over when I tried to start it. It wasn’t a big problem as long as I remembered to park on a downhill slope. That way I could get it rolling and pop the clutch in second gear to start it. Did I mention the gas gauge didn’t work either? This kind of stuff just added to the adventure of having my own car.

Well, they say; “All good things must come to an end”, and so it was with that old Falcon. Most evenings after dinner, I’d fire up that old bird and go cruisin’ Main Street.
One evening I was tooling through the parking lot at the local Big Boy. I spotted some friends of mine hanging out, pulled in beside them, and shut off the engine. After about 30 minutes of meaningful dialogue with the guys, I decided to head on home. When I got in the Falcon and turned the key, I heard a familiar clicking sound. “Rats!” I was going to need a push to get it started.

“OK Jim, when I’m ready I’ll wave and you back off”. When we got it out onto the street I put the shifter in second gear and shoved the clutch pedal to the floor. Jim pulled his car behind the Falcon and began to push. When he got me up to about 40, I waved, he backed off and I popped the clutch. KABOOM! It was like hitting an invisible brick wall. The Falcon went from 40 to about 10 miles per hour in a split-second. It began to hop violently down the street. I could hear and feel large metal objects hitting the under-carriage. Somehow, I fought it to the shoulder and brought it to a stop.

Steam was rising from the hood. I opened it to find the fan and radiator crushed by the engine, which had been thrust forward. I stood there, dumbfounded, just looking at the mess in the engine bay.

About that time I had an epiphany, actually two. Number one, I had the shifter in reverse, not in second gear. You couldn’t visually tell one from the other. Number two, now I realized what those large bolts were for that I had tossed in the trunk. Those were the bolts that held the engine in place. Incredibly, I had been driving around for months with the engine just sitting there on the frame.

I turned to see (and hear) about two dozens guys in the Big Boy parking lot howling with laughter. One of them was quick to capitalize on my disaster.

Ron: “Hey John, do you think you might want to sell what’s left of that old Falcon”?

John: “Sure”, I said, “but I want a least $100 bucks for it”.
Ron: “I’ll give you $50 bucks.”
John: “Ok, give me $50 bucks and it’s yours.”