We do mostly city driving in my household, and I had heard that people who drive mostly stop and go city miles reap the most benefits from a hybrid. I headed over to Edmunds.com to investigate just how much green I’d be saving by going green. I was going to be like those people on TV who fill up so infrequently that they can’t remember where their gas tanks are. The oil companies were going to weep for me…

I dug into Edmunds looking for information on what hybrids were available, and I was pretty surprised to find that there were at least six four-door sedans on the market that have hybrid counterparts. When I saw the city mileage of the first couple of cars, I pictured myself talking to the neighbors saying things like “Yep, it gets 40MPG in the city. Can you believe that? Best car I ever bought that didn’t have a giant wing.” There was a lot of flexing and waving of complicated new power tools that were bought with the leftover gas money, but I won’t trouble you with the fine details of what goes on in my head.

When I started looking at the prices of the hybrids, I have to say that my excitement dwindled a little. If you’ve ever looked into any green products like wind power or solar, you know that they’re priced more for wealthy folks who want to feel good about saving the environment than for regular folks who want to save a couple of bucks. Hybrids seemed to be on a similar track, because similarly equipped gas-only models were thousands of dollars cheaper than their hybrid counterparts.

The Prices Of Hybrid Sedans And Their Gas-Only Counterparts:

Source: edmunds.com TMV pricing

While it’s great to do things that are good for the environment, when you don’t have a lot of money to throw around, you have to think economically about things. I wondered, “Was the hybrid just another fashionably expensive green technology, or could I recover the price difference in a reasonable amount of time through savings at the pump?” As a finance person by training and cheap bastard by lifestyle, I couldn’t help but make an attempt at calculating how long it would take to recover the hybrid price premium. I didn’t include interest rates, the inflation rate, financing costs, maintenance costs, or depreciation in my calculations, and I took a relatively simplistic view of increasing gas prices.

Gas is at about $3.50 now, and gas prices have been rising in the U.S. at an average of $0.30 per year over the last 5 years (approximated from midgrade gas prices from 4/2003 to 4/2008 from U.S. Energy Information Administration data). I chose $4 as a reasonable guess at the price per gallon about two years from now. If we assume that everything stays constant, that would also be the average price of gas over the next four years.

The guessing continued as I tried to figure out how many city and highway miles that we drive each year. I think we do an average amount of driving, a majority of which is through city and back roads, so I estimated that we drive about 15,000 miles a year, with 11,500 of that (76%) being city driving. It’s only a guess, but it seemed like a reasonable one.

Once I had my constants, I headed back to Edmunds to gather MPG ratings, so that I could calculate what each of the cars would cost me for fuel each year. The formula for annual fuel cost (if you ever need it) is simply:

((city miles/city MPG)+(highway miles/highway MPG)) * gas price per gallon

Annual Fuel Cost Of Hybrid Sedans And Their Gas-Only Counterparts:

source: edmunds.com TMV pricing

I was pretty surprised that only one of the hybrids on the list had what I considered to be an acceptably high city gas mileage (the Honda Civic), and three of them, namely the Chevy Malibu Hybrid, The Lexus GS450h, and the Saturn Aura Hybrid were absolute jokes. I have a car that burns fuel like a furnace as its turbo whistles it up to 60 in under 5 seconds, and it gets better gas mileage than these hybrids. They each get no more than 24 MPG, which is so ridiculously low for a hybrid that it suggests that neither Saturn, Chevy, nor Lexus put a lot of effort into their hybrids beyond simply getting them to market to capitalize on the green trend.

Once I had what each of the cars would cost me in gas for the year, I could find out how much a hybrid would save me at the pump by subtracting the hybrid annual fuel cost from the gas-only counterpart’s fuel cost. Then to find out how long it will take to recoup the difference in price with the money you save on gas, you take the premium that you paid and divide it by the fuel savings per year:

(hybrid price – non-hybrid price) / (non-hybrid fuel cost – hybrid fuel cost)

Breakeven Points of Hybrid Sedans And Their Gas-Only Counterparts:

I had to check these numbers a couple of times with different gas prices, because I was pretty shocked by the results. Don’t be fooled by the Lexus being at the top of this list. The Lexus might have the lowest breakeven point, but it’s a $50,000 car that gets a mere 22 MPG in the city. The only reason it is in the top spot is that the non-hybrid Lexus gets the worst gas mileage on the list at 17 MPG. Even though the Chevy and Saturn grace the bottom of the list, they get similarly terrible gas mileage for hybrids, and would take between 14 to 17 years to recover the premium. It really should be noted that the non-hybrid Civic gets better gas mileage than the Lexus, Chevy and Saturn hybrids.

The gas mileage differences between hybrids and normal gas cars are greater for city driving, so someone like me who does 75% of their driving in the city should be a prime candidate for a hybrid. Unfortunately, the fastest that I could recover the cost premium for a hybrid is 5 years. People who do more highway miles will see less savings and longer payoff times, and people who don’t keep their cars for 5 years or more may never recover the hybrid premium at all.

Will you save money by buying a hybrid? You’d have to do your own calculations based on how much you drive and what you think the future holds for gas prices, but in most cases, it doesn’t seem likely. Hybrids may be a way of showing your neighbors that you care about the environment, but you will certainly pay for the privilege to do so.

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I spent the week picking out albums and testing them out in the car to be sure they were as good behind the wheel as they are on the headphones, so I can assure you that most of these are certified pedal stompers.

Start your Engines…

Honorable Mentions

The only reason that they didn’t make it was because there were only 10 slots. If there were 13, you can bet these albums would’ve been included. There wasn’t, so they weren’t.

Now, let’s get the pace car off the track and get into the list…

#10: Nashville Pussy – High as Hell

High as Hell opens with the sounds of a grumbling car starting, but it’s no clean start. This album is grimy. It’s leather vest with no shirt grimy. It’s greasy hair, a biker mustache, and a waggling tongue grimy. It’s burger wrappers on the floor and a gun under the seat grimy. And that type of attitude gets me home from work without having to think about what a clean, little adult I’ve become. This may be the foam baseball hat with “This Pud’s For You” sitting on top of my countdown, but there’s no denying that it’s pedal to the floor, finger out the window rock and roll.

#9: Me First and the Gimme Gimmes – Have a Ball

This is all 70’s songs covered in punk format, and although it’s not the most aggressive album on the list, it beats all the others in the fun category. Even in those situations where the moron in front of me jams on the brakes to make a quick left from the right lane, this album takes the edge off enough that I don’t want to ram them. And it’s so up tempo and corny that I don’t even mind listening to “Mandy”. If I can listen to “Mandy” and not ram things, it gets into my top 10.

#8: The Donnas – Spend the Night

Maybe it’s the straight up rock jam packed with cowbell that makes my foot heavy. Maybe it’s the fact that the Donnas are an all girl band, and my foot is simply trying to get the gas pedal and the floor into a three way. Either way, this album makes me go too fast.

#7: DMX – It’s Hot and Hell is Hot

Remember the opening sequence of Office Space where the white nerdy guy is totally into the gangster rap when he’s in his car? Yes, I do that. This CD produces the illusion that my little black car with the big black wing is really a 98 Olds inhabited by one bad motherfucker. And bad motherfuckers don’t drive fast. They roll.

#6: Clutch – Blast Tyrant

Is it fitting to have a band in the top 10 Driving Albums that is named after the part of the car that separates people who drive from those who ride? You bet your ass it is. But, even if these guys were named “Glovebox” or “Vanity Mirror”, I would’ve included them because of their riff driven rock. This album kicks it up out of the gate and gets you powering through the traffic like a clinically proven, government banned, stoner rock fuel additive. Even though it’s a Japanese turbo whistling me through traffic, this album makes it feel like heavyweight American muscle shoving me through on a blur of raised white lettering.

#5: Queens of the Stoneage – Queens of the Stoneage

I step on the gas with this one, but I want more straightaways when I have it on. It completely fills the cabin with bass laden semi-stoner goodness to make even the most aggravating drive from point A to point B seem as unimportant and smooth as a desert straightaway. It’s agressive, but smooth, like a turbo on the highway.

#4: Unida – Coping with the Urban Coyote

I was originally looking for a Kyuss album to put in the list, but Kyuss is really best suited to driving long stretches of desert. Because there are as many asshole drivers in Massachusetts as there are cacti in the California desert, I went with a Kyuss spin off that has a little more bite. It’s Kyuss vocals over riff-driven rock without the Black Sabbath noodling solos. I can’t listen to it without wondering when someone is going to use this album for either a drag racing or muscle car video. I can’t help visualizing myself in a Chevelle SS leading Hell’s charge across the desert when this in on. When I see myself, I have big, shitty sunglasses on, and I usually grin and flash you the devil horns before I leave you in the dust. Yea. It’s one bad ass album.

#3: Various Artists – Rig Rock Deluxe

I swear to christ I play this album every time #1GF! get on the highway to New Hampshire. I sing backup vocals, fake pull the truck horn, and clap until she makes me put something else in. It has both classic artists like Red Simpson and Junior Brown, and more recent artists like Son Volt. Is it enough truckin’ songs to keep you rollin’ on through the night? That’s a big 10-4.

#2: Zeke – Kicked in the Teeth

Zeke’s albums are brutally fast, with tracks that tend to be less than 2 minutes long. Put that in your car and try to drive normally. Try it in Massachusetts. I don’t care if you’re a grandma on downers, it ain’t going to happen in this state. You’re going to get where you’re going zipping in and of lanes faster than a speed freak with the runs. When you finally pull your keys from the ignition, you’ll probably emerge from a punk-induced coma and think “I can’t actually remember getting here. Thanks, Zeke.”

And the number 1 Driving album…

#1: Fu Manchu – King of the Road

If any band makes me want to grow a biker mustache and wear red tinted sunglasses and slide across the hood of a lime green ‘70 Hemi ‘Cuda and peel out, it’s Fu Manchu. They are the undisputed kings of pedal-to-the-floor stoner rock, and leaving them out of a top 10 driving list is a crime against rock. Just the title alone begs to be put at the top of the list. King of the Road? Fuckin’ A, right, King of the Road. And look at that cover. Is that a line of jacked up vans on there? Oh, you bet it is. Hell, most of the Fu’s covers have vehicles on them (my favorite). Know why? Because the Fu is about cars, rock, and cowbell. This album is full of kick-ass tracks like “Drive”, “Hell On Wheels”, and “Boogie Van” that are about what? Yea. DRIVING. The Fu is the best thing to happen to driving since the invention of the power slide.

So that’s it. If you did your homework and came up with your own top 10, I can’t wait to see it. Be sure to either drop your list (or a link to it) in the comments.

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It’s not all the kids’ fault, though. Part of the tired is because you have been going to the gym every day for the past 40 days in a row. You have absolutely no reason for this behavior. You’re not training for anything, you’re not stressed about anything, and you really don’t give a flying fuck about six pack abs. I am betting you don’t make 10 more days because the fat kid in here really wants a cookie.

Even though you’re not really enjoying the gym, you did enjoy the second annual Hull outdoor car show this weekend. They picked the perfect weather to close off the main strip and line it with hot rods. Because the event was free, you were surprised by the number and variety of cars. You saw ZZ-Top style ‘33 Fords, Big Daddy Roth style T-buckets, a dragster with a parachute, and a ‘74 Dodge Swinger with a 6 barrel carb that nearly made your dinky move. You saw some Ferraris, a Lamborghini Murcielago, 2 Lotus Esprits, 2 Lotus Elises, some 50’s Chevys, and a tricked-out El Camino with an assload of hydraulics.

When #1GF! saw the El Camino, she looked at you and proclaimed very matter-of-factly that it was Krunkin’. You told her that she had no idea what she was talking about, to which she proclaimed that she did. She went further to tell you that it was still krunkin’, despite any protest you could make. You didn’t think that this was right, but you had no idea what the fuck krunkin’ even meant, so you were not on very good ground to debate. Plus, she had already walked away grinning to look at a chopped down Ford.

While standing there alone listening to all the gearhead chatter, you realized what it must be like for a person who knows a little about computers to listen to you talk. You figured you must make people pretty tired.

You saw a lot of really professional show cars, but you also saw a bunch of cars that looked like they could’ve been parked on the street from the night before and people just assumed that they were in the show. You noticed that one of them even had crumbled Cheezits in the door handle, which prompted you to consider paying the $12 to bring your EVO down without so much as washing it. You were also going to make claims that it had extensive “megatronics” and ran on a mixture of “rice and Jesus.” Any questions about the collection of swimming trophies in front of it were to be answered with a simple “Fuckin’ A.”

(Un)Fortunately, you did none of this because you were too damned tired from the gym.

(Remind yourself to read this next year to get the KrunkMobile ready for the 3rd annual car show.)

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I’m a little difficult in these situations. I’m a fighter. I’ll go down to the dealer and make them hammer out a check. Then, I’ll call the corporate offices and tell them how “disenchanted” I am with the unscrupulous practices of the dealer and how poorly it reflects on the car brand. Then, I’ll threaten to file a police report for fraud. Having a pit bull can certainly make you feel safe, but sometimes when you just want to relax, I know that holding on to the leash can wear you down. So, I’ve tried to lay off, stop barking, and try to cheer her up a little.

They say that the easiest way to make someone happy is to give them unexpected gifts at unexpected times, so this week, I tried give her something small every day.

Monday: White flowers and some leeway.

Tuesday: The opportunity to live with someone who has earned the title of “Guitar Legend” by beating the Medium level of Guitar Hero. …And some pink flowers.

Wednesday: A clean bathroom.

Thursday: Steve Miller’s Greatest Hits CD (I just heard her giggle when she found it.)

Friday: Unknown. Is there anything that tops a clean bathroom? (suggestions are welcome).

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Today, while I was passing through Hingham Harbor in my normal left lane approach to the rotary, a driver in an SUV couldn’t decide if she felt like stopping short or changing lanes. Being the skilled driver that she was, she failed miserably at both tasks, forcing me to stop short as she plugged up two lanes. My next impulse was to get the hell away from her before she rolled me into her pile-up, so I shot up to the speed limit, went through the rotary and headed for home.

Then, “Slow Ride” by Foghat came the radio. For the next mile and a half, I was cruising along, semi-oblivious to the outside world singing, “Slow Ride… nah nah nuhnuh nahnuhnuh… Take it Easaay…” when all of a sudden, the blue lights of a police car filled my rear view.

You know that sick feeling you get when you see the blue lights directly behind you? I didn’t feel that. I just pulled over and tried to let the cruiser pass. When it didn’t, I just thought, “That’s weird,” and wondered what was going on. I shut off “Slow ride,” shut the car down, and rolled down my window.

License and Registration,” the officer said, without giving me any sort of explanation as to what was going on.
“Uh, ok.” I said, as I fumbled for my wallet in my sweatshirt.
“Roll up your window for me?” he said, as I kept looking.
“Uh, ok.” I said, trying to figure out what was going on.

Then, it dawned on me: Although he still hadn’t told me why he had pulled me over, he was checking the legality of my window tint.

“Ohhh. The tint. It’s legal.”
“It doesn’t look legal.”
“It is. You can check it if you like.”
“I have a light meter in the cruiser.”
“Ok.”
“Maybe the fronts are legal, but not the backs.”
“They’re all the same…”
“No, they’re not…”
“The place I got them from doesn’t do illeg…
“Do you want me to get the light meter? Do you? It’s a $300 fine if I find that it’s not legal.”

At that point, the officer had no interest in what I had to say, and was getting more combative. I still didn’t know why I had been pulled over and tried to diffuse the situation.

“Listen, I’m not trying to be argumentative here…”
“Do you want me to get the meter? Because I’ll go get it right now.”
“The place I got these windows tinted at doesn’t do illegal tint.”
“Where was it done?”
“On the North Shore. The same place that tints the windows on the John Hancock Building.”
“The reason I pulled you over is you went into that rotary back there too fast.”

I stared at him confused, at first because of the lack of transition, and my first thought was, “what rotary?” By the time I figured out that he was talking about the the rotary a good mile and a half behind me, he had already moved on.

“…and I had you at 50 while following you”
[confused stammering] What? I don’t think…”
“When was the last time you got pulled over?”
“Geez I don’t know… years ago.”

I think I said that to the wind as he returned to his cruiser. Within 2 minutes he was back at my car…

“I’m going to let you off this time, Jon, because you were wearing your seat belt.”

Seat belts are actually required by Massachusetts law, so wearing them is not an optional action, but a required one. I also wasn’t really happy that he felt he could skip the respectful “Mr. Dyer” or even “Jonathan,” and jump directly to calling me “Jon.” I was getting further confused, but I seemed to be off the chopping block, so I just shut the fuck up and let him finish.

“Ok. Thanks.”
“When you drive on an unposted road, the speed limit is thirty.”

If it’s not thickly settled, I thought the limit was forty. The road we were on was desolate enough to have a posted limit of 45 MPH. I was seriously beyond confused…

“Ok,” I said.

He then went back to his cruiser and I headed home confused at why I got pulled over for supposedly speeding, only to get released because I was wearing a seat belt, which I’m required to do by law.

The only way that I can piece the whole thing together was to concoct this story:

The officer saw a black, tinted car with a big ass wing go through the rotary faster than some of the complete idiots who can’t get it together enough to merge, let alone handle driving in a circle. As I passed through the rotary, I was either under the speed limit, or he would’ve put on the lights and given chase. He then followed my car for a 1.5 miles to a straight, 1 mile road with a posted speed limit of 40 to maximize the chances of a speeding ticket. As we rolled along at the speed limit for a half mile (with me oblivious to the fact that he was even behind me thanks to Foghat) he realized that his ticket chances were dropping drastically as we approached the town border. He then lit them up, and pulled me over. Because the supposed speed limit variance was probably more like 5 MPH, the officer was aware that it was small enough that it could be explained away by calibration issues or error. When combined with a clean record, the odds of wasting a day in court for no reason were high enough that he sought other opportunities to write a ticket by focusing on my supposedly illegal tint. When that didn’t pan out, he let me go.

I was lucky to not have to fight this one out in court, but it the officer was confusingly combative and seemed to be looking for any excuse to write me up. He didn’t, though, which was even more confusing. I like to believe that he was just trying to keep the streets safe, but the whole thing seemed a little predatory.

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Despite my detour, I was rolling along behind Sir Brakes-A-Lot, lazily contemplating whether it’s “cheaper” to get 2 CDs for $8.99 each at Circuit City or to get the CD’s for $9.99 each at BestBuy where I have an unused gift card to burn.

Sir Brakes-A-Lot makes a right, I make a left, and it’s a clear shot back to the semi-clogged main road. I clear 4th gear and out of MOTHERFUCKING NOWHERE, a DEER runs in front of my car. I may be a city kid, but it’s not like I haven’t seen a deer before. I’ve seen like two million in Maine and like half a million in Taxachusetts. That’s not to mention the elk, deer, and deer-like animals that I’ve witnessed grazing lazily on the roadsides of Washington state.

What I have NOT seen, is one bombing in front of my car at top speed at dusk. Maybe I have seen one gracefully crossing up the road or something, but not five feet from my hood at 35 MPH. That, my friends, is a first. After it made it into the woods and my brain stopped yelling “FUUUUUUUUUUCK!”, all I could think was “Thank you, Brembo,” and then, “Man, that thing had a huge ass.”

I would officially like to thank Brembo and the guy who designed the Lancer Evolution for not giving me the opportunity to write a more exciting post or test the WI-FI capabilities at South Shore Hospital.

(As a side note, which do you think? Is it “cheaper” to buy 3 CD’s at $8.99 ($26.97) at CircuitCity, or to buy 2 CDs at $9.99 and one at $11.99 ($31.97) at BestBuy where you have a $25 gift card to burn?)

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Friend: What’s this thing got?
Me: 276 HP, 286 foot pounds
Friend: Pffft. Got nothin’ on my car.
Me: You got a new car?
Friend: Yup. It’s a rocket.
Me: Really? What’d you get?
Friend: A Jeep Grand Cherokee.

I don’t pretend to be able to haul 15 sheets of plywood, a dog, 2 kayaks, and three midgets, so there is no need to pretend that a 4600 pound vehicle is going to pull a 4.9 0-60 or or .95G on the skidpad.

(Note: this was not a SRT-4)

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#1GF!: [steps on gas] Ooooohh. ooohoohhhhh. mmmmmmm…
Me: Are you ok?
#1GF!: [slowly] Oooooh yes. Don’t you like the car?
Me: [a little freaked by the horsepower whore who has replaced #1GF!] Um, obviously not as much as you.
Car Dealer: [leans up from from back seat] I have to say… Those are some of the better noises I’ve heard while test driving this car.

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When I was within 15 feet of the door, I hear the WRX fly up behind me and come to a fast stop within 3 feet of my right shoulder in a “I saw your car, and I’m showing off” sort of way. I just turned and looked at him like the fucktard that he was, and kept walking.

Then, from the passenger seat, his GF said “What’s up?” in that challenging way that only fat ass, tight pants wearing, wet curl bitches that get a cheap thrill from watching their boyfriends get punched in the face can.

Reaction 1: Put my fucking lug sole hard enough into the door that it dents it enough that he can’t open it and then either smile at him or punch him through the window.

Reaction 2 (too late): “Oh, you should dump her. She’s the kind of girl who gets guys like us punched in the face.”

Rection 3: “Cute Blue car.”

But, the funny thing was that the guy just turned to her and said “Don’t do that” really fast and wouldn’t turn back to me, completely extinguishing the situation.

For some reason, I felt like I won something.

Later, the whole thing sort of struck me. I haven’t been in a fight in years, yet 15 years of having to know how to deal with getting jumped or picked on have left me with instincts that are about as useful to an adult male as his appendix.

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BUT, if we look at the Fair schedule of events, it can be noted that there’s a demolition derby nearly every damned night this week! Opportunity just keeps on knockin’. Maybe I’ll even go to the Demolition derby finals.

And maybe I’ll even check out the “Swine show”, the “Dairy Goat Achievement Show”, or maybe the “Poultry Showmanship” demonstration. Or maybe, I’ll check out the “Flap Toss” a.k.a. the Cow Shit Throw.

Seriously. What the hell happens to people when they get a mere 30 miles outside of Boston? How long does it take before you trade in all city ways for a sleeveless denim jackets and crap throwing contests? It sounds like the cars aren’t the only things running on ethyl alcohol in Marshfield these days.

Anyone wanting to join me to view the auto and cerebral demolition is welcome. We just need to pick a day to dig out the foam trucker hats and Metallica patches. Respond in the comments…

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While traversing the 10 mile hike from my ding resistant spot in the far reaches of the parking lot, I simultaneously reviewed the drive down and pondered the gigs and gigs of storage lining the shelves of the store. Just then, as if to drag me back to an unhappy reality, some guy walked up next to me and just started talking.

DumbAss: WR6.
Me: [ignoring the ramblings]
DA: WR6.
Me: What?
DA: WR6. WR6.
Me: WR6?
DA: Yea. WR6. It’s a WR6, right?
Me: Me? My car? It’s a Lancer Evolution.
DA: A Lancer Evolution WR6
Me: No. You mean a WRX.
DA: Oh, right, a Lancer Evolution WRX
Me: The WRX is a Subaru. Mine is A Lancer Evolution.
DA: Right a Subaru WRX.
Me: No. The Subaru looks kinda like it, but it’s not a Subaru. It’s a Lancer Evolution.
DA: ROCKET CAR!! [walks off]

I have stood for hours listening to insane people that I don’t know rattle off their life stories to me often enough that I usually deal with it without getting the slightest bit annoyed. The 30 seconds that made up this whole exchange left me so annoyed that I was on the edge of actually using the word “fucktard” and telling him to “just shut the fuck up and get away from me.”

Then, I visualized a key dragging across my new paint, and held my tongue to cut the stress level while I stared longingly at shelves and shelves of hard drives and other components.

Do you know why I don’t randomly walk up to strangers with baseball hats on and start shooting the shit about how the “Chicago Red Sox” or the “Cleaveland Cubs” are doing in the race for the cup? 2 reasons: I don’t bother people with questions if I don’t give a shit about the answer, and more importantly, I’d sound like a big, GODDAMNED FUCKTARD.

ROCKET CAR!

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We’ve been through a thousand fire drills, so I don’t think any of us took the situation very seriously until the bomb squad yelled “Fire in the hole” and blew up the package in the parking lot. Hearing a loud explosion at the workplace really wipes the sarcastic smirk off of your face pretty quickly.

End Here
As if a bomb threat doesn’t make the day feel strange enough, while I was driving home, something strange passed in front of my rental car. As I sat there listening to some jazz, waiting to get through a neighborhood intersection, a 70’s model orange car passed in front of me. Nothing unusual there…except for the fucking FLAMES POURING OUT FROM THE HOOD AND UNDERCARRIAGE. If you’ve ever seen a car on fire on the side of the road, it’s kind of weird. If you see the fucking thing bombing through an intersection in front of you leaving you with only a trail of smoke and the nagging feeling that there is no way you just saw what you just saw, you know how I feel.

When I had pulled through the intersection, I confirmed that I was not insane, because the driver actually pulled into a parking lot and managed to open the hood. He was standing there talking on his cell phone as if driving a comet through the streets of Quincy was a normal part of his daily routine.

“Yea. It’s me. Mmm hmm. Guess who owes me ten bucks. That’s right, fuckhead, you do. Yes way. The test comet made it 2.7 miles before it started burning, and 4 before my sneakers melted to the pedals. Fuck yea, I pulled over! These sneakers are practically new. What? No, no it’s still burning, all right. Can’t you hear it? Hey, can you come down and pick me up? Oh, you are a di-ick. Fine. Ok, FINE. Yes, I swear you can keep the ten bucks. Just get down here before Ma figures out who has her car.”

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You had an Integra?
Yep. It was a GS-R with a stainless steel exhaust, 8 lb. rims, and a cold air intake. I have Koni adjustable shocks that I bought a year ago and never installed. Some people who like to lay down when they drive stole it one time and got away with my guitar, which happened to be in the trunk. They didn’t get too far with the car, and I can’t stress the value of Lojack. Oh, and I hope the next owner makes a monster truck out of it and calls it “Integrasaurus.”

When did this come about?
About a month ago, I set out to replace my 1994 Integra after cracking my second rim in six months.

What kind of cars did you test drive.
I think I looked at every foreign sports sedan available: Lexus IS300, Infiniti G35 (coupe and sedan), Mazda RX-8, Subaru WRX STi, BMW 325i, BMW Z3, VW GLi, VW GTi, Acura RSX, Mazda 3, Mazda 6, Acura TSX, and Acura TL

What kind of car did you get?
It’s a 2005 Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution VIII.

What color is it?
Black like my [heart/soul/coffee/wang].

Do you love it?
Teenagers, mechanics, Hispanic males, Asian males, and anyone in a lowered car seems to love it. They stare at it and give me the thumbs up. Personally, I think the car is really dumb looking. It is shaped funny, and has what my sister describes as a “big, dumb wing” that is high enough in the rear window that I use it to block headlights behind me at night. Also, the interior and the radio suck major ass.

So you bought a car that you don’t like?
No. Essentially, I bought an engine with really nice seats. When I first test drove it, I accidentally exclaimed “Oh, shit!” when accelerating from 0-60. It is the most fun that I’ve had the pleasure of driving (present company excluded).

Do you miss your old car?
Yes and no. I love that old car, but it’s still outside, so I can sit in it and make tire squealing noises whenever I want.

Do you drive this car differently than your old car?
I’m not allowed to drive it hard like my old car because of the stupid break in period. Actually, I noticed that I corner hard enough when I drive that I brace my body by putting my knee against the door. I never noticed that I even did this until I got this car and no longer needed to.

Will you donate your old car to [insert charitable organization]?
Before my Integra, I donated my beloved ‘87 Chevy Celebrity to some Jewish organization in Quincy, and the guy called the next day and spent a full 5 minutes yelling at me about the poor condition of the brakes before I hung up on him. I no longer give cars to people I don’t know. Plus there is no real tax break for car donations. So, there.

You had a Chevy Celebrity?
Yep. It was gray with a gray interior and bench seats. It’s best feature was the CB radio and a six foot whip antenna on the rear trunk. I hope someone made a monster truck out of it called “Celebrasaurus.”

Would you recommend the dealer?
Even though they flat out lied about having the car in stock, and forgot to install an option that I paid for, Westboro Mitsubishi went way out of their way to make the deal happen. They even gave me a loaner car for two weeks while I waited for the car to be shipped.

Did you pay a lot for that muffler?
I paid $400 over invoice, but the total price was a lot to me, yes.

How do you negotiate the deal?
Once you decide on a car, go to Edmund’s or Kelly Blue Book and find out the invoice cost of the car you want (including all options) and add $300 to it. Then, in the last week of the month call every dealer in your state and tell them you’re buying [insert car name] today and offer them your price. When they say “no,” thank them and tell them if they change their mind in the next 12 hours to call you. Then, call the next dealer and the next. I did this with 15 dealers, got 5 calls back from dealers that originally said no, and in total, the price of the car fell $4,000. Be rock solid on your price and your time frame, and the dealers eventually fold.

Did you get the floor mats, Mr. Negotiator?
It came with them, so I got them by default.

What about dealing with dealers?
You don’t have to act like an asshole or defensive like they’re going to steal your wallet (don’t leave it on the table though). Be nice, but don’t take one ounce of their shit. Pretend it’s a game. Ask them questions that you know the answers to. If you don’t like a salesman, come back another time. Hover by the door if you are made to wait for more than 5 minutes. Remember: A salesman needs to sell a car worse than you need to buy one. Treat him like a younger sibling that is caught in a lie. And for goodness sake, don’t get caught up in the excitement. Play it cool and always walk out the door. They will call you back.

I hate dealers. How can you even stand them?
Most dealers that I dealt with weren’t assholes. They were mostly bad salesman who didn’t seem to know anything about cars. Most were unable to even estimate extremely basic information like the torque on their models. I must exclude Subaru of Norwood and Acura of Boston, as they were the only two dealers who knew more about their cars than I did. Infiniti was balance between being nice knowledgeable. Mazda on Route 1 had some of the least knowledgeable salesman who were skeezy enough that I actually faked an appointment to avoid test driving their cars and make my exit. And Lexus and BMW salesmen wore gold bracelets and wouldn’t talk to me, so I have no idea what they know, but they treated me like crap.

So, are you going to get a subwoofer, strap some neon under the car, write “Cool Whip” across the front window, and blast Petey Pablo while you krunkin’ at the beach, dawg?
I don’t think so. I always wanted big Chinese letters on my hood that said “White Devil,” but I think it’s just too far to go for a joke. Plus, what is krunkin’, anyway?

Have you gotten your first scratch out of the way, yet?
In a mere 511 miles, I have scratched one of my rims twice by running into the same curb: once on the first day that I had it, and once today.

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Fly Girl (a fly fly)
Speaking of ladies that want to do it with me, GTA: San Andreas came out today and my fly-ass GF bought it for me even though it involves a ton of violence. Oh, and she also bought me Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back even though it uses a ton of foul language and Dogma even though it makes fun of religion. I guess she understands that they’re just games and movies and not tears in the fabric of society. That’s my kind of GF. Oh yea.

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I negotiated directly with the sales manager, and my second favorite moment was when he told me that what I wanted to pay was just too low. He said the cars were in very high demand and that cars full of kids follow the trailers carrying the cars back to the dealerships. My simple reply was to ask him how many of those teenagers had the coin to drop on the car. He admitted “None.” I really sort of nailed the negotiation. I knew the dealer’s cost, quoted him his own website, and made him admit that I could go next door and buy the competitor’s better made car for less than what he was asking. In other words, “I’m buying something, I’m doing it within 48 hours, and I don’t care if this is the car or not.”

My favorite moment was smiling at the man across the table and saying “I’m sorry that you can’t make this deal happen. That’s a nice starting point, but I have some other dealers to call before tomorrow. If you change your mind, give me a call.”

I had a message on my home phone within 2 hours.

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As it is very similar to Nissan’s Japan-only Skyline GT-R, I wanted to get into the Infiniti G35. The coupe’s front seat was so small that it would require a buzz cut to keep my head from hitting the roof, and the back seat would’ve required full decapitation. Despite the 260 horses, AWD, and the nice response (which on one occasion threw the salesman explaining the climate control forcefully into the back seat) the lack of a manual transmission left me wanting. Also, the sedan seemed like more of a large, fancy grampa car than I wanted to get into. I felt like the upgrade path from the G35 would be directly to white shoes and a cream colored Cadillac.

The next car I wanted to try out was the Subaru Impreza WRX STi. It’s an ugly ass car with a turbo charged 4 cylinder that puts out 300 Hp and 300 ft. lbs. of torque. Ugly or not, it goes from 0-60 in under 5 seconds.

I went to Planet Subaru in Hanover and wandered around for 5 or 10 minutes without getting even a simple greeting from any of the staff. When I went to the desk to ask if I could see the WRX-STi, the guy handed me the keys. When I told him that it was blocked in, he told me (get this) that it was a high risk car that they don’t let off the lot. When asked how you get the feel for the car that you can’t drive, he said that you try another model and you estimate based on that. I think the dropped jaw and ensuing questions adequately conveyed my concern that the planet that “Planet Subaru” refers to is obviously not Earth. I wasn’t trying to listen to a CD before I bought it. This was a car. And buying cars requires driving them. Who the hell buys a car blind?

After seeing the 15 year old sales manager (who was trying to look managerial while busily playing solitaire or surfing porn), and hearing this incredible bunch of crap, I started wondering how the place stays in business…but I went and sat in the ugly ass car for 5 minutes, anyway. Like some of my ex’s, it’s as ugly on the inside as it is on the outside. Being that I’m used to a crisp Honda gearbox, even though the shifting was nice and short, it was pretty damned unintuitive. This was all noted as I sat there like a six year old pretending to change gears and squeal around corners to get the feel for the car. Thank goodness no one was watching.

The only saving grace for the STi is what is under the hood, and on Planet Subaru, that’s a little to “risky” to let a prospective buyer near.

I ask you, “WTF?”

Saving Grace
After the whole BS at the Subaru dealer, I was glad to go see the GF’s niece, whose tiny smile and fat cheeks have little idea of what kind of horseshit they stack into car dealerships these days. On the way home, we discussed the GF’s sister in law referring to me as “Uncle Jonny.” As the GF and I are not married, this is a very kind inclusion to bestow upon me, but technically incorrect. It was like getting an honorary doctorate.

When the GF asked me if this was ok with me, I said that I was actually pretty pleased with it. And if I had stopped there, it would’ve been ok. Unfortunately, I added, “Well I think we are pretty solid. There’s no stopping this thing, anyway. It’s like a freight train.”

I don’t think it came out the way I meant it.

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As I was switching from right lane to left on the way to work today, a big ass truck was trying to make a left from a side street and heading for the same spot that I was.

I got there first.

That’s when the truck began flashing its lights behind me, cut into the right lane and sped up next to me.

I blew a kiss to the woman calling me an asshole and screaming out the window at me. My initial thought was that without the cars, this 100 lb woman is screaming at a 210 lb man. My second thought is that I think SUV’s tend to make women and short men more aggressive drivers.

I have been in many accidents, and not once has a guy given me any grief after the crash. We exchange papers and call the insurance company. No yelling. No punching. Just exchanging and leaving. I swear that road rage among women in SUVs is much, much higher than that of men (or people who drive normal sized cars), and I wish there were a study out there that I could check to see if I’m correct.

In my opinion, women in SUVs seem to think that the large hunk of metal that they’re piloting down the road is a part of them, and creates the “might is right” mentality on the road. “My car is bigger, therefore you get out of my way, as I am mighty! Feel my power! Fear my vanity mirror! Grrrr.

The issue that I see is that sometimes people forget that inside cars on the road there are people. And some of those people are completely fucking crazy. And no amount of height in an SUV is going to help when one of those crazy idiots follows them home and chokes the life out of them in their driveway.

Folks, please do me a little favor and stop trying to make up for your lack of power at home by being assholes on the road. I’m just trying to get to work, which is hard enough.

Can’t we all just get along? Better yet, can’t we all just get topless?

Work Rules

If you want to borrow my time or expertise under the wire to further one of your projects, please try to follow these simple rules:

1. Don’t pass my work off as your own.
2. Don’t throw me under the bus by making private communication public via forwarding e-mail.
3. Don’t ask me to provide you with unlicensed copies of software so that you can learn to do what you currently say you can do by passing my work off as your own and throwing me under the bus.

No Rules: Telemarketing

I spent 15 minutes on the phone with an MCI telemarketer, in a vocal selection that can be imagined as an old Southern man. I told him that my favorite places to call were Juneau, Alaska and Tahiti because the people of Tahiti have wonderful skin, and although I don’t really have friends there, I just need to know what the hell they’re doing up there in Alaska. When asked about how much my phone bill was, I told him, “I don’t know $500? $280? My wife handles that.” When He tried to sell me a $55 plan, I lost my mind and told him hat I didn’t have $55, and asked if there was a $10 plan. When he reminded me that I was already paying $500, I exclaimed, “$500! $500! That’s crazy!” This loop ate 5 minutes of the call. Describing Tahitians ate a few more.

When I was running low on material, the telemarketer said the word combined, allowing me to act as if he said that he was going to come by. I told him to swing by before nine because I have to go to bed, to which he asked me to leave the door open. I responded that I never leave the door open and he would have to learn the secret knock.

“It goes knock-knock knock… knock… knock…”
“OK, sir if I could just tell you about…”
“Hold on, son. Repeat that back to me so I’ll know you got it.”
“knock-knock knock… knock… knock…”
“That’s good. I’ll know it’s you. Just be here before 9. I’m not one of those nuts who stays up all night.”
“Right. Now, if I could just sign you up for…”
“Sign me up?? Do you have any idea the kind of trouble that I’d be in if my wife knew “that I was using the phone?”
“Sir?”
“Big Trouble. See, I’m not really allowed to use the phone.”
(slowly) “You’re not allowed to use the phone.”
“No because I’m always calling Tahiti. Have you seen the skin on those people?”

And on and on and on…

I felt kind of bad afterward, but I hope the kid got a story to tell out of it. Yes, I told him to take me off of his list. Yes, I’m probably going to hell.

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Upon exiting the train station, as always, I walked up the Church Street steps only to find that I had gone up the wrong stairs. I do this every time. I walked down to the pit, where I should’ve come out, and got my bearings for a minute. Harvard square, which once was a place I couldn’t walk two feet without bumping into three people that I knew, was drowned in a sea of unfamiliar faces dressed in all too familiar uniforms.

The punks were still in the pit, exposing their tattoos and hiding their fears. The alternative folks still leaned cooly against walls with both haircuts and fashions chosen from the same flea market. Both camps, while in direct competition for cool, joined in sneering at the neatly dressed, beautiful children of the wealthy yakking on their cell phones as if everyone were an endless string of Nobodies

And there I stood, smack in the middle of it all, a ship without a port, and without a shuttle to the Acura dealer. I plunked myself down on a wall and called Acura for a shuttle. Unfortunately for me, there wasn’t one for an hour. Having nothing to do, and no longer having a single friend in any of the record stores in the area, I headed into a bookstore to stare at books that I would never buy.

In the course of a day an hour can pass me unnoticed, but in that bookstore, I looked at my watch about every 4 minutes as if by checking the time I was helping each individual minute to expire a little faster. After looking at every book in two stores twice, I gave up and headed to wait by the news stand for the shuttle.

People flowed around me like a slowly polluting river until I longed for a bank to scramble up onto. I didn’t find them as amusing or interesting as they found themselves, and I unwillingly started to understand some of the feelings in Sartre’s Nausea. Humanity lost it’s beauty, and I wanted simply to get my car and get the fuck away from all of them.

The Ride
The shuttle driver couldn’t speak English all that well, but not all that badly, either. He was in his twenties, shaved bald, and looked possibly Peruvian, but definitely South American. He provided some words in the conversation, and I filled in the blanks where he stumbled in a story which I really didn’t give half a shit about hearing.

Honestly, if someone wants to talk to me, I’ll listen and try to make the best of the worst conversations if the intentions of the speaker are good. It’s like tolerating bad conversations from good people. Plus, if someone feels better after, great. In a car, you really don’t have much choice without being an a-hole.

Although the guy never knew it, I just wanted to stare out the window.

The Dealer
By the time we got to the dealer, I wished the driver luck and went in to get my car. After paying $1200 to get my car, the ABS light was still on as I drover off. As this was the original reason that the car went in, I wouldn’t describe my condition at that moment as “happy.” I jammed my car into reverse and flew backwards across the parking spot depositing my car where I had just picked it up.

It seems that my service manager had misunderstood what I wanted done on my car and had gone home for the day. As we had talked several times over a few days and the guy has been pretty good about putting my car in working order over the last 8 years, I wasn’t about to make a stink. I just calmly tried to get another service manager to schedule a time for the ABS to be fixed. Even though they had had the car for four days, I figured that there was no real reason to get steamed.

In the five years since my warranty ran out, I have never been offered a loaner when my car has gone in to the dealer. Not once (I was without a car for the previous four days while they worked on it!) It must’ve been my lucky day, as the guy gave me a 2004 Acura TSX to tool around with until my car was ready. That was totally unexpected. I felt great. I felt like I caught a break. I felt like the river had cleaned up a little.

The Review
The TSX is a BMW 325 replacement without the cool look, nice interior, or status that goes along with it. I can’t really fault the car in any way, but if you’re into driving a BMW, and you have 28 large to throw at a car the TSX may interest you.

To me though, the car provided little excitement beyond the first 15 minutes of driving. It’s nice. It is. It has 200 ponies, and leather, and variable suspension, and that automatic/manual transmission thing, and some nice looking headlights, but I couldn’t get past the “sporty grampa” feel of the car. I don’t know. Maybe its me. I can’t really explain why I didn’t like it. The closest I can get is when you walk into a really nice house, but it does nothing for you at all. Everything is there for you to like, but it just doesn’t work for you.

One gripe I do have is that I hated that fucking manual/auto transmission crap. Hated it. There was too little power in auto, and too little control in manual. It actually made me angry. I can tolerate annoying humans for a fair amount of time, but pair me up with a technology that I don’t like, and I have a nutty.

Double plus it’s $28,000! Have you any idea the CIVIC I can build with 28 large? Do you?

I don’t know. Maybe I’m too hahd to please, dood. Time f’some sherbit and some bed.

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If I don’t fix it, I will die in Boston’s miserable summer heat with no A/C. I will be on my way to a wedding or an interview, and the heat and giant pit stains will keep my best foot backward.

If I do fix it, I will kick myself for not putting the money down on an IS300, G35 Mazda6, WRX STi, Lancer EVO, or a Civic with honkin’ neon and a turbo.

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Reasons
If I walk 30 steps, my right shoe will untie itself. It never happens to the left shoe. I have no idea why.

Multi-Threading
I’ve resolved the Perl multithreading issue that I had a couple of days ago. Unfortunately, the module that I choose to output to Excel with, Win32::OLE, is not compatible with multithreading. So again, I need to find a workaround.

El Auto
I may get the auto back tomorrow.

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Loaners
Today, loaned one Pete a video game, and the other a Swedish phrase book. Both loans were unsolicited, but accepted anyway.

April Fools
I taped the bottom of everyone’s mouse, and even went so far as to tape a mouse and unplug the keyboard, hopefully causing a double troubleshooting issue. I also unplugged the handset on someone’s phone. Nothing big, but I care enough to prank.

April Fools?
Someone asked me for a dyers.org embroidered patch. As I thought it was a joke, I asked if it was for the back of his dungaree jacket. I think he may have been serious, so it’s really too bad I don’t have one.

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El Auto
The first appraisal is in, and the damages currently total $3200+. Given the sheer number of parts that have been replaced on this puppy, I’m officially declaring this car to be a 2004 Integra when/if it is returned.

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What did I get? A Chevy Impala.

Good

• Independence
• 180 HP and 205 ft/lbs of tire squealing torque.
• Cool looking headlights
• The radio can stream the title of the song, so you can say, “Ahh, this crappy group is named A.F.I.”

Bad

• Too big, too American
• Grey as my ol’ ‘87 Celebrity, with just as dated styling
• The headlights don’t shut off.
• It has weird seats that are bench on the bottom and bucket on the top. They are soft enough to give you a backache and only extend to mid thigh on a normal human male.
• In the ride to and from work, I wasted a quarter of a tank of gas sliding around corners on a floaty suspension that gives you no impression that you are on the road at all.
• It has a chintzy American interior
• It smells like grandpa.

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