The Cobra

Life is a mashing together of yawns and mouth-watering moments that can end up kicking you in the face while wearing a cream colored jacket with a yellow scorpion on the back of it if you aren't careful. But caution takes on many forms, and simple actions can turn into life-threatening acts of idiocy.

Say, for instance, that you drive a black Cadillac. A nice, luxurious black Cadillac with climate control, built in Nav and Bluetooth, a six speed automatic and heated bucket seats. You love your Cadillac, and it loves you. The truth is that you've liked Cadillacs your entire life, whether you've known it or not. They are dependable and beautiful.

That's grand.

One day, you take your Cadillac to the dealership for an oil change. Your passion for your Cadillac never wavers--you even tell the techs to top it off with synthetic even though you know that you're going to change your oil in 3000 miles anyway (you're in this for the long-haul). While you're waiting for your beloved yacht-of-the-road to get it's new drink, you step outside onto the lot just to see what your favorite car brand has come out with for the next model year.

And then, there it is.

Suddenly, the sky shifts and the sun pokes out through the holes in an oddly-shaped grey sky. The world seems a little less beautiful, somehow. It sits trapped in a beam of light from the menace sun that just moments before filled blue skies and made birds chirp. A 2004 Cobra, Cinnamon Red. You know, the supercharged dirty one that your mother always warned you about.

You never wanted this, but now your life is different.

You walk over to it tepidly, attempting to appear as though your heart hasn't dropped into your stomach. It's a 6-speed manual, low to the ground, chrome exhaust tips and the single most aggressive hood that you've ever seen. That glorious, bulging hood that literally grabs you by the collar and then screams at you not to look if you want to preserve any of your dignity.

It's angry, it's rear-wheel drive and you know that driving it for even an hour could kill you, literally. And yet, there you are--still looking at it like a fox eyeing a hen. Except then you realize that it's the other way around.

The last barrier between you and total lunacy is the price tag, and your logic stands like Gary Cooper in the third row of a Megadeath concert, struggling helplessly against your curiosity. And then the stump of logic is pounded into the ground. You look. And your next thought...

"I could probably get that and more if I trade in my Cadillac."

And now you're actually considering it, you're actually considering downgrading; sacrificing the comfort of your loved Cadillac for the thrill and excitement of that dreadful, coarse and wildly beautiful deathtrap-to-be as piloted by the still immortal child inside of you.

And the hood... The inhumanity of that hood.

Just then, your salesman walks out to you to let you know that your car is ready. You've been his customer for years, maybe even a decade or two, so he has both of your interests in mind. He sees you giving that old Cobra a nice how's-your-father and gets a worried but sympathetic expression.

"Yeah...." He draws it out real slow-like. "We got that on a trade for a new ATS."

Logic suddenly triumphs and you realize a myriad of things all at once. The car isn't practical (this is New York, for Christ's sake, we have a bad winter), it has none of the creature comforts you love, it's probably way too much car for you to handle (and you're not afraid to admit it, because some humility will keep you alive sometimes) and you still have that Cadillac.

The most important thing that you realize is that this inferno of a vehicle has been around the block a few times. Hell, it might have even killed somebody. It's just that much of a lunatic. And someone else gave it up for something that you already have.

You look up at Stew (come on, what would you have named him?) with a look of relief, sweat pouring down your face even though it's a crisp 67 degrees. You smile what you're sure must be a toothless smile as a result of the pounding you've taken for your internal struggle.

Someday you'll buy Stew a beer. Or, maybe you'll buy a useless trunk cargo net the next time you buy a car from him. The sky clears up again and as you walk away you look back at that source of your Harvey Dent-esque mood swings. Approaching the car is a young man in a sideways hat with his mom and dad.

You came to the dealership looking for an oil change and you almost left with a death wish.

But every now and then when someone passes you in their supped-up and blacked-out LS1 Camaro, you wonder, "How bad could it really have been?" Then you look at the exceptionally tasteful Napa Valley wood trim and turn on the heated leather seat.

It doesn't matter, because your Cadillac has and always will feel like home. Sometimes you should just leave good enough alone.

Update 6/27/13

Today's update is my favorite episode of Dinner: Impossible with a special guest! Be sure to check it out (along with the Audi S5 in the intro) on TAG: Food!

theautomotivegentlemanfood.blogspot.com

The Mustang 1 Concept

Here's a nice video from ford about the Mustang 1 concept. Be sure to pay attention to the interior shots and the gauge pods on the dash. Classic.

Update 6/26/13

Today's update has been posted to the TAG: Sports page. What's your dream starting 11?

http://theautomotivegentlemansports.blogspot.com/

Don't forget to follow me on Twitter. @TheAutoGent

Update 6/25/13

Today's post is on my food page! Be sure to check it out!

theautomotivegentlemanfood.blogspot.com

Update 6/24/13

Check out today's post on TAG: Sports!

Fanatic or Aficionado?
http://theautomotivegentlemansports.blogspot.com/

New Pages

Be sure to follow my new pages as well! Updates will be regular and prolific.

TAG Food: theautomotivegentlemanfood.blogspot.com

TAG Sports: theautomotivegentlemansports.blogspot.com

Pinterest

Follow my fledgling Pinterest boards as well. They're 'gunna be awesome!

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The Perfection of an Art

In 2011, the sleepy and gentle nature of my tastes were brought violently awake by an explosion of style, grace and elegance.

As far as cars are concerned, I think that I’ve been an aficionado for somewhere around 15 years. I still remember the first time that I fell in love with a car. It was a 1996 Jeep Grand Cherokee and it was owned by someone with an extremely obscure relationship to me. I was riding in this car with my grandmother and my obscure relative to go and get some medicine or baby formula (looking back, I’m not quite sure why I was included in this car ride). What I remember is the sunshine coming through the windows onto the tan leather, the comfort of the seat against my back and the coolness of the air conditioning on the hot summer day.

After that, I couldn’t help but see these cars everywhere I went. I would be riding with my family in our 1992 Dodge Grand Caravan (Black Cherry in color) and observe these fantastic cars going to and fro carting their ultra-fortunate passengers to whatever destination they might have in mind. I told my mother that someday I would own a Jeep Grand Cherokee. That evoked a hearty laugh since I was about 7 years old and she probably anticipated that the world would implode on itself before I ever earned my driver’s license.

From there, I started noticing more cars. I loved the 1998 Pontiac Grand Prix that my family rented when our van had to go into the shop—it was red and shiny and the first modern full-sized sedan in which I had ever sat. I loved the 1987 Cadillac Deville that my grandmother’s friend picked us up in to go to their senior citizens club so that I could clean up at pitch. It was ugly and beautiful in its own right and aged with a grace equal to that of the two white-haired women who occupied its front bench seat.

As I grew older, I was given a subscription to Car and Driver. From 2004 until I left the house for college, I was addicted to reading technical articles and ‘comparos’ the way that Richard Simmons is addicted to being overly excited about exercising. It was something that I thought about day and night (whenever I wasn’t analyzing projectile motion or calculating spring constants for physics class). In 2005, I rode along for a test drive in a 2003 Mach 1 Mustang.  When we were done, I was absolutely convinced that I needed one. Before that moment, believe it or not, I knew nothing about muscle cars. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a Chevette and a Chevelle. But, afterwards, it was almost as though I had accidentally stepped into the wardrobe and found a completely different world waiting for me inside. I couldn’t consume enough information about the new Mustangs, the Camaros and Firebirds that had gone out of production in 2002 or any muscle cars that preceded those. Thus began my long love affair with American Muscle that still persists to a much smaller extent to this day.

But boys grow into men, and when that happens an odd change stirs on the dusty plains of gentlemanhood.

I had just graduated college in May of 2011 and was at family dinner. I hadn’t been staying up-to-date on the automotive industry because I couldn’t afford a subscription and it was, quite frankly, painful to know that I would always have a difficult time affording almost any of the cars that I saw in the magazine. My uncle announced that he had purchased a 2012 Audi S4 and would be taking delivery sometime in the fall. Now, the last time that I had paid any attention to Audi was in 2007 when they were bulbous and painful looking. You know, when they looked like someone had taken a Volkswagen Passat and given it four nose piercings. Because of this, I paid no heed to his excitement and carried on with my salt potatoes.

When he took delivery and came to family dinner on that fateful September day, though, my world halted and for the first time in my life I believed that the Greeks got it right when they said that there were gods for everything. The god of cars had played a personal part in the sculpting of this beautiful, Panther Black machine of destiny.

Every line was absolutely breathtaking. The sweep of the front quarter panel that continued through the doors to the rear quarter panel was like a song that drifted casually and beautifully through a calm summer night. The symmetrical protrusions of the horns on the front fascia gave it a gentle malice which dared you to try something, no, anything that would allow the driver to unleash all 330 horses from the supercharged engine out the quad-pipe exhaust in a symphony of raspy perfection and glory.

He offered to take me for a ride and I almost cried. We got in and I couldn’t breathe for a moment. If I thought the exterior was art, then the interior was the perfection of it. The controls were so cleverly placed, the fit and finish were so perfect and the seat hugged me in the most gentle and reassuring way. It told me, “You are not worthy, but you are here with me and I will keep you safe.”

We left the neighborhood and neither of us said a word. He understood where I was—he grew up a poor kid who had worked his way to the top. For all that I knew, he had the same experience when he was my age which had propelled him into greatness. What I did know was that we had turned onto a long and deserted back road. He stopped the car completely while I waited. Utilizing several controls within the cabin, he activated sport mode and waited a second before mashing the accelerator in a completely unadulterated fury.

He might as well have given me ten thousand dollars for the rush of excitement. I felt the Quattro all-wheel drive dig mercilessly into the pavement and we were off like a shot. The only thing that brought me back was his menacing pounding of the suddenly firmer clutch pedal and his dramatic shift into second gear. With the windows open, I could hear the gravelly howl of the exhaust like a Bruce Springsteen encore for a grateful audience. The shift to second and then third came and just a moment later I felt him shut it down and apply the brakes gently.

Returning to our neighborhood, I looked at him. To this day, I’m not sure if I was grinning or somber faced but I offered a very pregnant, “Thank you so much.” Within that expression of gratitude was a young man consumed by the back seat of a Jeep Grand Cherokee and later a Cadillac Deville longing for a more artful and simultaneously visceral automotive experience without even knowing it. Within my words was an essay on how that ride had changed my entire life, changed me from a skirt-chasing muscle car obsessed teenager into a man who needed art, not just speed.

In that short car ride, the boy inside of me was finally put out to pasture, and I became inhabited by a man obsessed with experiencing more expressions of the perfection of an art.

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Introductions Aren't Just for Books

Why are you here? No, I don't mean existentially--I mean why are you reading this?

My goals are simple, provide you with fun and interesting pieces as I strive to find my place in a world that's bigger than I ever could have known. I'll do that by sharing my favorite notions on fashion, food, music and (most importantly) cars.

Yes, my friend, cars. Like a majority of other men my age, I have a passion for the expensive, dangerous and sometimes loud machines which Henry Ford once told Americans they could have in any color that they wanted as long as it was green or black.

But, I'm not like most men, and neither are you. While I can understand why some of us are interested in cars to see how fast they will go or who can do the most ridiculous burn out in front of an ice cream parlor, that's not what keeps me up until 3 am reading automotive forums. I want to know why people love cars and what they love about them. I want to know what it is that makes some of us work for years at jobs that we hate just so that for 25 minutes at the start and end of each day, we can experience pure bliss in a car that we paid too much for and that could simply be gone if you or the person in the car next to you makes the smallest mistake.

I want to share with you my passion, and I want you to share your passion with me.

So, a bit about my background. In highschool, I was a big fish in a little pond. I was involved in just about every uncool musical group that you could imagine, graduated 11th in a class of 200 (that's right, I couldn't manage to get into the top ten) and I was a wiz at Physics. Having spent not much time considering my future, I latched onto one thing in which I had always been interested: cars. Designing cars was something that I could see myself doing for the rest of time.

So, I decided that I wanted to study Aeronautical Engineering to get me into shaping sheet metal. And study Aeronautical Engineering I did...for a semester. Then I transferred to a different school and studied General Engineering...for a semester. The problem that I found with studying Engineering was that it left me with little room to study art and literature. It wasn't long before I was removing my major altogether in a valiant and largely successful effort to banish myself to a life of mediocrity. I transferred again and finally donned a new major. In my last-ditch effort to assure that I would only be qualified for a minimum wage retail job at the mall when I finished my degree with some $50,000 of debt, I chose to be a double major in International Studies and Philosophy with no intent of studying abroad, moving to Washington D.C. or pursuing a Ph.D. in the latter area.

My financial prospects weren't even the worst part. The true tragedy of this whole story is that with every terrible decision, I was working myself further away from an exciting career that had anything to do with cars.

That's where you come in; that's why you're reading this right now. This venture is my desperate attempt to gain back some of the raw potential that I lost when I made my decisions to move away from my original path. I am Doc Brown and Marty McFly in one overstuffed package--this blog is my beautiful DeLorean turned time machine via haphazardly placed Mr. Fusion filled to the brim with overzealous ambition and lost dreams. You, like me, understand that there's more to a love of cars than mashing an accelerator. I want you to come on this journey with me because I understand that you too have an unending and relentless passion for premium unleaded. If your partner said that you had to sell your coupe or sleep on the couch until it wasn't in the driveway anymore, you'd think about grabbing a blanket from the closet. If it came to shrinking your grocery budget so that you could buy the GT instead of the base V6, you'd consider it.

And, because you're an Automotive Gentleman, you'd make the right choice.