~ Post contributions, comments or rebuttals to our guestbook, and advisories to our archive (...mind your manners, if you please) ~

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Table_of_Contents

~ With utmost impunity we embellish ourselves lamenting the Theory of Bureaucratic Behavior's ever-burgeoning hall of fame & shame ~

 

The Panic of 2008 ~ (... end of days for capitalism)

On Hiatus from the Excesses of Capitalism ~ (... a wonderful time for driving)

Annihiliation of a Perfectly Good Race Driver ~ (... it hurts to have to watch)

Statistical Analysis: Open Wheel Racing, in its Final Hour ~ (...race bosses run amok)

Analysis: The Operation Safe Canyon Charade ~ (...revisited)

Analysis: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby ~ (...the "take it to the track" cliche)

Strange Brew: Oil Oligopolies Run Amok in California ~ (... Californians, getting the shaft)

Egg On Their Face: The Operation Safe Canyon Doublestandard ~ EXTRA-EXTRA!

Corvette Nights, Faux Cowboys & Pick-up Truck Dreams ~ (... another slice of American Pie)

The Confusion of Left & Right ~ (... Newsies, and their crony propaganda)

When was the last time Ford had an idea? ~ (... Retrograde mentality bites the dust)

Operation Safe Canyon Double Standard ~ (... How come Arnold wasn't busted?)

What This Country Needs is Another $30,000 Pussy Car ~ (...disequilibrium in the automobile industry)

Hybrid Externalities & Unwritten Laws ~ (...the DMV sucks)

Anticipating your 2005 World Driving Champion ~ (...Mid seasoned F1 Statistical Analysis)

Marital Advice: What to do when the 'ol Gal gets too fat! ~ (...she can really hoist a Maytag!)

Policy Analysis: The 2005 United States Grand Prix Fiasco ~ (...off with Max Mosley's Head!)

The Affirmative Action 500 ~ (...the end is near)

EXTRA-EXTRA: Intelligence Blunder in the Operation Safe Canyon Smokescreen! ~ EXTRA-EXTRA!

The Martha Stewart Por Le Meux-Mobile ~ (...A slice of American Pie!)

Los Angeles Metro's "Let's Make More Car Chases!" Conspiracy ~ (...Down with bureaucracy!)

Los Angeles Metro's "Let's Confiscate More Cars!" Shakedown ~ (...Another gripping eposide of Andy & Barney!)

Abuses Observed in "Operation Safe Canyons" Debacle ~ (...The Mr. Safe Canyon FUDmeister is coming to get you!)

PINK-SLIP ADVISORY: The "Operation Safe Canyons" Smokescreen ~ (...Los Angeles Metro, making a grab, for your car!)

Preliminary Analysis: Fortress Mulholland & The "Operation Safe Canyons" Cabal ~ (...the Sabretooth Tiger Analogy)

Local Newsies are Crawling Out, From Under the Woodwork! ~ (...Canyon Dragnet is Imminent!)

The Great Wall of Mulholland: "Operation Safe Canyons" Czar! ~ (...Hail, to the New Mulholland Raceway Czar!)

What started it all: The Ponch & John Sales Tax Subsidy: Vote NO on County Measure A! ~ (... down with blood sucking vultures!)

~ EXTRA-EXTRA! FORD PULLS OUT THE RUG ON FORMULA 1 ~ (... Again!)

~ Public Enemy Number One: The Contemporary SUV ~

~ Asleep at the Wheel: Just How Bad Things Really Are ~ (... The hybrid in yaw experience)

ADVISORY: ALL MITSUBISHI EVOLUTION VIII DRIVERS ~ (... SERVICE ADVISORY)

~ What are we supposed to do when the old gal gets fat? ~ (... Fat, overpriced sports cars, revisited)

~ The Mitsubishi "Spider" Debacle: Crosswalking SCCA Results to Vehicle Warranty Policy ~ (... Time to change your racing name!)

~ Open Letter to Redneck America ~ (... Down with Bureaucratic Insanity!)

~ Barney Fife! To the Rescue! Little Tujunga Advisory ~ (... Fair Warning: Big Brother is Upon Us)

~ Current State of Toyota F1's Five Year Plan ~ (... and other observations)

~ Monotheism Revisited: Case of Gianclaudio Regazzoni and Rubens Barrichello ~ (... Down with Montezemolo!)

~ Open Wheel Road Racing is Dead in America. Long live Open Wheel Road Racing! ~ (... Down with the IRL!)

~ SEFAC Ferrari: The Shrinking Violet of Contemporary Motorsport ~ (... Ferrari guys are whussies)

~ The Malibu Grand Prix Driving Experience of Yore ~ (... Down with SCCA!)

~ What do you do when the Old Gal Gets Fat? ~ (... Down with fat, overweight sports cars!)

~ California's Car Tax, Revisited ~ (... The Brainless Wonder, to the rescue!)

~ Analysis: The Juan Pablo Montoya Debacle at Williams ~ (... Aspiring driver's beware)

~ Bernie Gets Burned! ~ (... Subversion of Bernie Ecclestone by Big Tobacco)

~ The Sports Car is Dead... Long live the Sports Car ~ (... Karl Polyani lives!)

~ 21st Century McCarthyism in America ~ (...Tail-gunner Joe, revisited)

~ Tony George's War on Open-Wheel Road-Racing in America

~ The Carpet of Gold ~ (... George Junior is a punk)

~ Crony Capitalism & Crony Socialism ~ (...George Bailey is a chump)

~ Off-Duty Ass Clowns Flashing Badges ~

~ Catch-22 Revisited: The Angeles Forest Highway Conundrum ~

~ Ferrari: The Baby Who Never Grew Up ~

~ Dr. Albert Einstein's "Who Own's The Fish?" ~

~_The IMOC Dweeb ~

~_RIP: Epitaph to the Speedvision Debacle ~

~_Structure of Mulholland Raceway ~

~_Third Speedvision Debacle! ~ (...now we're banned, I think)

~_Mulholland Raceway Banned by Speedvision! ~ (...or so we thought)

~_Wry Tribute to Our Namesake ~

~_The First Speedvision Debacle ~ (...our first spat)

~_High Death Rate Vehicles ~

 

Table of Contents

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"All hell broke loose..."

 

Springtime of 2009

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

Did you hear the one about the millionaire Wall Street exec, with the big government bail-out?

 

Driving down the street one morning, in his 90 thousand dollar SUV, million dollar hedge fund guy on his way to work hears his car phone ring. So, he picks it up. Surprise-surprise, it's his favorite Washington politician, calling to reassure him it's a done deal -- that he gets the good 'ol boy Wall Street bail-out! Couple trillion bux to spend. More later. The news makes him so happy, he finds himself involuntarily laughing and fist pumping, as though he's just scored touchdown! He closes his eyes in joy, lost in the moment, and runs a red light, center-punching an old Honda. Such a small car! The big SUV cuts the little thing, in two. He gets out of the car, stunned. He hears a child faintly whimpering, from the other side of his SUV. So, he walks around the vehicle, in a daze, stunned to discover a little girl, her kindergarten sized body tangled-up like a rag doll in his wheel-whel, calling for her mommy. Before our hero has time to react, she bleeds out and dies. Surveying the carnage, it's messy. Once a happy family reduced to bodies scattered about the intersection, little girl's parents and siblings down on the asphalt, not much else for Wall Street's best and brightest CEO to do but sit down on the kerb, sip the rest of his Starbucks while Police and EMTs mop up the mess. Then, the traffic officer wanders over to him, places his hand of the exec's shoulder, tells him the great news, that he's free to go; that none of this is his fault! The father, driving on suspension without insurance, this whole thing's not his fault. You see, that little Honda-car should never have been in that intersection when the Wall Street exec ran that red light! What a relief! Beginning to feel better, already! This may turn out to be a great day, after all! Hardly a scratch to his SUV! Most importantly, he's off scot-free! Back to his old self a lot sooner than he thought, the exec hops in, drives to work, meanders into the underground parking lot, steps out and tosses over the keys, gives instruction to the valet, run his vehicle over to the detail shop, have wheel-whels and undercarriage steamed-out, alloy wheels buffed, and have it back by lunchtime. Or, else...

 

Pretty good one. Huh?

 

Rough going out there, isn't it? I do not have good news for you. Real estate, capital markets, domestic industry in a downward spiral. America, going down the tubes. Gotten so bad, every individual in the United States of America now has someone in their periphery of colleagues, friends, acquaintances or loved-ones, who's bound for (or has already hit...) rock bottom. I'm seeing guys once driving Corvettes, Porsches and Ferraris struggling to muster a down payment on a lousy 370-Z. Congratulations to neo-conservative philosophy, I hear business at the Craig's list is booming. I'm seeing educated, affluent gentleman -- homeless, abandoned, left for dead, living in tents -- trophy girl wives in wholesale exodus for greener pastures, posting-up ads to the Craig's List, for new benefactors.

 

Once upon a time, long ago, best car on this planet was a Ford. Congratulations to neo-conservative policymakers and free-market capitalists, America now buys more KIAs and Hyundais, than Mercedes, BMWs, Saabs, Volvos, Porsches and Audis, combined (TABLE - Auto industry U.S. May results by auto groups):

 

http://www.reuters.com/article/companyNewsAndPR/idUSN022171420090602

 

Used to be the other way around. Once upon a time in America, we bought more Mercedes-Benz, than Subarus.

 

Reason you can't get a high paying job, case you were wondering: Corporations reserve corner office slots, to repay political favors. You, never the wiser, some politician behind the scenes, pulling strings for someone in his family, someone in he owes a political favor to, gets the job you were supposed to get.

 

Crony capitalism...

 

Alcoholic dimwit you people put in the White House the last eight years, we finally got the bum on the bus; one way ticket back to Texas. Don't blame him for all this. Don't blame the creep from Arkansas, from the previous eight year term. This thing predates them, both. Every problem we're having, now, traces its roots -- back-back-back, waaay back -- to one guy. No room for argument, worst President in U.S. history: Ronald Reagan. This whole thing -- his fault, entirely. Every single policy Ronald Reagan affected, from PATCO to Iran-Contra, utility deregulation to bank deregulation -- debt equities to mortage securitization -- failed, miserably so, with far reaching macroeconomic consequences profoundly felt decades downrange from the onset of the Gipper's senility. Irony so thick it cuts with a knife, crux of America's 2008 meltdown has ultimately proven identical to erosion, circa 1989, which sinkholed the macroeconomic basis of the USSR... Incentives.

 

Hopelessly skewed incentives.

 

America's neo-conservative free-market capitalism shunted itself into the turn 12 Armco, a function of same hopelessly distorted USSR style incentives, and the same textbook USSR style policy community indifference to oversight we've been taking about, right here on this page, several years.

 

United States, much like a spendthrift 22 year old girl gone wild, run amok with her credit cards, we are not doing what we're supposed to be doing. At the helm, our fearless leader at the Federal Reserve, Ben Bernanke, spent his academia studying one thing: The Great Depression. Professor Bernanke intently studied how the Federal Reserve failed in its function, as lender of last resort; how all those small thrifts, and small banks were considered by the Federal Reserve, circa 1932, a nuisance. Dr. Bernanke studied how the Federal Reserve stood idly by, indifferently allowing the backbone of American banking to fail, and with it down the drain, the wealth of our forefathers. Circa 1932, providing liquidity to these small banks and thrifts would have prevented their insolvency; preserved the wealth of our grandparents and our great grandparents, who ultimately lost their life savings, but for no good reason than our Federal Reverve's indifference.

 

Panic of 2008, what has our hero, Ben Bernanke, been doing? Flooding the market with liquidity? Awashing banks in an orgy of cash? Force-feeding banks excess reserves, Professor Bernanke's trying to inflate his way out of what he's been trained to perceive -- a recession.

 

Hate bursting your bubble. Thing about our particular macroeconomic circumstance -- the Panic of 2008 is NOT a recession. How do I know all this? Because I studied the same fucking thing Bernenke did! I have several degrees in this shit. I'm a better economist. Smarter, too... smart enough to know when I've been ripped-off; smart enough to know who it was, who just ripped me off.

 

Big secret we scholars have been protecting you from, last 80 years: Capitalism doesn't work worth beans.

 

Envision a dumb girl, strung out on credit card debt. How's she solve the problem? Either, she's going to have to work two jobs (e.g., increase output; productivity; make something; invent a better mousetrap). Spare bankruptcy, she'll have to post-up for a sugar daddy on the Craig's List (e.g., input-output arrangement; constant elasticity of substitution notwithstanding). Do what Tim Geitner and Ben Bernanke say to do: Throw money at the problem, afford the airhead unlimited liquidity, you're going to make the girl fat, and lazy. You are going to bury the girl in debt. You are going to crush that girl's entrepreneurial spirit.

 

Explaining it, laymen's terms, though it has a recesssionlike flavor, Panic of 2008 is NOT a recession. Fat, lazy, undesirable, overfed, wallowing in a sea of debt, we cannot rationalize away the girl's plight, as a recession. Circa 1930s, America was otherwise a lean, mean macreconomy which melted down, a function of untenability of the gold standard. In contrast, Greenspan and Bernanke force-feeding the poor girl too rich, too high caloric, too high cholesterol a liquidity diet, macroeconomy of the United States of America is so fat, and so lazy, she can no longer walk because her thighs rub together, and she gets a rash.

 

One day the dumb girl wakes up, looks in the mirror; studies the lines in her face, freckles on her cheeks from childhood and adolescence gone, girlish figure gone, tinge of youth waning. Sitting down to pay bills one morning, it occurs to her: still doesn't how to balance a checkbook. Liabilities ten times her assets, long before she's reached age 30, her financial life is a foregone conclusion. All this stuff weighing upon her, how her life didn't turn out quite the way it's supposed to, we cannot characterize the dumb girl's plight, as a cyclical setback (e.g., recession). Recession is irrelevent. Her subsequent nervous breakdown would be a function of fear and panic, devation from trend (e.g., recession) notwithstanding. She's bankrupt! We can't say the girl's having a bad day; that perhaps tomorrow, given increased limit on her credit cards, she'll bounce back. The push-me, pull-me Federal Reserve optimization operandi, procyclically throttling up onerous nature of the poor girl's debt repayment terms, in tandem, increasing her liabilities systematically, to alleviate stress, hoping to ratchet down upon her 5 years from now is not a viable solution to her plight.

 

Panic of 2008 is NOT a deviation from trend which America will bounce back, a function of fluctuation of key interest rates or open market operations. We've got to get the girl to the family attorney, file her a chapter 7 bankruptcy, begin her life over, from scratch; do what we can in hope we instill into the airhead some sense, of balance sheet reality.

 

Imagine Ben Bernanke and Tim Geitner... lackey corner marshals on track day. Imagine you've just cut a tyre down (e.g., debt-strapped nation), car swapped ends, you just went backward, 34 Gs, into the Armco. Fuel cell ruptured, back end of the car catches fire. Got your bell rung pretty good. Headache. Ringing in your ears. Still strapped in, semiconscious; groggy; hard to move. Feels like someone tried to yank our arms and legs out of your sockets. No insurance on racing cars... We've got to get your fire out. You could use some help. Ben Bernanke and Tim Geitner to the rescue, what do they do? More liquidity; negative real rate of interest a disincentive to save; trillions more accrued in debt, those fucking idiots pour an accellerant?

 

You got a raw deal. Real sorry about the guys who poured accellerant over your car. They're criminals. They should be incarcerated, as such. Begging your pardon, I threw down the oil flag on that turn, three years ago. Me, your corner marshal, you would not be crashed and burned.

 

Monumental embarrassment slipping through the cracks: The United States Treasury and The United States Federal Reserve don't have the vaguest clue what they're doing. Comedy of guesswork, every weekday, Monday through Friday, the Federal Reserve constantly flogs you, with macroeconomic micromanagement. What they do accounts to little more than manipulating your real wage, constantly arbitraging it, picking your pockets to stockpile money -- lots and lots of money -- for which to throw you bones, and to kick you.

 

Either way, fair and square, right in the teeth.

 

The Old Dog Hypothesis: Imagine, you got this old dog. He smells. He stinks. Does nothing all day but sit on your porch; shit on your lawn. You don't like him. He doesn't like you. Everyday, coming home from work, you walk right by him. He just lays there. Growls at you; shows his teeth if you wander too close. Good day at work, you throw him a bone (e.g., the Fed, lowering key interest rates). Bad day, somebody at work pissed you off, next time you walk by, can't help yourself, you haul off and kick him (e.g., the Fed, raising key interest rates). Now, you've been at this routine, decades (e.g., raising and lowering and key rates). Right? Sometimes when you kicked him, he snarled. You have scars from when he's taken a bite out of your ankle. Lately, the dog's getting old. Kick him, or throw him a bone, sometimes he just lies there on the porch... Surly old dog, sometimes he snaps; sometimes he won't.

 

Begs more questions than answers: Is the dog too old, too benumbed, to respond to stimulus? When's it time to put the old dog down; get yourself a new one for which to kick around?

 

Linz symposium, eastern scholars are slowly are warming-up to forecasts that, perhaps as early as next year (2010), the old dog (e.g., United States of America) will dissolve, as did the USSR in 1989. Give or take, a 12 year Z-score to either side of 2010 would still constitute a solid forecast. Have a look-see, if and when you find time:

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prediction_of_the_United_States_collapse_in_2010

 

So much for neoconservatism. So much for free-market capitalism. What's next? Flavor of month for the current administration, how about national capitalism? Definition: too-big-to-fail monopolies, duopolies, oligopolies, trusts, special interest groups and cartels safeguarded by government, in sanctuary from balance sheet reality.

 

Also known as Crony capitalism.

 

"ORANGE-ALERT! ORANGE ALERT! TERROR-TERROR!" Bush administration fomented fear. Bush-Cheney tag-teamed Americans, softened them up eight long years, to be afraid -- of just about everything. Circa 2008, terminal end of the Bush administration, playing upon the policy community's fear, Wall Street executives colluded to insight a financial panic... The Panic of 2008. Held hostage to the sum of their socioeconomic fears, the United States Treasury and the Federal Reserve were swindled by Wall Street executives to write them, Carte Blanche, a bail-out so behemoth America's next eight generations can't afford repay it.

 

Jurisprudence: How many perpetrators does it take for a bank robbery in America to be considered legal or unprosecutable? And, how many incremental steps must a bank robbery in America be fractioned, to be considered legal or unprosecutable?

 

One glance at the photo below, we know the answer isn't one. Had one person did what Wall Street just did, he'd be shot like an old dog coming out of a movie theatre. It's illegal for one, perhaps two, or maybe as many as a dozen people, to rob a bank. Apparently not, 900 -- or perhaps 2 thousand. Singular action, illegal bank robbery, fractioning down audacity of what John Dillinger once did to perfection, distilled and refined, into a hundredfold menagerie of compartmentalized, incremental subfunctions to be doled out amongst hundreds of professionals across the financial spectrum, each defined preoccupation singularly innocuous, and each minute role they play intrinsicially legal, Wall Street sliced and diced the robbery of Fort Knox such, that no one person can be held, in-whole nor in-part, accountable for the crime.

 

The audacity, a feat the likes John Dillinger himself couldn't fathom, Wall Street legally robbed Fort Knox, never once having set foot upon it...

 

 

Like Dillinger, no jail could ever hold Wall Street.

 

The Panic of 2008 transcends incompetence. Under the guise of a too-big-to-fail facade, you've been ripped-off. All that money went somewhere. Henry Paulson, Ben Bernanke, Tim Geitner and Alan Greenspan, on their watch, hundreds of trillions, your wealth -- everything you, your fathers, your grandfathers, your great-grandfathers toiled for -- poof gone. Forever. Into the coffers of their buddies on Wall Street, so they can have Starbucks and drive luxury SUVs, living the high life off the fat of the land.

 

First objective our founding fathers set out to accomplish, ex post the revolution... they paid America's bills. All foreign debt stamped PAID IN FULL, established the United States of America as the gold standard of international credit ratings. All for naught, consequence of The Panic of 2008, most staggering level of debt accumulation in the history of mankind, America will no longer be able to afford to manage its nuclear arsenal. 450 thousand year environmental implications, only a sophisticated, wealthy, impeccably well-run nation can afford to underwrite such risk. America, crumbling to become a wretched, debt-strapped third-world kleptocracy, basis upon which America's arsenal of nuclear weapons is stockpiled, has evanesced. Way our nation has been run ex post the Eisenhower administration, mankind can no longer entrust America's policy community to manage our nuclear arsenal.

 

This is not a recession. You've been ripped-off. Damage done is permanent. There is no recovery. This is not something America will bounce back from. Greatest bank robber in history is no longer John Dillinger. Greatest bank robber in history, is Wall Street.

 

How present day macroeconomic circumstance translates to fast, overfed, hard-core canyon driving gnomes of our microcosm? We are not going to like the cars our brave new world will soon be building, for us. These are the good old days. They won't be, for long. Soon, there will be no such thing as sports cars. Indicative of an automatic weapons or assault rifles, our sports cars are next up on the policy community's to-do list, to be targeted to become a politically incorrect scourge upon the nation's highways.

 

The sports car is dead...

 

Like spare parts in Cuba, but for no good reason than some shit-for-brains policymakers, what we've got we'll have to preserve, the balance of our natural lives. Vintage cars in our stables, kerb weight remotely in the vicinity near 2600 pounds, bronze them. Get self-sufficient, debt-free, with a good sized garage for which to stockpile spare parts we'll need, to maintain our lightweight vehicles for canyon driving, indefinitely.

 

So, here we are. You and I, putting our good rubber down, banging up and down our gearboxes, God knows why, racing through the apocalypse, secant to the terminal end of sports car culture, this is it. Better get to it. Get our licks in now, while we still can...

 

Let's you and I bring good memories with us to remember, in the hereafter - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"...He who dies pays all debts"

Table of Contents

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"War cannot be put on a certain allowance"

 

The Summer of 2008

 

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Been a good long while. Hasn't it? About a year since anyone's heard a peep out of us. In the span of one year, the whole world changed. Things aren't going particularly well in the world. Outlook is, at best, dim.

 

Been warning you guys about this, the last several years: "Build lightweight vehicles, or else..."

 

Four bux a gallon, that is not the deal. The deal was: cheap gas. The deal was, bend a few rules if we have to, get that rednect Texas bum into the White House, any which way we can. In return, he's supposed to march into Iraq, quick and nonchalant, swipe that oil right out from under their noses, and make it flow unto us, for our canyon driving folly.

 

Fact of the matter, our President George, bless his soul, doesn't know sick-um from suck-um. Drop dead stupid. The might of the strongest military force in the history of western civilization, took this idiot longer to get control in teeny-tiny third-world Iraq than it did Franklin Delano Roosevelt, mopping up a World War, on two fronts.

 

So thorough, pragmatic and forward thinking was FDR, right down to a gnat's ass he had the post WW II aftermath conveived and articulated, Europe divvied-up, neat and simple, two years before D-Day.

 

Alcoholic dimwit from Texas, every single policy George Jr. attempted to affect, from social security to national security, a monumental failure, running up deficits, spending like a druken sailor, screwing up our economy, the value of the United Sates Dollar gone by way of the Mexican Peso, prestige of the United Sates of America the laughing stock of western civilization, in a few months he goes home with but one success; his eight year tenure the only thing he managed to accomplish: The National Do Not Call List.

 

He bankrupted it. But for no good reason that Stupid George, the United States of America is, in affect, bankrupt.

 

We warned you about this guy. Imbeciles you keep electing to high office... You put him there. You did not listen. So, now you have to pay. Here we are, midsummer of 2008, stupid George's policies put you directly in your congressman's crosshairs of yet another 55 MPH national speed limit.

 

Clue you in on something: 55 MPH speed limit you are not going to like.

 

The 1970s, imposing the double nickle, we ultimately wound up consuming more fossil petroleum than we'd saved. 55 MPH speed limit imposed, fossil fuel consumption instead rose, precipitously. Driving a vehicle optimized for 73 miles per hour -- 73 miles per hour -- would have been significantly more efficient than driving a vehicle optimized for 55 mph -- 73 miles per hour (FYI: under a federallly mandated 55 mph national speed limit, the limit is 73 MPH; so long as you're not in a sports car, you can safely go 73 mph in a 55, no fear of being cited).

 

Been trying to tell you guys this, for years. Slowly killing ourselves, it is a dear price we're paying for fat, overweight vehicles and old technology. Any idiot can build a 600 horspower IC (e.g., internal combustion engine). Time to start building lightweight vehicles; time to find new ways of going fast.

 

Doesn't have to be this way. (1) Slashing average kerb weight 500 pounds, (2) providing corporate tax incentives for maintaining lightweight fleets, and (3) generous personal tax incentives for buying lightweight vehicles, we could otherwise raise the national limit to 85 MPH, and (...AND) simultaneously quarter aggregate demand for fossil petroleum, to 25% of current consumption. The 75% we'd save could be stockpiled and saved, for the petrochemical fertilizer necessary to maintain current agricultural production.

 

For your information, politicians don't impose upon you a 55 mph speed limit to save fuel. They do so, to punish you for being stupid; for making bad choices. Judging by all those SUVs you people bought, you deserve a 55 MPH speed limit; you people deserve politicians as stupid as you are; you deserve paying 20 bux a gallon for gas.

 

Says right there in the Proclamation of the Constipation, you've got the right to be stupid.

 

I was once stupid. Hook, line and sinker, sold down the river without a paddle, automotive journalists at R&T Magazine influenced me to buy the biggest piece of junk ever made by an automaker. Glowing reviews on the SVO Mustang, Road & Track Magazine journalists colluded with Ford Motor Company, in marketing arguably the worst, most poorly engineered performance vehicle ever out of Detroit.

 

Always breaking down. Not only did that mistake cost me. Dearly. It hurt me. Profoundly. Not one race did I ever win in that car. So much did that chassis flex, whensoever up on the lift, doors couldn't be closed.

 

Not so innocent times, yet journalists were universally renouned, their integrity. No one knew the extent to which they were perked, wined and dined, corrupted by automakers to salt and pepper their articles, cheat on road tests, gloss over defects, omit shortcomings in helping automakers differentiate or exaggerate claims. Today, there are no more automotive journalists... Glorified car salesmen. However indirectly they are perked, they are bought and paid for, on the payroll of the automobile oligopilies, paid to part you from your income, differentiate you down the river with no recourse, on a heavier, less efficient, more expensive car than you would otherwise buy.

 

I once believed in that fraternty of men... Men who I thought would never sin on their science.

 

Thumbing through my August issue of Road & Track Magazine, their writers are clueless! Terminal end of the IC's lifespan (e.g., internal combustion engine) here we are, looking stupid paying 5 bux a gallon for cheap watered-down gasoline, contemplating brave new alternative ways of going fast, and there's R&T magazine's best and brightest, stuck in a rut aggrandizing 600 horspower ICs (e.g., Internal Combustion) on the September cover of their magazine, as though Vipers, Corvettes, Porsches, Lamborghinis and million dollar driveway ornaments are, 2008, relevent? Noteworthy? Significant? Oblivious to the Honda Civic SI in their August 2008 issue, the number 1 best car a mindful enthusiast could possibly buy, as per glorified car salesmen at Road & Track Magazine is... the Chevrolet Cobalt?

 

R&T magazine editors proclaim the Cobalt to be one of the best "handling" cars they've ever driven?

 

On the subject of nonsense: How gasoline got to 146 bux a barrel had nothing to do with real supply or real demand. What they're doing with oil and real estate is kind of like eBay, sellers in colluion, pingponging the price up shrill bidding each other's stuff, ripping everybody off. Flight to quality: Having pingponged the price of homes up Enron style, wrecking the market for securitized debt in mortgage based equity, Wall Street's best and brightest money changers, in search of greener pastures, phase shifted diversified portfolios, pulling the rug out on real estate, moving their capital into commodities (e.g., oil furtures), pingponging the price you pay for cheap, watered-down gasoline to a price 5 times what it was 10 years ago. Masterful manipulation of mortgage based equities having doubled the price of a residential dwelling twice, from 1990 to 1999, in one consecutive decade, from 1998 to 2008, fat, lazy Wall Street money changers run amok, doubled the price of cheap, watered down gasoline nearly three times.

 

Funny thing happned: Pulling the rug out from under American homeowners, housing price crumbling, price of light sweet crude five times what it was ten years ago, divorce is down 18%. Destruction of wealth, people can't afford to drive, much less get divorced. Mutual dependence, a function of Wall Street money changers bent upon destruction of America's real wealth, unhappy couples are stuck, clinging together, unable to divvy up their assets.

 

Though I may be in great shape, financially, more than one driver in this group finds himself in dire financial straights.

 

Don't make the mistake thinking this is a recession. The party's over. This thing is a regression. In contraction to a sustainable level of output well below inflated levels Wall Street's money changers & Madison Avenue's master manipulators can otherwise balloon it, we're seeing sights we haven't seen since stagflation of the 1970s. Things are getting so bad, mom can't afford trips to the store. Spike in bicycle accidents, we're seeing kids running errands, shopping lists pinned to their clothing, peddling home from the supermarket, grocery bags suspended from their handle bars. We're seeing Ponch & John generating traffic ticket revenue, pulling over kids on bicycles, writing them citations! We're seeing young motirists stranded at gas stations and roadside, wallets empty, gas tank dry, abandoning their vehicles on the nation's highways, hitchhiking home.

 

Wonderful way for Ponch and John to confiscate vehicles. Huh? Pingpong the price of oil so high, young people run out of money and gas. Stranded roadside, penniless, wait for them to walk away, then send a wrecker by to scoop up their cars. What a terrific way for municipalities to generate revenue!

 

Gone out for a drive, lately? I highly recommend doing so. Very nice. At US$5.00 per gallon for cheap, watered-down gasoline, 50% of the idiots stuck home, their SUVs and HUMMERs cost prohibitive to joy ride, going for a drive in the two-seater is absolutely wonderful!

 

Ponch & John never anticipated 5 bux a gallon. With fewer drivers out there, they issue fewer citations, and there's less traffic ticket revenue to wet their beaks. Fewer accidents, price is plunging fast in autobody sector. Great time to do touch up on your go-fast Sunday driver, I cannot believe all the work I'm getting done, for 1200 bux.

 

It's a great time for driving...

 

Something perhaps you haven't noticed: Since gas went to 5 bux a gallon, the price you're paying for your car insurance hasn't changed? Has it? If anything, perhaps your premiums have increased? You've probably noticed, high price of gasoline, significantly fewer drivers on the nation's highways. Fewer drivers, the risk premium for your car insurance you're paying for is still based upon density and congestion of $1.00 per gallon gasoline?

 

You should be paying less for car insurance. By my estimate, we overpay for car insurance triple keystone our risk (e.g., 300%).

 

When gasoline price rises, by definition, people drive less ... significantly less. The price of gasoline five times what it used to be, more than halving our risk premium, insurance actuaries, sitting on their hands laughing at you, all the way to the bank, gouging you asunder, they still have you paying twice the risk premium, based upon one dollar per gallon gasoline. The price of oil this high, you should be paying less than half what you're paying for your car insurance. Not one stupid person in the policy community has had the wherewithal to call the automobile insurance industry to task, over this?

 

I'm the first one to notice?

 

Proof positive, the market does not self-equilibrate. There is no market-clearing tendency. Even the most obtuse of economist has no choice but conceed -- in the wealthiest nation on earth, with the highest number of homeless people -- there exists in excess to demand, a persistent aggregate oversupply of housing. There is no equlibrium. The market does not clear. Outcomes Pareto otpimal are coincidently disgusting. There is no method, just a preponderance of stochastic blow-backs from a offsetting, overlapping, self-defeating policy missteps.

 

And, this cheap, watered-down gasoline they're selling me, for 5 bux a gallon, is killing my engines.

 

Ten years ago, I was getting almost two hours track-time to the tank, in my Little Godzilla. Now, it's down to less than an hour and a half. For me, this is a dilemma. The type of driving I do, crusing range for me is imperative.

 

Ten years ago, 104 racing unleaded cost roughly 3 times what 93 octane was. Today, racing fuel is merely twice the going price of pump unleaded. Instead of the 5 bux a gallon for reformulated, watered-down alchohol laced 91 octane, I'm debating whether I should gas up the two seater, 104 racing undeaded for 8 bux a gallon. Doing so, at least I'd be getting real gasoline. Better gas mileage, too.

 

Last couple years or so, Operation Safe Canyon, a thinly veiled smokescreen designed to exploit a seemingly easy to differentiate cohort, in actuality, we're not so easy to differentiate. So much for the Operation Safe Canyon driver database. They couldn't pick us put of a crowd if they tried, much less exploit us. Not one of our people wound up in their canyon driver database. Ponch & John's silly vehicle confiscation ordinance, drivers in our group responded by melding into other drivers groups, leapfrogging cohort to cohort, keeping a low profile, staying out of trouble.

 

As have I.

 

It's going well for me. Poking around, seeing how the other half live, month and a half ago I chanced across something on the internet: US$2,500 dollars, winner take all romp, no holds barred through the local canyons here in Los Angeles Metro. Slick operation. Guys doing this one-off thing had an on-line pay, just put it on your credit card, show up for the drive, winner gets US$15,000 reversed to their card. Participation in excess of 6 cars, proceeds to be reversed to drivers who place and show. Only thing you know going in, what kind of car everyone's driving. Nothing else. Nobody knows, until post time, exactly where the race will be, or who they're racing against.

 

Sounds like my kind of drive!

 

Just sitting there in its place in the garage, seldom isn't my two-seater ready to rumble. Whole month of June I spent doing the intelletual work, deciding exactly how I was going to run this race. Conservative, I thought. Short cruising range of my car, I'd need to conserve fuel early on, pare down my risk, early on. Slipstream whenever possible. Go gingerly, in passing. Be efficient. Once out in front, in clean air, drop the hammer, build a sizable margin, and by the end of the drive, pare down my risk, stroke it home. Back of my mind thinking, all the while, these things never go down. They always fizz. One guy dropping out typically precipitates another guy droppong out, and then the whole thing crumbles, and one guys gets caught holding the bag.

 

But, no. We wound up with eight cars, solid.

 

Thought we had nine. Holding everybody up, meet young Kori (yeah, let's call him Kori) who turned up race day with an underage schoolmate, said he forgot his driver's license? Asked to produce his vehicle registration, he'd forgotten that, too? Signal indication, Ferris Bueller's Day Off revisited, probably his daddy's Porsche, expensive one at that. He didn't look a day over 18.

 

Eight out of nine's not bad.

 

"You knew the rules. If the name on your licence and registration doesn't match the name on the credit card, then you can't be here! You're little friend looks underage. If you two can't authenticate, then you're disqualified," woman named Anna taking names, checking everybody in, making sure everybody turns out to be who they said they are.

 

"I'm paid in as a muthafucker. So I'm driving. I don't have to show you fuckin squat. Bitch!" hip-hop influenced upperclass kid, with his pants down below his underware, trying his best to be like Snoop. This kind of thing doesn't go down real well this my microcosm.

 

Meet Stan: bushy, messed up hair, not the sharpest tool in the shed for a twenty-something, grease monkey kind of guy, pale, looks like he's a perpetual Night of the Living Dead sleepwalker who ate a little too much live flesh, driving an all-wheel-drive Mitsubishi Evolution. First reply to everything is always, "huh?" He needs you to say everything twice.

 

Contrast, meet Matt: slick fast-talking lawyer/CPA type in the E-Class AMG, too young to be balding, laughs never smiles, knowledgable indeed and smart, enough so never, in his natural life, to have turned a wrench. Nor will he, not ever.

 

Meet Doug, newest car on the grid, shallow archetypical permatanned BMW guy with the, USC license plate frame, the Rolex, the Guccis, wrapped up tastefully so in conspicuous consumption, five gets you ten his wife has a boob-job. Sweaty palms. Wearing sunglasses at night, he'll be someone I'll avoid like the plague. Nice gloves.

 

Next guy checking in, meet Mike. Several cars in tow, his fans coming with him to the rendezvous for morale support. Says he plays drums and has taken up automobile racing. I couldn't be sure it was the Z-51 suspension, or GM's Magnetic Selective Ride Control on that paddleshift Corvette of his. Where GM's Z51 suspension is far too harsh for the open road, its Magnetic Selective Ride Control in the hands of a determined driver makes any Corvette, in any degree of trim, a force to be reconed with on the open road. The lobger the run, the more a threat it poses. Were the Corvette's principle driving aides, (1) active suspension, (2) Magnetic Selective Ride Control, and (3) Magnasteer intertwined, to work in tandem with its ABS and an automatic camber adjustment system, the Corvette would be unbeatable on any surface, under any circumstance. As it is, thank my lucky stars GM's automatic damping system is heavy, less than eloquent, unsophisticated, with only two modes, and can't be optimized in tandem with any of the Corvette's other driver's aides. Staring down the front end of that Corvette, good news... looked like a factory alignment to me.

 

Meet Pete, affluent Dodge Viper guy cloaked in trademark Levis denim, archetypical Harley Davidson sticker on the back window, swares his Dodge is the best car he's ever owned. I don't know much about Vipers. But, its suspension didn't look right to me. I wondered to myself whether he has a Dodge Viper sticker on the back of his Harley.

 

Meet David, obnoxious Ph.D head shrinker (e.g., psychology) proclaiming superiority of his turbocharged, all-wheel-drive Audi; that no one has a chance, and "...don't be angry when I say 'I told you so'." Irritating guy to be around. How can his AWD Audi be 700 pounds heavier than my AWD Subaru station wagon? Underinflated bargain brand replacement radials; misaligned, pimp 'n hoe HRE boutique wheels; oversized tyres.

 

Meet Gene... I glanced down at his license while he signed in, and saw his DOB: October, 1936. Just a little past his sell-by date, that makes 12 presidents he's lived through, to include FDR's last three! Cute 20 year old in a 200 thousand dollar Porsche kicking Anna's maternal instincts into overdrive ensured speculation focused directly on the boy, old Gene slipped though the cracks. Anna failed to notice, the old guy's license had expired several years ago; vision correction required.

 

"Who am I to say?" my inner voice, "he could be wearing contact lenses," lieing to myself. I knew the old guy's not wearing contacts. "Perhaps he's had lasic; I hear wonderful things about that," secretly making excuses for the guy.

 

Butt ugly old neanderthal with a pockmarked face only a great-granddaughter could love, strangler's hands the envy of any serial killer, behemoth forearms, somewhat flabby bicepts, bold legged, short and stalky, only speaks when seldom spoken to, replies in guarded fragments or an inaudioable single syllablic utterance, old Gene is more bear than man. Old racing shoes from the early 1970s; old racing gloves from the mid-seventies; vintage Sabelt restrain system from the dark ages, for anyone worth their salt the active reading on this guy is crystal clear: Old Gene's been around the block af few times...

 

When this thing came up, no holds barred, US$2,500 per driver, winner take all, galvanized this old guy; stirred something deep within him to action, compelled him to dig deep inside, take this one last shot. Perhaps he dusted off his old racing shoes and his racing gloves... see if they still fit? Yes, indeed they do! Probably did a couple push ups, to see if he still could. And, yes indeed, he did a lot more than he thought he could! So, perhaps he wandered out to the garage, pulled the tarp off the car, reached for his toolbox, tinkered around with his induction, to see if it would start. By golly, perhaps yes, indeed it did!

 

And, it got him thinking, "...could I do this, just one more time, die trying?" Perhaps indeed, he most certainly could!

 

I'd seen him opt in for this thing a month and a half ago. One of the first ones. When he proclaimed his car to be a "RENAULT LE CAR," I thought to myself, did he honestly believe, opting into a hard core street race, we'd be as oblivous as we could be to the turbocharged mid-engined FiA homogation variant of the Renault? Self-defeating stunt he tried to pull ulimately proved more revealing than having been forthright and magnaminous. The Le Car stunt he pulled, as though thought no one would know, told me well in advance all I needed to know about the guy: Character flaw indicative of a Camaro/Mustang type guy, a journeyman driver who never ascended to a plateau sufficient to intellectualize anything, instead used car culture to stick his head in the sand, never grew or enriched hinself in any meaningful way. Though he might put up a valiant fight, show well for himself, final analysis, a 71 year old geriatric punk who will inevitably succumb, not to anyone else so much as his own lack for character?

 

I don't think he cared about the money... He spent a whole lot more than 2500 bux getting that car ready. Faded black Renault R5 Turbo II, looked freshly dusted off and washed, and hastily coaxed back to life, as though it had been sitting in his garage 20 years. Several years ago that car was parked 50 laps passed rebuild time; hastily dusted off for this occasion, brand new belts and hoses and clamps and fasterners staring up out of that engine bay, brand new Michellins, overinflated as though prepared for rain, that old guy must have spent a small fortune readying his "Le Car" for battle. Those brand new Michellins of his, intermediate rain should be a huge advantage for him.

 

Finally, meet yours truly, far more man than bear. Sentimental side of me, the old guy had me smiling. Soon enough, I most certainly wouldn't be. Supercharged mid-engined short-wheelbased vehicle optimized for 10/10ths canyon driving, I made my way to the 11:00 PM rendezvous, topped off with 104 racing unleaded, minus what it took getting me there. Unlike the old guy, I don't spend thousands getting my car ready before each run. Been around long enough to know, doing what I'm supposed to be doing as a hard-core 10/10ths canyon driver, time for preparation is immediately after each drive. So, in preparation, aside from tweaking alignment settings, I'm free to map the intellectual aspect of my objective (e.g., race strategy), no need for turning wrenches. Advantage I derive from this isn't insurmountable. But, it is significant. It still matters what I drive, and how I drive. It always will.

 

Rested, fresh and alert, I always nap 4 hours (in my car if need be) within an upcoming drive.

 

Conservative alignment settings, not quite maximum caster, -2.5^o right-front camber, -2.75^o degrees at my left-front, both rears -2.125^o thereabout, would likely run-out my SO3 Pole Position Bridgestones by the end of the drive. Monsoon season, lightning strikes over the high desert, anticipation of isolated thundershowers, no sense running my R-spec rubber. I rolled my Little Godzilla to the secret rendezvous on its street-radials, overinflated 5 degrees, shock settings dialed-in full soft. A wise investment for racing at sea level, I arrived armed with 104 racing unleaded, less than a full tank of it, not having trailered the vehicle there. No sense topping off completely until the route is disclosed.

 

So, now you know a litle more about me...

 

Subtile survey, walking around, squatting down in front of each car for a look-see, studying suspension geometry of my contemporaries, what appeared to the trained eye factory alignment specs on every the other vehicle, I was the only one having dialed-in competition driving alignment settings? Rain notwirhstanding, I 'd won this race before it ever started.

 

Squatting down for a look at the Viper... I don't know much about Vipers. But, Pete's alignment looked very wrong. Out the corner of my eye, old Gene doing likewise, squatting down in front of my Little Godzilla likely thinking to himself, "...ah, shit!" all that negative camber staring back at him, outside bottom edge of my contact patch you almost could slide in a piece of paper.

 

Trouble with the rich teenager, making himself a nuisance, whining about being sent home. I was concerned, who's to stop him from becoming obstinant, following along in spite of being disqualified? Andrew's idea, an ultimatum, threaten him to leave. My thoughts, he must assimilate, or he must be attrited. I made a B-line straight to Kori, snatched his car keys right out of his hand. Effort to snatch them back, my left hand found its place, palm side resting to the square of his chest, straight-armed, the other clinched, pointing my finger in his face, behave himself or else.

 

Tossed the keys over to Markus.

 

Scaring the shit out of him with the street-racing rules for idiots, 101, plainly stated, I elucidated matter-of-fact, he knew what he was getting into; showing up for this thing puts him passed the point of no return; entering a street race on false pretense, he forfeits car and proceeds; these things happen, everybody knows the drill, we tape him up, get a sock over his head, drop him in the desert, part out the Porsche, split the proceeds; that car has to disappear; can't just sell a black market GT3; worth eight times more in parts than it is, assembled, I know people who can slice 'n dice a glorified Volksvagen in two hours; two thousand bux for everyone, no questions asked...

 

"Ah, just send him home," from the peanut gallery.

 

I belabored, at what cost? On what basis? Likelihood he isn't insured, our seizing and liquidating that GT3 could ultimately prove beneficial to his parents. If, in fact they really are his parents. We do not do this to be mean; we have these rules for reasons; Ferris Bueller wanabe, uninsurable on his daddy's GT3, if he loops it into a bus stop, takes-out pedestrians, his parents' financial life as they know it is over, and he'll do 20 years hard-time. Tape him up, part out that Porsche, we'd be doing him a favor. He lied. It's a stolen car. And, you can't steal a stolen car. Not until he authenticates his relationship to that vehicle can he be allowed to leave. That car constitutes a nuisance. Street-racers's rules apply, we tape him and his friend up, and it is ours to dispose of as we see fit.

 

"Agreed?"

 

Nobody saying a word, panic swept across the boy's face. Silence. Uncertainty; specter I might really be serious. Half-wink in Matt's general direction to indicate otherwise, the only one disappointed I wasn't, the head-shrinker, he seemed to be liking what I was saying just a little too much.

 

"Squeeeeeel like a piggy..." in the boy's face as I walked back to my car. Looked over at

 

"And technically, the old guy lied through his teeth, too. He entered a Renault Le Car. Not the Turbocharged variant," Clarence Darrow-like Matt, "He should be disqualified, too."

 

"No. That is not the issue. A reasonable expectation should otherwise be inferred, by anyone in this thing, it ould otherwise be a tube-frame, heavi;ly modified Le Car, turbocharged variant notwithstanding," yours truly, making my point, "He is who he says he is. The car belongs to him. He's established the relationship of himself, to his Renault, consistent to the credit card he used to cover his entry. Every single one of us here thus far has, but for one person. If he's not who he says he is, then who is he? And, why is he here? And, how best we dispose of him, street-racer's rules apply..."

 

"STOP IT!" That was about it for Anna, enough of this, who swiftly intervened on Kori's behalf, ah he's just a dumb kid, cut him some slack, make this one exception, cooler heads should prevail, pay it forward, give him back his keys, do a good deed, its the right thing to do, how would you feel if your dumb kid snuck out in your GT3 while you were away on a business trip, and wouldn't you want that GT3 back in your garage, not a scratch?

 

Who could argue otherwise? Show of hands, nods to the affirmative all around making this one exception. One condition, not until the both of them pull their wallets.

 

Out they came. Wealthy, priviledged, upperclassed Stanford undergrad, home address an exclusive Encino enclave, home for the summer acting like a hip-hop rapper-jerk, joy-riding his daddy's Porsche. In actuality, his car a supercharged Mini Cooper, he and his schoolmates saw Hollywoord movies, and daydreamed of street-racing. He revealed he'd decided to write down Porsche GT3 on his on-line registration impulsively, thinking this thing would never really go down, anyway.

 

Understandable. I didn't think this thing was going to happen, either. No one did.

 

" SO, GO GET THE MINI. COME RIGHT BACK, THERE'S STILL TIME," from the peanut gallery. But, his friend explained, his parents took it away from him. Truth comes spilling out, back home for the summer, a man of age living at home, mommy putting him on restriction for not cutting-it, at Stanford? So, what's he do? Like a high school sophomore, the loser absconds with his daddy's GT3; enters it into a street-race. He couldn't get the keys to his Mini. But, his dad's GT3 he could.

 

How humiliating!

 

"SCRAPE," like fingernails over the chalkboard, then "CRINKLE," the sound of bending metal, then "CRUNCH," front air dam and valence bending underneth, he launched daddy's 911 off the sidewalk Baja style, dragging the undercarriage off the kerb, as off onto the roadway we went, intent upon a somewhat more expenient retreat to anonymity than time it would have taken, meanering around to find the parking lot exit.

 

Good riddance. Dumb kid finally gone, organizers revealed the route. 10 minutes study-time before drawing grid slots. The line-up shook out as follows:

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

Winner Take All

Official Draw, Tentative Lineup

 

1. Stan; Mitsubishi Evolution, $2,500.00

2. Doug; BMW 135i, $2,500.00

3. Yours Truly, $2,500.00

4. * * Kori: GT3 RS Porsche, $2,500.00

5. Mike; C6 Corvette (paddleshift), $2,500.00

6. Pete; Dodge Viper, $2,500.00

7. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II, $2,500.00

8. David; Audi RS-4, $2,500.00

9. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG, $2,500.00

 

 

* * Disqualified; would have lined-up 4th

_______________________________________________________________

 

Studying the route, concern sweeping across my face, doing my best to conceal, two issues weighing upon me, heavily: (1) Not nearly as long a run as I thought, proposed route too short a run, yet not long enough to ensure everyone one refueling stop, my cruising range for the proposed route was marginal. Twice the distance, everyone would have to refuel. As it was, everyone else easily could, except perhaps me, and the Gene in the Renault. To run the entire route on a ten gallon tank, not having to refuel, he and I would have to conserve fuel, early in the run.

 

Most importantly (2), it was to be a standing start. One look, all these mutts around me, cause for concern. Indeed.

 

The exception, drag racing, BMX and motorcycle racing, no form of organized motorsport in North America sanctions (much less tolerates) standing starts. Only in Europe. Though I've never participated in a sports car event with a standing start, per se, I am no stranger to it. Long before I ever stepped behind the wheel, as a boy competing in BMX, I was corn-fed standing starts. Every race I ever competed, until I graduated to sports cars, all were standing starts.

 

My very first road race, on bicycles as a third grader, each of us throwing in 50 cents, winner take all, was a standing start. I cruised to what should have been an easy victory, two older, stronger, better able riders having taken each other out, at the first turn. Three riders in that race off to the community hospital, two for stitches, one a concussion and a broken arm, our mothers were indeed displeased.

 

Older boys had taken each other out, I found my way into the lead. I circled the one lap, mile and a half long neighborhood circuit, down sidewalks, up and down hills, meandering through buildings at Meadows Elementary School we all attended, emerging from our school onto Hood Drive. To my surprise, when I thought I had this thig won, in second place my classmate Cynthia Donnelly, a neighbor girl from up the street, emerged, catching me up from behind! Making the left hand turn onto Montrose Drive, her and I pedalling side-by-side, the slope uphill to the finish line where the other children waited. She and I pedalled our bicycles, for everything we were worth, up that long hill. Two thirds way there, Cynthia exhaused. Last one pedalling, I snatched the 8 dollar purse. Quite a sum back in that day, enough for a double scoop at the 31 Flavors, BMX racing number plates, a two-speed hub and a skip-chain on my tricked-out Schwinn Sting-Ray road racer. Nicest one in town.

 

I tried my best not looking exhausted, crossing that finish line. Mistakes I made: I did not capitalize, early on; I did not conserve, early on. Prior to the race nothing occurred to me. I factored nothing. At that early stage in human development, a third grade boy is no match for a third grade girl. Cynthia was strong. I was anything but. I did not put that race away early enough; I nearly did not leave myself enough left over for the finish.

 

For every pecuniary reward, always a nonpecuniary one, the sound she made, her last ghasp, physically exhaused, her body quitting two-thirds way up the hill to the finish line, a race I'd have to win on character, I was amply rewarded, well beyond real value of 8 dollars. I learned from that. Many a victory since then I have notched, no good reason than laying back, not being stupid, being conservative at the start, knowing when to drop the hammer, and when not to. I know enough to know, with my tiny little car on a standing start with amateur drivers, if I'm not starting first, then I'm wise starting last.

 

I drew third grid slot.

 

A 3600 pound 1-series BMW lined-up second, a Viper and a Corvette, fourth and fifth? Sandwiched between cars 150% my kerb weight, time for a little horse trading.

 

I swapped my third position to that cocky guy Matt, on a handshake for $1,500.00 if he wins, places or shows; nothing if he doesn't. Sweet deal for a guy with a car that weighs 4200 lbs. That cinched up, time to walk over for a chitchat with Stan. He was having none of it. Offering him Matt's 1500 bux for his number one starting slot made him want it, all the more.

 

"I might have traded for third, but not for eighth. No way I'm starting last, dooood."

 

When Stan said that, I made a b-line straight back to Matt, "Same deal we made, if you can get Stan to swap you, first for third, before anyone turns a wheel you'll have moved from last to first, free. He just told me he'd swap, first for third, same deal." That got Matt thinking. I don't know about what. For some reason unbeknownst to me, that compelled Matt to make a b-line for an animated conversation with.. Pete? They looked very concerned, Pete hands in his pockets listening, Matt with open handed hand gentures, fingers stiff, reiterating something, Dave staring at them from afar, eyes narrow, wondering what they could be saying.

 

Soon enough, everybody was horse trading.

 

I overheard Stan, "25 hundred bux cash, now. Or, get outta my face!" to Gene, about ready to smack him before the old guy walked away. David and Doug paired up, well away from everyone else after a long chitchat, the both of them caught looking away when I discovered them staring at me, suspiciously. No idea what Gene did, whatever it was solidified Stan's resolve. No one on planet Earth would separate him from his number one slot.

 

The worst thing that could happen, starting at at the rear, would be that lightweight Renault on pole position. Gene starting 6th might be perfect, though... Perhaps I could conserve fuel, follow close behind, as he slices and dices through the heavier cars ahead. Right?

 

"RHEEEEEE-THHHUK-mmmm!" shreeking through the crisp evening air at the speed of sound, Gene having wandered back to the Renault, the first to spark ignition, to about 5 thousand revs, startling everyone, a nausiating smoke a prelude of things to come.

 

Anna and Andy driving off ahead of everyone to man their checkpoints, 20 minutes before the start, everyone caught up in politics, thought I'd slip away unbenownst to everyone for an up-and-back to the nearby gas station, last chance trip to the boy's room. Once there, watered down my 104 racing unleaded, topping off with 91 octane until it overflowed, running down the side, full as it could be. Pumping my gas, two female mooches stranded at the gas station wandered over.

 

The cuter one of the two: "Aaaa, scuze me, Mister? I'm fwum, aaaaa, San Woois Obispo. Aaaa, we're going to, aaaaa, Idlywild. But, aaaa, we didn't make it. We're kinda of out of gas. Can, aaaaaaa, if you could, aaaaaa, gimmy..." SNIP! Interrupted.

 

Too busy to listen to her drivel.

 

Seeing this a lot, lately, dumb kids just getting in the car for long journeys, lacking for math skill, overestimating their cruising range, just driving as far as they can until the tank runs out, winding up stranded far from home. Told her, pressed for time, if they need gas, then roll their car over before I'm done, and I'll top them off. If they're not here when I hang up the nozzle, then too bad. Question: How quick can two flat broke 23 year old girls gone wild push a front wheel drive Volkswagen Beetle convertible, for free gas? Answer: Faster than the speed of sound!

 

"Gotta go. Hang this up when you're through," and off I went.

 

"Thank you, sir! Thank you sooo much. Wow, I really like your car!" little girl voice more indicative of a 14 year old than a 23 year old woman.

 

Weights & measure issue, the 5 bux rung-up on the pump didn't equate to price posted on the sign. Time short, bigger fish to fry, I handed over the pump to one of the girls, 7/10ths a gallon already on it, sparked ignition, drove off, found my way back to the rendezvous in good time, final preparations, everybody settling in, lacing up their gloves, strapping in for business...

 

"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAP-UUUUM," everybody's chests cavitating, Pete making a solid first impression revving that 600 horsepower pushrod V-10 Viper to life.

 

"OOEEEEEEEAAAA-EWWWWW!" Matt's 507 horsepower 3 valve V-8 Benz, not to be outdone.

 

"___________," inaudiable, the BMW and the Audi, quiet as a mouse.

 

"zzzzzzzz-SSSSHAAaaaaah-faazzzz," tracheotomylike nature of the 290 horsepower turbocharged Mitsubishi, to a somewhat lesser extent than the old Renault.

 

"Uuuuuuuuuuuaaaaa-oooooooooh," the heavily baffled 400 HP Corvette, with GM's artificially engineered rumble guaranteed not to freighten the grandchildren or startle livestock in its appeal geared to retired prostitutes and night club strippers.

 

"Ba-BLAM-BLAAAAAM! noo-noo-noo-noo-noo..." my Little Godzilla.

 

Pulling away from the rendezvous, making our way to the starting spot on Little Tujunga, sorting out the order, Stan in his Mitsubishi, a little slow on the human response cycle, carved aggressively by everyone to assume his position at the front. As we came single-file, he late braked Doug into the left turn pocket. Stopping at the traffic signal across from he gas station where I just was. Yet another disappointment, out my driver-side window, painfully evident, the girls didn't hang up the pump.

 

No good deed ever goes unpunished.

 

I wanted to believe in them. Lack for character, a nation of petty scoundels who never miss an opportunity for a free ride, handing off the nozzle to someone else who, in-turn, handed it to someone else who, in-turn, handed it to someone else who, in-turn... the gift that keeps on giving. Cars stacking up at that station, two lines going single file aimed at the one pump I'd used minutes ago, people arguing, the girls I'd done a good deed for were thoughtful enough to post a handwritten sign, with a big smiley face: FREE GAS :)

 

"911, WHAT IS YOU'RE EMERGENCY?" trademark indifference.

 

"The #### station, corner of #### and ####, in ####, one of the pumps is pumping free gas! Everybody's going berserk, arguing, fighting over that pump, people cutting in line, better get control while you still can, or people are going to start getting hurt!" Need a fast response from Ponch and John, say the word "control."

 

I don't mind eating 60 bux helping two dumb girls stay one step ahead of Los Angeles rape gangs. Sorry, population of the greater Los Angeles Metropolitan statistical area could drown in a tsunami, for all I care.

 

Oh, perhaps you disagree. You think I should have to suck it up? I should have to pay for every drop of your fuel? Right? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, just enough time for a quick call number on the back of the gas card they give you, to call in a lost or stolen card lost, and yes, the several thousand dollar write-off would be cheerfully credited back to my account, gushing corporation style apology for the slightest inconvenience, and would I participate in a survey after the call has ended?

 

"Noooo. Sorry. Perhaps another time. Gotta go," click.

 

Stan slowing everybody down up ahead. Everyone crawling to a stop, single-file, your gap to the car ahead as much or as little as you like. Ready for the standing start, go as soon the car in front of you goes, lined-up on Little Tujunga Canyon, we launched from the following order:

_______________________________________________________________

 

Winner Take All

Revised Starting Order

Official Line-up, Final

 

1. Stan; Mitsubishi Evolution

2. Doug; BMW 135i

3. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG

4. Mike; C6 Corvette (paddleshift)

5. Pete; Dodge Viper

6. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II

7. David; Audi RS-4

8. Yours Truly (3)

 

9. ** Kori: GT3 RS Porsche

 

** Entry scratched; disqualified; did not start

(3.) Third qualifying slot to Matt for consideration

_______________________________________________________________

 

GO! GO! GO! GO! GO! And, off we went!

 

Starting behind the all-wheel-drive Audi, a lesson in traction, its 4 wheels pulling impressively, I gave away about one second hesistation after he went hammer down, before I released the clutch. Down Little Tujunga our train of cars accelerated away, great start for David, Gene, and Doug!

 

Lousy start for Matt! How could he possibly be so slow, off the line?

 

Banging up through the gears, Stan's Mitshbishi coming under attack from a quick off the line Doug, in his brand spanking new BMW, the two of them well away, drew a sizable gap, thanks to slow starting Matt bottling up the rest of us, behind him. I'm sure that fast starting BMW was as much a surprise to Stan it was to me. Throw a blanket over slow starting Matt in the big Benz, Mike in the Corvette, Pete'e Viper, Gene's Renault, and David's Audi, separated by less than a half second. A slight gap back to me, laying back, surveying intently from behind.

 

I wondered if perhaps he was fumbling around with the electronics of that Merc, trying to find sport mode? Something like that? A little slow on the human response cycle? Matt in that great big Benz was off to a very slow start.

 

But, not old Gene. My vantage point rear of the pack, about two seconds from Dave's Audi I could see, dropping throttle on his nimble Renault, indicative of mixing C-Stov and T-stov, old Gene off the line like a rocket, zigzagged around the Viper, drew alongside Mike over the double yellow, pinning the Corvette behind the Merc before Matt crossed the double stripe to apex a fast left hand jink, slifing in front of Gene, leaving the Corvette high side the Renault, stranded. Ex post apex, Mike had no choice but lift.

 

The old guy, from sixth to fourth, up the exhaust pipe of the overcautious Matt!

 

Vacuum created behind the fast starting Renault sucked David's quick starting Audi, right to the bumper (or lack thereof) of Pete's Viper. Going gingerly, that Renault buzzing around him, hacking and sawing behind the lumbering Benz, next bend, a flat-out right hander with a small dip at the apex. Seeing the little Renault come door-handle to door-handle, Matt became apprehensive, and checked-up on his throttle.

 

Smoke from old Gene in the old Renault, throttling off momentarily before the apex, I could see black smoke out the back. Then, hammer down, foot flat, back on the throttle, wisps of white smoke out the back of that Renault, Gene took Matt around the high side!

 

The old guy now third, driving the race of his life!

 

Seeing Gene coming out of nowhere, buzzing around him so fast, startled Matt, who tapped his brakes right at the apex of that hyperfast bend, havoc immediately ensured behind him! As Mike in the Corvette having to throttle off to account for Matt, as Pete in Mike's slipstream went down on his brakes, so did David in his "superior in every way" Audi, even harder on his! Subsequent accordian affect, no one person's fault, like scrambling eggs in a hot skillet, the three cars simultaneously touched.

 

They seemed to fold into each other.

 

Off they went, dissappearing into a plume, once spotless machines onto the soft shoulder, dust cloud enveloping them. I shot through, foot flat, third gear winding out, sights set on Matt's Mercedes a hundred yards ahead. Quick peep out of my rear view mirror. I could see the Corvette's four taillights. The Audi looked to have gotten away ahead of the Corvette, which had been nerfed backward. No sign of Pete's Viper. What I could see, they looked to be scrubbing off a lot of speed as they collectied themselves.

 

Fortuitously expending little energy, eighth to 4th I went, conserving fuel, time to settle down to the task at hand, sizing up the others from behind, reel them in, find my way around them.

 

A look up ahead, Doug's BMW found its way around Stan's Mitsubishi. Drawing ahead several car lengths, Stan began falling into the clutches of Gene's Renault. A sizable gap behind the Renault to Matt, having droped back for no apparent reason, to over 200 yards behind. Me swiftly closing in, I noticed moisture hitting my windshield the closer I got to the Benz, ahead. Sure enough, you could see Matt busying himself, his windshild wipers on.

 

"How come he's putting fluid to his windshield?" I wondered.

 

I found my way to Matt's rear bumper, late braked him into the next second gear bend. Once by, I spied a glance out the mirrors, and there was Matt, perfectly content allowing me by, still busying himself the task of putting fluid to his windshield.

 

"Oh, big mistake! Why's he letting me by?!" Made no sense.

 

Gene hopelessly stuck, hacking and sawing at the wheel, bottled up behind Stan's Mitsubishi, can't find a way by, I had an easy time of it reducing the gap to the Renault, ahead. The closer I got, the more drops strated hitting hit my windshield again. But, not water. This time, it was oil. Following behind the Renault, my windshield became saturated. Tiny oil droplets ran sideways across the glass to the pillars, around and down my side windows, I inevitably discovered why Matt was so content, dropping back.

 

My little car has nowhere near capacity as the washer reservior on an E-class Benz. Dough in the BMW about to disappear, I had to find a way by the Renault before running out of washer fluid.

 

Stan's Mitsubishi a mobile chicane, bottling up Gene, myself and Matt to such extent, the trailing Audi and Corvette were no doubt making up lost ground, from significant distance behind. Stuck behind an erratically driven Mitsubishi, the 1-series BMW streaking away, it was as though Stan was slowly petering out, already, fatigue at the wheel not six miles into the drive.

 

Gene made a lunge. That seemed to wake up Stan. Pressure forced Stan in his Mitsubishi to start getting with the program. By midsegement across Little Tujunga, we'd almost caught up Doug in the 1-series BMW. Just over midway through the first intermediate, first through fifth, it was Doug's BMW plus nothing on Stan's Evo, plus nothing on Gene's smoking Renault, blowing oil all over me, plus a small gap to Matt's Benz.

 

Five cars seperated by less than a second, status quo was untennable. Something had to give. I tried a run, testing Gene. Having non of it, he slammed the door, and the two of us lost significant time to Stan. Seeing Gene and I having come very close, inches from touching, overcautious Matt immediately dropped back some 35 yards, opting to stay well away from me. I suspect he was secretly thinking, if he played his cards right, lie in wait, drivers ahead might have a fortuitous coming together, and perhaps he'd steel the bacon.

 

Not quite.

 

I tucked in behind the Renault, adoped a passive wait and see attitude, to let Gene erase that 5 second gap to Stan's Mitshuishi. Having seen Doug directly ahead, slowly falling into the clutches of his Mitsubishi, Stan got impatient, a little excited, made a premature lunge at Doug. Having none of it, early-apexing the turn to protect his position, the BMW and the Mitsubishi touched! Neat little piroette, around the BMW went, Stan in the Evo nerfing him off.

 

Stan to first! Gene to second! Yours truly, third!

 

Quick recovery, Doug resumed in the gap behind me, bottling up the overcautious Matt! Gene tried but failed to capitalize, taking advantage of the sleepy, laxidazical Stan. Nonetheless, the Renault going sixth to second cut a nice swath, 8th to 3rd, for me. Stan, Gene and I drew away from Doug and Matt in their overweight German sedans, as David and Mike began closing distance on them from well behind. A tight, technical first segment, nearly thousand pounds heavier, in close quarters of little Tujunga, the lighter albeit volumetric Corvette could make no impression whatsoever upon the more compact, albeit hopelessly overweight two-ton Audi.

 

And, that's how we finished the first intermediate, courtesy of hardworking Markus:

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

Station 1, Markus

Sand Canyon @ Hwy 14

 

1. Stanley; Mitsubishi Evolution; (first arrival; right-corner heavily creased; right-headlight busted!)

2. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II (right behind leader; car smoking!)

3. Yours Truly (right behind the Renault; oil all over that car!)

4. Douglas; BMW 135 (left-rear quarterpanel damage; minus 30 seconds to leader!)

5. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG (minus 45.0 seconds from leader; oil saturated windsheld)

6. David; Audi RS-4 (damage to front-left; minus 40 seconds to the Mercedes)

7. Mike: C6 Corvette (damage to rear; minus 50 seconds; reports Pete is a DNF)

 

Station 1 Unaccounted for, per Markus:

8. Pete; Dodge Viper; DNF

9. Kori: GT3 RS Porsche; DNS

_______________________________________________________________

 

Sequential constraint, as we simultaneously stopped for windshield stamps increased the distance between the first three cars prviously nose to tail, putting an additional 5 second lag between cars once seperated by none. To my surprise, that I'd erased 5 seconds to Gene faster than he could erase the distance to Stan, by definition, I must be faster than either, in some certain way.

 

Soon enough, there we were, right back on each other's bumpers, Stan blocking Gene. No way by.

 

Down the long straightaway before entering Bouquet Canyon, the Renault's superior acceleration, slipstreaming by the Evo, from 40 to 120 MPH, around Gene went!

 

The Septugenerian, 71 years old Gene, the oldest guy ever to turn a wheel in anger, from sixth on the grid to first, every pass on merit, leads the rally! The Renault began drawing away from the Mitsubishi, young Stan no match for Gene!

 

No match for either of the other under acceleration, some 40 yards I fell back on that straightaway, I was most eager to make up in the endless menagerie of sweepers ahead, where gear ratios of my lightweight, supercharged mid engined vehicle are perfect. Gene began drawing away from Stan, as I was still bottled up behind him. Studying the Mitsubishi Evolution ahead skating, Stan's shock settings must have been full firm.

 

"What the hell were you thinking?" I'd dialed-in my Konis full soft.

 

Matt, David and Mike, superior top end speed of their vehicles overwhelmed wayward Doug, who had suddenly found himelf grinding enamel, having gone first to last, in the span of first half the second intermediate, thus far.

 

Stuck behind Stan, I though, take the pressure off; see what happens. I dropped back some 25 yards... Sure enough, he'd slowed, substantially.

 

"SURPRISE!" I pounced, caught Stan in the Mitsubishi, napping! Back on the throttle, hard, I erased the gap, made a move, taking him high side, over the stripe! "GOOD MORNING, STAN!" Somehow, he'd finally awaken, but to find himself right in the middle of a sports car race!?

 

At the restaurant, around I went! Authoritatively.

 

Out the mirror I was surprised to see, only one headlight on Stan's Evo. Significant handicap, Bouquet at night is impossible to drive fast, with conventional headlights, much less only one. If Stan wasn't able to hang on behind me, drive in my headlights, if somehow he lost touch, his race would be a foregone conclusion.

 

Finally, open road in front of me, time to reel in the Renault. Forward on the stik, once around Stan, up came my 130 watt highlites, illuminating the road ahead for us both. Right up my tailpipe, the Mitsubishi gave chase in hope of hanging on. Following behind, a pace averaging 15 MPH faster than he was driving before, I don't believe Stan had ever gone so fast. First few turns, he hung in there. As Bouquet Canyon Road appears to open up, into a straightaway... Well, that particular part, it doesn't.

 

No! It's a second gear turn!

 

Hammer down, throttle buried, around Stan went, thinking he could retake his second place. Stupid thing to do. Driving with just one headlight, substantial damage to his right front, what he needed to do was be conservative; follow, not lead. Just as I'd bared down hard on the brakes for the late-apex second gear sweeper, around went Stan, his throttle buried!

 

"AHHHHHHHHHHH, GOD DAMNED SON OF A..." I couldn't hear him. But, I sware I could feel him, swaring to himself, grinding enamel, as off he went. Car swapping ends, rear of the Mitsubishi stepping out, he nerfed the back end into the barrier, ever so gently, lucky it was a right-hander.

 

The two mid-engined, short wheelbase vehicles lead! Thanks to sleepy Stan, Doug would no longer be last place.

 

Next several miles, I slowly reeled in the Renault. Washer fluid sump bone dry, back on Gene's tail for another perscription dose of oil. Thank my lucky stars: Rain! On come my wipers.

 

Seven miles studying Gene, strengths and weaknesses of the turbocharged Renault was a real treat. So much lag to factor, watching Gene throttling down in anticipation exactly where to apply torque ahead of where his turbocharger would finally spool up, he was never all that far off. Plain to see, he was no stranger to his Renault. But, he'd far from mastered it, as I have mine.

 

Not an easy car to drive. For either of us.

 

I studied the old guy, glued to his bumber several miles, freewheeling in to each turn, flames out the tilpipe from throttling off, letting the back end creep out, then throttling up blowing oil, tagging his downshift ahead of the the apex, throttle buried, hacking and sawing at the wheel to maximize exit speed from the apex into the straightaway, then hard on the brakes approaching the next sweeper, like a sprint car driver, throttle off, tossing it in, slow-in fast-out, getting his clutching done early, tagging his downshift well ahead of the apex, throttling the turbocharger back up, awaiting and anticipating the correct moment ahead of the apex, to drop the clutch. Disrupt him from his routine, he'll swallow a poison pill, slow everything down, make the both of us pay.

 

That is old Gene's driving style.

 

Half mile dirt ovals, you can be unidimentional. Canyon's you cannot. Everytime I thought to try him, test his resolve, draw alongside in a braking area, he'd anticiapte. Ralf Schumacher syndrome, driving in his rear view mirrors oblivous to the race, he knew what I was thinking, and alter his style, fast-in slow-out, trail braking, which would slow the both of us down, substantially, precious seconds lost to those behind, not merely in response to attempts at a pass, mind you, but for no good reason than pulling-out for clean air, old Gene would counter-maneuver, swerving in front, then brake testing me.

 

Like an old USAC guy.

 

Really slowing me down, I had to find a way by. Timed my pass a place I know quite well, where I could feint a late-braking maneuver, get my breaking done early instead, dupe him into going fast-in slow-out, hard on his brakes a place he doesn't have to, trick him into early apexing, slip inside him ex post apex, catch him on the wrong side of the double yellow, then race him side-by side to the blind rise that follows. Slow in-fast out late apexing a late apex sweeper, I'd have draw a prefect line, slip underneth under acceleration, tricking him into understeering the Renault, ex post apex.

 

I set him up, initially drawing alongside the Renault, as if to late brake him, but instead I braked hard, abruptly, getting my braking done early, then got back on the throttle, flat out, all the way through the third gear sweeper.

 

Duping Gene into go fast-in slow-out, early apexing a late apex turn, my Little Godzilla drew alongside under yaw. Accelerating beside the understeering Renault, inching ahead by a nose just as the Renault's KKK turbocharger spooled up, I'd pinned him wrong side of the double yellow. From the apex we emerged, side-by-side, blind rise just ahead, me correct side of the double yellow, the two of us door-handle-to-door-handle, Devil may care, test of character approaching the crest... Does the road continue straight? Does it veer left? Or right? Is someone coming the other way?

 

You never know...

 

Side-by-side, both of us flat-out as we crested the rise, that wonderful lightness of feeling, butterflies let loose deep in our souls, partial weightlessness at great speed as our suspensions momentarily unloaded, I toggled on my highlights as I nosed ahead, stayed hammer down into the throttle and waited as the road would inevitably veer. Hard into the next bend, me on the inside line a place the old guy would have no choice but ceed or die. A wise man afteral, off the throttle, Gene lifted! Two mid-engined cars swap position!

 

"Good riddance old man!" smiling.

 

The downhill stretch eastbound, along the south side of Bouquet reservior, into the braking zone for the left, to the checkpoint at Spunky Canyon for a my second stamp, the Renault aloof in my mirrors some 35 yards behind, and not too far off, Matt, David and Mike behind, making good time behind.

 

And, sleepy wayward Stan, from first to last, duely recorded courtesy of luckless Andrew, who arrived at Station 2 just in the nick of time:

_______________________________________________________________

 

Station 2, Andrew

Spunky Canyon & Bouquet:

 

1. Yours Truly (first arrival; windshield saturated in oil)

2. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II (minus 5 seconds from leader, car smoking)

3. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG (a minute behind leader; reports Renault blowing oil)

4. David; Audi RS-4 (minus 1 minute to leader; minor damage to front)

5. Mike: C6 Corvette (minus 1 minute to leader; nerf marks to rear facia)

6. Douglas; BMW 135 (minus 3 minutes to leader; substantial damage to left-rear quarterpanel)

7. Stan; Mitsubishi Evolution; minus (over 4 minutes to leader; damage to left-rear & right-front; busted headlight)

 

Station 2 Unaccounted for, per Andrew:

 

8. Pete; Dodge Viper; DNF

9. Kori: GT3 RS Porsche; Disqualified

_______________________________________________________________

 

As I pulled away from the 2nd checkpoint, banging up through my gears across the northside of Bouquet Reservoir, up Spunky Canyon, wringing my supercharged powerplant for everything it was worth, about 5 seconds back old Gene gave chase. Time to see if he was up to the task.

 

Hill climb to the summit of Spunky Canyon Road, if I couldn't manage to increase the margin to the trailing Renault, then I'd have problems on the downhill segment to Green Valley.

 

Once over the summit, Spunky Canyon frequently sanded, is never clean, and requires considerable restraint. My car is not good there. The Renault, so much better than my car on irregular, dirt laden asphalt, I needed to draw an advantage along the stretch by Bouquet Reservior, and up the hillclimb to the summit, get old Gene as far behind me as humanly possible. Going downhill, into the Green Valley conurbation, he would make up considerable ground.

 

If he didn't have me by Green Valley, then he'd never likely see me, again.

 

Up the hill we went!

 

Tight switchbacks on the spunky canyon hillclimb, the turbocharged mid-engined Renault lost touch with the supercharged, mid-engined vehicle ahead. Over the summit, the Renault lost touch completely, that was the last I'd see of Old Gene. Tipeetoeing the downhill into Green Valley, every apex sanded, just getting through there without shunting the car into the Armco, I didn't think I was going particularly fast. I must have been. No sooner than I arrived in Green Valley, sure enough, I could see the Renault's headlights in my mirrors far away, more than 100 yards or so behind. By the time I'd reached Lake Hughes Rd at Muntz Canyon Road, my gap looked to have increased, to a half mile.

 

Downhill segment to Green Valley, David in his AWD Audi moved around Matt for third place. Stan's battered AWD Misubishi found its way around the BMW, and closed a three minute gap to Dave's Audi and Mike'd Corvette, to almost nothing.

 

Once through Green Valley, ished I could have been there to see it, Matt's AMG Benz powered back in front of the Audi on the hillclimb up San Francisquito, to Lake Hughes.

 

Extreme southwesternmost corner of my secret test track, Pine Canyon, constitutes my personal stomping grounds. Lake Hughes to Three Points is extremly fast, extremly dangerous. Terminal velocity maintained over blind crests, the car takes to the air, lauching skyward on several occasions. Last chance, if you don't have me by Lake Hughes, then color me gone.

 

Pine Canyon to Three Points, is harrowing. I'm fast through there.

 

Dropping back, old Gene succumbed to fatigue. From Lake Hughes, a 20 MPH discrepancy at their terminal velocities, Matt demoted the Renault to third before Three Points, about 155 MPH. Same stretch of road, trailing a half minute behind the Renault, Mike in the Corvette took 4th place from David, the two of them later speculated, the Corvette about 165 MPH.

 

Order at the final checkpoint, courtesy of Anna (nice going, Anna!):

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

Winner Take All

Station 3, Anna

Three Points:

 

1. Yours Truly (...oil all over that car!)

2. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG (several minutes behind!)

3. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II (5 seconds behind Matt; smoking oil!)

4. Michael: C6 Corvette (about 30 seconds behind the Renault; rear-end bashed up!)

5. David; Audi RS-4 (about 30 seconds behind Mike; front-end smashed-in)

6. Stanley; Mitsubishi Evolution (right behind Dave; looks like a demolition derby!)

7. Douglas; BMW 135 (a minute behind the Evo; fender bashed-up!)

 

Station 3 Unaccounted for, per Anna:

 

8. Pete; Dodge Viper; what happened to Pete?

9. Kori: GT3 RS Porsche; Disqualified

_______________________________________________________________

 

Open stretch of Hwy 138 and Interstate 5, grand turismos behind me with terminal velocities at least 155 MPH, if I had to stop for fuel in Frazier Park, my race would be run. Old Gene slowly fading, I dropped the hammer. A 190 MPH Corvette lurking somewhere back there, highly motivated guy behind the wheel with something to prove, I'd have to hustle my Little Godzilla from Three Points through Gorman and Frazier Park, to Mil Potrero not stopping...

 

Not for anything...

 

"REEEEEEEEEEEEEEE," my 5th gear, 7,700 RPMs, blowing triple digits across Hwy 138, throttle buried, jiggling my ankle, my right foot going numb, transition to northbound Interstate 5, back up to my humble terminal velocity, at most 140 at most I blew through Gorman like a cool breeze. CHP patrol car, other side of the freeway going the other way, didn't much seem to care. Off the freeway, buzzing through Frazier Park never once stopping, an eye to my fuel meter the whole time, watching the dial slowly creeping clockwise.

 

Surprisingly few vehciles on the nation's highway, tonight.

 

I initially opted to start last, stay well away from vehicles heavier than my kerb weight, drive a conservative pace, pare down my betas, conserve fuel, overtaking just two occasions on merit (e.g., the Mitsubishi and the Renault). Everyone else I passed, was a consequence of their mistakes. Albeit saturated in Renault 30 weight, my car was one of three (e.g., Gene's Renault; Matt's Mercedes) to have finished unscathed, not a blemish to the sheet metal. I made one significant driving error (e.g., usupring my washer fluid).

 

Having conserved early on, I seemed to be right on target, 3/5ths my fuel load spent, nobody in my rear view mirrors for a solitary downhill run from high elevation, gliding into the GCV, via the mighty Cerro Noroeste downhill.

 

Albeit woefully insufficient to cover several thousand dollar damage incured to his fiberglass bodywork, Mike's potent Corvette, third lightest vehicle in the group, powered him from a distant last place to finish 2nd, sufficent to recover his entry fee. Only twice was Mike passed on merit (by Gene's Renault & David's Audi). Mike made one significant driver error, overdriving his brakes at the start, too close to Matt checking up in his Benz. We'll never know. But, why he did so well, I suspect Mike's Corvette had GM's superb active suspension (e.g., Magnetic Selective Ride Control). He could not have done what he did with a Z-51 suspension. Wished I could have been there to see it, he took the Renault for third on Hwy 138, and the Benz at its terminal velocity on Interstate-5 in top gear.

 

Matt finished a distant third, the spot he initially bargained for. Lucky to recover $1000 of his $2500 entry fee, had he started at the back, Matt would have progressed to no fuirther than 5th. Mike and Stan both advanced two positions in the final heat on merit, 4th to 2nd and 6th to 4th respectively, the E-Class AMG Benz no match for the C6 Corvette, the Turbocharged Mitsubish Lancer superior to the Audi on the high speed Mil Potrero-Cerro Noroeste downhill. Were I rally master of this race, Matt would have been penalized, end of the first intermediate, relagated to last position, for having brake tested drivers directly behind him at the start.

 

Stan drew the first starting position and lead initially. Lack of discipline, preponderance of driver errors saw Stan fall to second, fall to third, then fall to last. Final stint, he recovered to a close 4th place by virtue of a superior vehicle. A very banged up Mitsubishi, no driver made more mistakes than Stan.

 

David in the RS Audi started 7th, fell to last, ultimately recovered to finish a distant fifth, well behind the Turbocharged Mitsubishi. No match for Pete's Viper, best David would have otherwise finished would be 6th place.

 

Gene started 6th. I don't know what his circumstance was. A skillful launch, by midway to station 2, all but one car in this race Gene had passed on his own merit. Ripe old age of 71, credit to him, he lead the second intermediate. Owing to Father Time, a function of fatigue, Gene brought the Renault home right where it began, sixth position, subsequently having been passed on merit, by every other car in this race but one (e.g., the overweight 1-series BMW). Had he corrected his vision prior to the event, perhaps old Gene might have perservered to 4rd place. But, I suspect he blew out his fuel load early on.

 

Everyone bottled up behind Stan at the start, fast-starting Doug had this race won. He initially raced to lead the rally by a comfortable margin, having outdriven a guy in a seemingly comparable car (e.g., Stan's Mitsubishi). A lackluster drive, Doug fell to 5th by the end of the first segment, to 6th place by the end of the 2nd segment, succumbed to last place in the equally lackluster, hopelessly overweight 1-series BMW, never to recover. Had BMW delivered Doug a 2800 pound 1-series BMW, Stan may have been better able to maintain his early pace. Excessive weight of the BMW not withstanding, it can't be all that bad. Being stupid, driving with sunglasses in the middle of the night, he sure banged up that BMW. Lose the sunglasses, can the facade, stop trying to be cool, I think he'd have done somewhat better.

 

Victim of circumstance, big surprise of the evening, fragility of Dodge corporation's disappointing 4 thousand pound handcrafted Viper. I've seen Honda Civics and Toyota Corolla's take more punishment than that. Precious cargo on board in my previous daily driver, a 1999 Subaru Legacy, I drove right home from 60 miles away after being T-boned, 50 MPH, passenger side, by an unlicensed, uninsured motorist in a Nissan Maxima. Light impact, slow speed contact less than 0.25g wholly disabled the Viper. Poor Pete, succored out of his money, I think the only thing that car's good for is a driveway ornament.

 

As it were, Three Points would be the last I saw of anyone. For a cool 15 large, add 15 hundred bux from Matt, my Little Godzilla and I descended from high elevation, into the southernmost portion of California's Great Central Valley unmolested, a 28 minute interval in hand, a tenth tank of fuel remaining:

_______________________________________________________________

 

Winner Take All

Official Result, Final

Per Markus, Station 4

Hwy 166 @ Cerro Noroeste:

 

1. Yours Truly, US$15,000.00 (plus $1,500 from third place)

2. Michael, C6 Corvette; US$2,500.00

3. Matt; Mercedes E63 AMG; US$2,500.00 (less $1,500 to Yours Truly)

4. Stanley; Mitsubishi Evolution

5. David; Audi RS-4

6. Gene; Renault R5 Turbo II

7. Douglas; BMW 135i

 

Station 4 Unaccounted for, per Markus:

 

8. Pete; Dodge Viper; DNF

9. Kori; GT3 RS Porsche; DNS

_______________________________________________________________

 

No new vehicles on the market under 2500 pounds, what's a hard core drive to do, but try to keep what I've got fresh and new. What with the price of gasoline rising so high, in spite of so few people driving, less people crashing my car insurance similarly so, ever rising,, and all those tradesmen working for bodyshops, twiddling their thumbs with nothing to do, price plunging in the autobody sector constitutes a fortutious time to put my Little Godzilla in the shop for a perscription dose of TLC... Preparation for the next run.

 

A race won by patience and forethought, not flair, a little extra chump change lining my pocket, just the same - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"...Hang yourself, brave Crillon! We fought at Arques, and you were not there!"

Table of Contents

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"...But, far more numerous was heard of such, who think too little and talk too much"

 

August of 2007

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

~ Perhaps the worst year in organized motorsport, since 1955, the 2007 season is a write off.

 

~ Due to lack of competition, Jeff Gordon will coast to another NASCAR title. Sebastien Bourdais, in CART (e.g., CCWS). IRL? IMSA? Grand AM? They're meaningless. Who cares?

 

~ We turned the channel to NASCAR's race at Watkins Glen. Little birdy told us no less than three car owners had a contract to take out Juan Pablo Montoya at the 2007 Glen. We were keen on tuning in , hoping for something to smile about. Watching JP Montoya mopping up the good 'ol boys on a road course, clever choice of a long first gear ratio, saving his brakes, hacking through from 20 places back on the grid, to sixth, on his way to victory, sure enough, but to be deliberately taken out, by Denny Hamlin. Poof, off went the television.

 

~ Point taken: Yes, you can keep a good man down. And, nobody is better at that than a good old fashioned southern style NASCAR lynch mob.

 

~ Scott Speed wants to drive... in NASCAR? Talking to Jimmy Vasser some years back, recalling him say, "... nobody goes to NASCAR unless they absolutely have to."

 

~ Our driver's group used get together, race day, for every Formula 1 Grand Prix. Once grandiose elaborate events, we'd organize our driving events just before, or just after each Grand Prix. Advent of FiA's stupid 2.4 liter engine rule threw a wet towel, which dampened enthusiasm, considerably. Recent industrial espionage scandal, McLaren's intelligence apparatus having been successful obtaining 780 page blueprint to Ferrari's F-2007, usurped what little enthusiasm remained, in our group's desire to study Formula 1.

 

~ Yet still, what few die hards turn out during the wee hour, Sunday morning, but for no good reason than to bear witness to McLaren's systematic annihilation of yet another perfectly good driver, watching Formula 1, the rise and fall of Fernando Alonzo, is making us sick to our stomachs.

 

~ We're quite certain Formula 1's television ratings wax, in the United Kingdom. As they do, here in America, we're quite certain they wane, in Spain.

 

~ Standing on his teammate's shoulders, the most arrogant, manipulative driver we have ever seen, Lewis Hamilton will coast to an easy win for the 2007 World Driver's Championship, a consequence of the British media's collective effort, smearing his teammate, in tandem with preferential treatment, McLaren engineers handing to Hamilton, on a silver platter, Alonzo's race set up at every Grand Prix. And, McLaren will coast to the 2007 World Constructor's Championship, a consequence of industrial espionage.

 

~ Moreso than the late great Scott Speed, guy we really feel sorry for, is Fernando Alonzo. McLaren, systematically destroying Juan Pablo Montoya, when in similar fashion, late 2005, when it was abruptly announced the World Champion would be leaving Renault, for McLaren, for the 2007 season, everybody in this driver's group knew: 2007 would be the beginning of the end, for Fernando.

 

~ Takes two decades, millions of dollars, thousands of man hours, cultivating a Grtand Prix driver. Takes about three months, if that, to denigrate him.

 

~ In actuality, Fernando has far exceeded our every expectation. Outset of the season, owing to relentless pressure of the hopelessly biased British press corp, the masterful manner to which young Lewis Hamilton is able to manipulate the british press, we anticipated Fernando would waffle, by quarter season. He is hanging in there. But, so little support for him there at McLaren, it's only a matter of time before he crumbles.

 

~ Want to destroy a perfectly good race driver?

 

~ Just as is done in the workplace, in most any vocation, systematically wreck his confidence. It's a simple thing to do. Apply heat and pressure. It's that simple. Here's how (A.K.A., "The Ron Dennis-Norbert Haug special"):

 

1). Target your driver, single him out, contract him, well in advance, under present terms seemingly favorable to him, now; promise him the world, a year and a half from now.

 

2). Upon his start date, intimidation tactics; move quickly to affect compliance; crititcize his appearance, induce conformity, attempt to suppress individuality (e.g., preseason, Norbert Haug insisted Fernando shave his head).

 

3). Then, pull the old switch-a-roni, recruit a principal rival, someone for whom is all but certain to be significantly more popular.

 

4). Preclude him of his intellectual property rights (e.g., no property rights; handing over Alonzo's race set-up to Hamilton, under the guise of teamwork, or "equal treatment").

 

5). Turn your fiercely nationalistic press corp loose, to isolate him, to publically humillite him, to belittle him, to vilify him in the newspapers, and on the evening news.

 

~ Once you've got the poor guy backpedaling, all there is left to do thereafter, pour yourself a cup of coffee, kick up your heels, and admire your handiwork, while his engineers, aerodynamicists and technicians slowly lose confidence in him.

 

~ Second only to NASCAR, systematically marginalizing people is... the British press. Firmly in control, having subverted the Formula 1 media apparatus, in every English speaking country, here in America, 75% of our F1 broadcast coverage is dominated, by biased British nationals Windsor, Matchett and Hobbs, who grope, admirably so, to maintain objectivity. All too many times, they slip.

 

~ Three feircely nationalistic Englishmen on Speedvision's F1 broadcast team... Just one American national.

 

~ To us, environment is everything. Lose confidence, it never (NEVER) comes back. Race drivers require unflagging support, nurturing, mollycoddling... unconditional love. Give that to an average driver (e.g., Mika Hakkinen), he might win championships. Deny it? Erode it? Winnow it away? The best inevitably crumble. Or, worse. Without confidence, we are nothing. As drivers, belief in ourselves is all we've got. Our confidence, take that away, it's over and done with... we are through.

 

~ The diference, between Scott Speed and Sebastien Bourdais? The diference, between Scott Speed and Sebastian Vettle? Scott Speed, a second a lap faster than Sebastian Vettle, over two seconds per lap faster than Bordais, is utterly irrelevent.

 

~ Sebastien Bourdais was loved. Sebastian Vettle was loved. Juan Fangio, Sterling Moss, Jimmy Clark, Jackie Stewart, Nigel and Emerson and Mario, Alan Jones, Alain Prost, Ayrton Senna, Niki Lauda, Michael Schumacher... they were loved. At Williams, so was Juan Pablo. At Renault, so too was Fernando. Not so, at McLaren.

 

~ At McLaren, it's Lewis Hamilton they love. Not just a little.

 

~ Little birdy tells us: Fernando's being used up, and spit out, to serve the role Ron Dennis secretly intended, as finishing school professor, for Ron Dennis's golden boy, Lewis Hamilton... That Sir Frank Williams got his OBE, grooming Nigel Mansel, silimarly so, grooming a British World Driving Champion would earn Ron Dennis the one thing in life he dearly most wants: an OBE from the Queen.

 

~ Little birdy tells us, guys at McLaren do not like Alonzo. No intrinsic interest in Fernando, whatsoever, McLaren having signed him had more to do with sticking it to Flavio Briatori. As per our sources, the good folks at McLaren can't stand Alonzo, that they would like nothing more than for him to leave, that the only reason Ron Dennis signed Fernando, was to get back at Flavio Briatori, shagging for McLaren, Renault's number one driver, and the number 1 icon from Renault's constructor's championship.

 

~ Politics... Status, power and prestige, like most things in F1, nothing whatsoever to do with driving, per se.

 

~ Keep in mind: English is not Fernando's native tongue. What Alonzo literally means, lost in translation, Spanish to English... British press fails to afford him a wide enough berth, with respect to literal interpretation. The British press, confirmation bias and frame dependency run amok, just as they did Juan Pablo Montoya, poor Fernando was a lamb lead to the slaughter. Like Juan Pablo, Fernando will never be the same.

 

~ Such a fine driver... Hope we're wrong.

 

~ British driver, in a British team, signal advantage for Hamilton, English, his native tongue, Lewis does circles around Fernando, mopping him up, taking every opportunity to speak on behalf of Fernando, in manipulating the British press. And, the British press have been only too happy, to indulge the manipulative young rookie, in smearing the young Spaniard.

 

~ Such blatant bias, such unfair treatment backfiring, British drivers (and, along with them, the British people, in general) are becoming ever increasingly unpopular, with the rest of the world. Outside Great Britain, their beloved Lewis Hamilton is anything but popular. And, the those people (e.g., the British people) beat up on Fernando? The more they attempt to smear him? The ever more unpopular will the young, manipulative Hamilton become.

 

~ So too, as McLaren are perceived, biased and manipulative... So too, will the British people be perceived, selfish, biased and manipulative. By all means, continue on their merry way, smearing the young Spaniard, at their peril - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"...the nature of business is swindling"

Table of Contents

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"...Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable we must alter it, every six months"

~ Oscar Wilde ~

 

 

May of 2007

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

~ Mainlining ethanol, in their 3.5 liter Hondas, the IRL's best and brightest could barely muster 237 MPH, straightaways, at Indy? They can't muster 226s, in qualifying?

 

~ We are not impressed.

 

~ Everybody, trimming out their aero, trying to qualify for the "Affirmative Action 500" (e.g., once known long ago, as the "Indianapolis 500"), the most depressing month of the year, is May. The whole world has to go right, every moon and star, in perfect alignment, to win that race. Once a proving ground for radical technology, F1, IRL and CART, in effect, each having degenerated to a spec series where diversity, progress and innovation is stifled by bureaucratic command and control policy, even the most obtuse of drivers must inevitably conceed: Open wheel racing is in decline.

 

~ No point even following CART or IRL. A stupid engine formula, 2.4 litre powerplants, homologated, clowns like Max Mosley running around, decreeing drivers compromise their race set-ups, optimize to two compounds of grooved tyres, Formula 1 is reduced to a shadow of its former self.

 

~ Imagine Max Mosley, ruling by decree, pushing Enzo around, telling the Commendatory himself, what kind of cars he prefer Ferrari builds? Imagine Max Mosley, ruling by decree what tyres he prefers Gilles, Niki, Nigel, Ayrton, Nelson and Alain to run. Emerson would have an aneurism. Alan Jones would have old Max by the scruff, face down on the asphalt, holding him down in park fermat, sir Jackie Stewart ripping out his hair, James Hunt, sword in hand, shreaking, "...OFF WITH HIS HEAD!" Gianclaudio Reggazoni would likely overshoot his pit stall, in hope of taking off a good chunk of Max's leg, matter of factly repling, thereafter, "Oh! Pardon me, Monsieur."

 

~ Why do they tolerate him? Phase shift Max Mosley back, two decades, he would not be long of Formula 1. Somebody would have punched his ticket, sent him back home to his mommy.

 

~ This epoch in time, the race boss having ascended, to become soverign, characters the likes of Bernie Ecclestone, Tony George, Luca Montezemolo & Jean Todt, Roger Penske & Chip Ganassi, Max mosley and Brian Barnhart, Kevin Kalkoven, Paul Newnan & Carl Haas, Flavio Briatori & Ron Dennis are now the stars, relegating in their importance and their effectual clout, Fernando Alonzo & Felipe Massa, Helio Castro Neves & Tony Kanaan, Sebastian Bourdais and Paul Tracy, to mere minnions who serve their masters, keeping their mouths zipped, doing what they're told. Doesn't matter who you are, or how good you are, step out of line, just once, just one word out of place, Ecclestone, George, Montezemolo, Todt, Penske, Ganassi, Kalkoven, Newnan, Haas, Ron Dennis, Flavio Briatori will close ranks, have you packing your bags, on the slow boat to languish, in NASCAR.

 

~ Oh... so, you don't believe us? Toggle the following link -- see for yourself:

 

http://www.nascar.com/drivers/dps/jmontoya00/cup/

 

~ Depressing...

 

~ Guy we're feeling sorry for, these days: Fernando Alonzo. British press corp secretly despise him. They want Alonzo's head -- on a stick. Look at the falsehoods the British press corp are spinning about the poor guy:

 

> McLaren plays down Alonso struggle!

> May 18 (GMM): A spokeswoman for

> McLaren-Mercedes has played down

> suggestions that world champion

> Fernando Alonso is struggling to

> cope with being outshone by his

> rookie teammate so far in 2007.

 

http://www.f1i.com/content/view/7318/1/

 

~ The British press corp is lieing. They're smearing Fernando Alonzo, hoping to weaken him, soften him up.

 

~ Courtesy of the British Press, it is none other than Lewis Hamilton sitting, in Juan Pablo Montoya's seat. Doing exactly what they did to bump off Juan Pablo Montoya, the British press, spinning baseless speculation on the premise of defective correlaries, endeavors headlong, trying to bump off Alonzo, in an effort to foist their golden boy countryman, Lewis Hamilton, into McLaren's number one slot.

 

~ He needs to be shopping for another ride (e.g., retrace his migration path home, to Renault; they loved him there).

 

~ Alonzo is not "...struggling." Alonzo is not "...trying to cope." Nor has he been "...outshown by his rookie teammate." To the contrary, it's Alonzo who's outshown his teammate. Hamilton, as of Spain, merits third in the World Driver's Championship. Not first. As of Spain, it's Felipe Massa who leads Alonzo in the 2007 World Driver's Championship. Not Hamilton.

 

~ We don't say it unless we can prove it. And, we most certainly can.

~ Everything Alonzo's done, rejuvenating McLaren, but to be smeared in the British press, saddled alongside a British rookie driver, driving for a British team, will inevitably prove debilitating, for Alonzo. Hamilton, a British driver, driving for a British team, it is inevitable McLaren will differ to Hamilton. British driver, driving for a British team, a mere matter of time before McLaren succumbs to social pressure of the British press corp, it is Hamilton will receive preferential treatment. As it is, it's already happening. Hamilton already receives preferential treatment, by the British press, and he benefits by the pressure applied upon Alonzo, by the British press.

 

~ Slowly consolidating himself at McLaren, Hamilton soaks up every ounce of preferential treatment he can get, while the British press slowly winnows away, at Fernando.

 

~ Preferential treatment, here, is reeserved for underrated drivers. Manipulated into McLaren's number two seat by the British Press corp, Hamilton merits none. We subject him to the same rigorous analysis we would, any driver we suspect is overrated. Numbers don't lie. No room for argument whatsoever, Hamilton is, indeed, overrated.

 

~ Through the Grand Prix of Spain, 2007, Lewis Hamilton does not (...NOT) lead the 2007 F1 World Driver's Championship. Case of mistaken identity, they've got the wrong guy. A non sequitor (e.g., "...it does not follow"), according to FIa, that Lewis Hamilton, ex post the Grand Prix of Spain, leads the Formula 1 World's Driver's Championship is an abomination. Derelict in its degree of scrutiny, low level of scholarship, so upserd is FIa's driver evaluation criterion, were the World Driver's Championship to be decided, four Grand Prix, through Spain, antithesis of Joachen Rindt, the only driver in history ever to have won the World Driver's Championship, on the basis of Grand Prix Victories, alone, Lewis Hamilton would be the first World Champion crowned, on a baseless criterion (e.g., ...no Grand Prix victories, whatsoever):

 

Driver	GP of Australia	GP of Malaysia	GP of Bahrain	GP of Spain	World Driver's Championship Standings, as per FIa
Lewis Hamilton	6	8	8	8	30 Points
Fernando Alonso	8	10	4	6	28
Felipe Massa	3	4	10	10	27
Kimi Raikkonen	10	6	6	DNF	22
Nick Heidfeld	5	5	5	DNF	15

 

~ High crimes and misdemeanors, were the 2007 World Driver's Championship decided, as of the Grand Prix of Spain, the Englishman, Lewis Hamilton, would have won, on a baseless criterion (e.g., he'd win, not having won a single race). To anyone who calls driving their religion, rank in class you see, above and below, is an aberration -- an insult, to anyone who ever strapped in, for business at the wheel:

 

Ordinal Value of Formula 1's Reward System - Facts -	F1's Affirmative Action Style Reward System - Values -
1st Place =	10 Points
2nd Place =	8
3rd Place =	6
4th Place =	5
5th Place =	4
6th Place =	3
7th Place =	2
8th Place =	1

 

~ Crux of the dilemma, arbitrary manner to which FIa evaluates its drivers, the World's Driver's Championship is structured indicative of the preponderance of linear functions a child with a straight-edge would substitute, in high school chemistry, to simulate decay in the half-life of a radioactive isotope, all points paying occurances arbitrarily vaulted, off the X-axis, to achieve tangency with two arbitrarily determined linear functions, one for 1st through 3rd place, the other for 3rd through 9th place. There are three Y-intercepts at zero, 9 and 12, and two real zeros, at 6th and 9th place:

 

 

~ Resting your eyes on the table, above, how FIa evaluates elite drivers is really kind of silly, don't you think? Under this reward system, there is no distinction whatsoever, 11th from 20th, or 9th from 13th place? Right there in the graph, as per FIa, it says a driver should be theoretically indifferent, finishing 22nd or 9th? It says, right there in the graph, FIa is utterly indifferent to 2/3rds of the drivers, in Formula 1?

 

~ Algebraic functions you see in the table, above, constitute FIa's marginal values (e.g., taste & preference) with respect to Grand Prix, Formula 1 motorsport. FIa has three distinct marginal values, first to third place, third to ninth place, and ninth to Nth place. No symmetry, whatsoever. No asymptotes. The slopes of the functions are negative integers, zero, 1 and 2. Not very complex functions, are they? Not remotely sophisticated, either. So simplistic, in fact, most any high school sophomore could reverse engineer these three simple functions, in point-slope form.

 

~ Statisticians are particularly interested, in the number 1. That 8th place pays the unitary value, it therefore serves, as the fundamental basis upon which all other occurrances are compared. Number one is a special beta. We chance upon unitary betas, in the study of stable, exceptional relationships. When a unitary value "blinks out" (e.g., inverts), it's still itself. In the reward system you see in the table, directly above, FIa arbitrarily decrees the unitary value for all basis for which we must deflate to, in-comparison, is 8th place. To wit, in this reward system, a 7th place finish, by decree, arbitrarily constutites twice the accomplishment of a 8th place finish. Where a driver having ascending three places, from 8th on the starting grid to finish 5th, FIa arbitrarily deems a five-fold accomplishment, a driver having ascended, 22nd on the starting grid to finish 9th, it arbitrarily deems utterly meaningless.

 

~ Furthermore: 7th place + 8th place = 6th place, but 7th place + 6th place > 5th place? Should 6th place + 5th place = 3nd place + 8th place? Should 4th place + 5th place > 2nd place?

 

~ Why? On what objective basis could you rationalize this reward system?

 

~ Answer is: You can't. Reason why you can't, it's arbitrary... The Facts agree, but the values don't (e.g., arhetypical political conflict).

 

~ There's nothing theoretically impeccable about FIa's arbitrary reward system. FIa rewards mediocrity, and they exaggerate the demerit of a DNF (e.g., "did not finish"). All the worse, the system they use lies. As of the fourth round of the World Driver's Championship, Lewis Hamilton is not leading the World Driver's Championship, on any rude, objective, statistically significant basis.

 

~ All this is Max Mosley's fault. He's the dumbass who arbitrarily screwed up FIa's reward system. At best, a mediocre driver back in his day, makes perfect sense he'd seek to reward mediocrity, elevating 7th to 2nd place, by whopping two points, from the traditional Grand Prix points system he abandoned. Thanks to stupid Max, the specter looms evermore onmipresent, you don't have to win a single GP, to snare a World Driver's Championship.

 

~ The British press going berserk, stroking him, singing his praises, puffing him up telling him he's the greatest driver who ever lived, why Lewis Hamilton finds himself, pie in the sky, leading the FIa World's Driver's Championship, isn't remotely attributable to Lewis, being a great driver, much less having a fast, competitive entry. Intellectual frauds run amok, the reason why he leads the championship is attributable to a disfunctional bureaucracy, FIa, and its legion of self-serving bureaucrats having coasted through their Statistics 101, with their brains in neutral, who are unable to summon intellectual horsepower necessary to evaluate a driver, much less themselves.

 

~ Whensoever I cultivate a new contact? First thing I do? Very slowly, I'll drive the firm's parking lot; see what there is to see. I'll examine the outer periphery of their parking lot, keen on searching for run down automobiles, then work my way around, to the fancy cars nearmost the lobby entrance. If I see a Porsche, Corvette, Mercedes in the company parking lot? Driving a Ferrari, to work... Wrong tool for the job. Upon my initial counseltation, I have no compunction, confronting them:

 

"Excuse me, sir? That behemoth Hummer you're driving to work, taking up two parking spaces in your company parking lot? Is that the right tool, for the job? Is your daily choice, commuting that vehicle, a reflection of how you live your life, what people think of you, how you run your business, how you can be counted on to make the important decisions for those who have no choice but to depend, upon you?"

 

~ People like that? I avoid them like the plague.

 

~ Evaluating human capital, I boil it down to two things (1): THOSE WHO CAN DO MATH, TAKE ONE STEP TO THE RIGHT, and (2): THOSE INDIVIDUALS WHO MERIT AXIOM, TO MAKE REALISTIC DECISIONS, CHOOSING THE RIGHT TOOL FOR THE JOB, TAKE ONE MORE STEP TO THE RIGHT?" From this cohort are individuals with whom I'm able to relate, from a plateau sufficient for which to intellectualize phenomena, and affect positive change.

 

~ The rest of them are shit for brains, coasting along on someone else's intellectual dime.

 

~ If you're driving a Mustang? Ford's Mustang, a blunt, obtuse instrument, is the wrong tool for any job. It doesn't race well, it doesn't handle well, it doesn't park well, it's overweight, it doesn't haul luggage well, it doesn't u-turn well, it doesn't manage it tyres well, lousy brakes, lousy suspension, it's lousy on fuel consumtion, it's aerodynamically inefficient, it's agonizing for its back seat passengers... If an individual can't be entrusted so simple a task, as objectively chosing the right tool for the job, then how can they be entrusted the task, of objectively evaluating others? Or, making critical decisions on their employee's behalf, much less evaluating elite, high performance drivers?

 

~ What do you suppose race bosses and auto execs drive? Do they choose the right tool, for the job? Or, do they, instead, choose fancy, boutique vehicles to parade themselves around, for which to underline their importance? And, how is it they choose to evaluate subordinates in their realm who depend most, upon them?

 

~ Transitive preference logic implies, these people, race bosses and auto execs have more in common with Mustang guys; less in common, with real drivers. They are not characteristically good, at evaluating others. They certainly are not people for whom you'd want, making critical decisions affecting your life. As of this writing, they collectively recognize Lewis Hamiltion, as the driver currently leading the FIa World Driver's Championship.

 

~ Trouble is, he isn't. As per the Grand Prix of Spain, Lewis Hamilton is not universally recognized to be leading the Formula 1 World Driver's Championship. Indicative of socially promoting a B-student, with an "A," as per the Grand Prix of Spain, though Hamiltion lies 1st in the World Driver's Championship, he rates but third, under rigorous analysis.

 

~ We don't just make this stuff up, off the top of our heads... We know. How do we know Lewis Hamilton doesn't really lead the 2007 Driver's Championship? We we boast expertise, evaluating drivers. This is what we do... We've developed a trained eye for this stuff. We back it up, with scholastic expertise, across several disciplines, in quantitative analysis. And, we boast natural aptitudes, for driving.

 

~ We know an overrated driver, when we see one...

 

 

~ Conflict archetypes (e.g., table 3.2): Computational Conflict, that fact and value agree, we can easily employ contemporary automation, plug and chug, to reconcile the outcome. Legal conflict, that facts don't agree, but values do, we employ automation, for verification (e.g., fact checking). Political conflict, where facts agree, but values don't, or Cultural conflict, where neither facts or values agree, there is no objective basis to simultaneously or objectively, achieve equity or efficiency.

 

~ Perfect way to divide and conquer, Political or Cultural conflict, equity or efficiency of a policy is always arbitrary; always subjective. Axiom for which to play two sides off against each other, bureaucracies just love political and cultural conflict. Here, in America, all the subsequent enbiting, a consequence of political conflict is counted, in our GPD (e.g., national income). Typically, bureaucracies toying with political or cultural conflict is discernable, by the ofsetting policy they generate. Divide and conquer, not in bureaucracy's better interest to solve the problem, the policy community will draft two policies, an official policy which allows bureaucracy to ratchet down, on illegal immigration, with an offsetting, de facto policy they'll modulate, to relax illigal immigration abatement, when the masses become obcessed with fluffy events the media spins, to distract you from what's really going on (e.g., the Don Imus "nappy headed hoe" thing; war on terrorism; the Princess Diana conspiracy; Gary Condit; Monica Lewinski & Linda Tripp; Washington DC page boy scandal; Paris Hilton goes to the grey bar motel; UFOs; JFK assassination; Scott Peterson murder trial).

 

~ Every reward system which stipulates a subjective, arbitrary weight, to an ordinal value, is subjective; arbitrary.

 

~ Scrolling back up, to FIa's 10-8-6-5-4-3-2-1 reward system, two 5th place finishes equal one Grand Prix victory. A manufacturer's drivers acheiving second and third place in Grand Prix produces equivalency to points rewarded, if a constructor won a Grand Prix, their number two driver finishing 5th. Henceforth, 14 points either way, Ron Dennis or Luca Montezemolo shoudd be indifferent to either outcome, where one of their drivers wins a Grand Prix, the other finishing 5th, relative to the outcome where their drivers finish, second and third. But, because Ferrari or McLaren are not relatively indifferent, to either outcome, that the facts agree, but their values don't, that FIa's points system fails to reflect their marginal values, is a textbook example of political conflict.

 

~ Where facts agree, but values don't is a conflict archetype scholastics collectively refer to, as political conflict.

 

~ How we (e.g., Mulholland Raceway) evaluate drivers, we objectively distill fact and value, to a rude, purile computational state. This is how it should be done:

 

Ordinal Value of Formula 1's Reward System - Fact -	Mean Harmonic Alternative to F1's Arbitrary Reward System - Value -
1st Place =	µ = 1st Place
2nd Place =	µ = 2nd Place
3rd Place =	µ = 3rd Place
4th Place =	µ = 4th Place
5th Place =	µ = 5th Place
6th Place =	µ = 6th Place
7th Place =	µ = 7th Place
...	...
Nth Place =	µ = Nth Place

 

~ In other words, it is what it is. Nothing more. There are no points. First place equals first place, second equals second, and so on. The facts agree; the values agree. We don't presuppose, assume, confer or assign an arbitrary, subjective value, when evaluating a fellow driver's axiom or performance (e.g., Gershchenkron effect). We do so, objectively, on a rude, theoretically impeccable computational level, as follows:

 

Rank in Class = Harmonic Mean = N/[1/X_{1st GP} + 1/X_{2nd GP} + ... + 1/X_{Nth GP}]

 

~ It's eloquent. It's objective. It's theoretically impeccable. Fact always agrees; value always agrees. It doesn't overweight consistency. It won't reward mediocrity. It won't exaggerate the demerit of a DNF. Scalable methodology, just plug and chug, out comes the correct rank in class, without fail, every single time, accurately rank ordered, for an infinite number of ordinal occurrances. It works, flawlessly. Makes perfect sense. Best, it can't be cheated, and it never (...NEVER) lies. So rigorous a degree of scrutiny, it is all but impossible to crown a driver never having won, World Driving Champion.

 

~ For example:

 

Lewis Hamilton = GP_N/[1/GP_Australia + 1/GP_Malaysia + 1/GP_Bahrain + 1/GP_Spain]

 

~ Plug and chug...

 

Lewis Hamilton = 4/[1/3rd_Australia + 1/2nd_Malaysia + 1/2nd_Bahrain + 1/2nd_Spain]

 

~ Revealing the rude, objective 2007 World Championship Standings, as of The Grand Prix of Spain, is as follows:

 

Rank In Class	Driver[Manufacturer; Constructor]	GP of Australia	GP of Malaysia	GP of Bahrain	GP of Spain	Real World Driver's Championship Standings	Driver Standings, Arbitrarily Determined, By FIa
1st	Felipe Massa[FIAT; Ferrari]	6th Place	5th Place	1st Place	1st Place	µ = 1.690	27 Points; 3rd Place
2nd	Fernando Alonso[Mercedes; McLaren]	2nd Place	1st Place	5th Place	3rd Place	µ = 1.9672	28 Points; 2nd Place
3rd	Lewis Hamilton[Mercedes; McLaren]	3rd Place	2nd Place	2nd Place	2nd Place	µ = 2.181818	30 Points; 1st Place
4th	Kimi Raikkonen[FIAT; Ferrari]	1st Place	3rd Place	3rd Place	19th Place	µ = 2.32	22 Points; 4th Place
5th	Nick Heidfeld[BMW; BMW]	4th Place	4th Place	4th Place	15th Place	µ = 4.8979591	15 Points; 5th Place

 

~ Where our method is indicative of calculating their grade point averages, a unitary value (e.g., one) being best, the current points system (e.g., in red, above) arbitrarily rewards mediocrity. As of this writing, it is the Brazilian, Felipe Massa, first in class, who is most worthy. Not the Englishman, Hamiltion who, by our classification, is merely a solid B-student, coasting along on his teammate Alonzo's coattail.

 

~ Objectively determined, a function of rude computational conflict, ex post Spain, it's Felipe Massa who leads the Formula 1 World's Driver Championship. Not Hamilton. Hamilton trails his teammate, Fernando Alonzo, by 0.21 harmonic mean ordinal points. Not only does Felipe Massa lead the World's Driver Championship, he leads Alonzo, by 0.30 points. Hamilton leads Raikkonen, not by 8 points. He leads Raikkonen, by a scant margin (e.g., 0.14 points). The defective reward system FIa employs to reconcile the World Driver's Championship artificially elevates Hamilton over Alonzo, overrates Mercedes McLaren, whilst discounting Ferrari and Massa.

 

~ The most rigorous statistical methodology for which to evaluate a championship, Felipe Massa's ascent is nothing short of spectacular. Objectively relegated, from 1st to 3rd by the rude World Driver's Championship, Lewis Hamiltion is overrated. Objectively promoted, third to first, Felipe Massa is underrated. In the table, above, just two drivers averaging better than second place, neither one is Lewis Hamilton.

 

~ Fernando Alonzo is doing just fine. He is not "struggling." He is not "trying to cope." In reality it's the other way around, the Englishman, Hamilton, "outpaced" by the Spaniard, Fernando Alonzo.

 

~ In effect, there are two World Driver's Championships, a de facto objectivly determined driver's championship FIa is oblivious, or pretends doesn't exist, and the official, nonsensical Affirmative Action style points system it formally recognizes. On the basis of political conflict, Lewis Hamilton subjectively leads the 2007 World's Driver's Championship. Indicative of NASCAR, in its newfangled NEXTEL epoch, on a subjective basis specifically designed to reward mediocrity, elevates Hamilton at Massa's expense.

 

~ Only on a subjective basis does Hamilton lead the championship.

 

~ A failed institution, having dendritically evolved up the wrong branch of its decision tree, FIa marginalizes its own championship. FIa can't evaluate its own drivers, much less itself. Wonder why Juan Pablo Montoya is no longer in Formula 1? The most marginalized driver in FIa history, Juan Pablo Montoya is quite right: He is unequivocally better off, being marginalized in NASCAR than he would be, in Formula 1. He may as well drive NASCAR. We wonder if Fernando Alonzo will be soon to follow.

 

~ As of Spain, it's Massa, not Hamilton, who leads the 2007 World's Driver's Championship. Three wins to McLaren's 1, no room for argument whatsoever, it's Ferrari, only by the scantest margin, which leads the World Constructor's Championship, not McLaren:

 

FIAT_Ferrari = 8/[1/1st Place_Australia + 1/6th Place_Australia + 1/3rd Place_Malaysia + 1/5th Place_Malaysia + 1/1st Place_Bahrain + 1/3rd Place_Bahrain + 1/st Place _Spain+ 1/15th Place _Spain]

 

~ Look how tight the constructor's championship would otherwise be, devoid FIa's Affirmative Action style points system:

 

Rank In Class	Constructor	GP of Australia	GP of Malaysia	GP of Bahrain	GP of Spain	Rude World Constructor's Championship Standings	Constructor's Standings Determined Arbitrarily, By FIa
1st	FIATFerrari	1st & 6th	3rd & 5th	1st & 3rd	1st & 15th	µ = 1.951 Points	49 Points; 2nd Place
2nd	MercedesMcLaren	2nd & 3rd	1st & 2nd	2nd & 5th	2nd & 3rd	µ = 2.06896551 Points	58 Points; 1st Place

 

~ This is yeoman's work. You should be moderately impressed - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"...the fashions of this world passeth away"

Table of Contents

---

 

"...no man undertakes a trade he has not learned, even the

meanest; yet everyone thinks himself sufficiently

qualified for the hardest of all trades -- that of government"

~ Socrates ~

 

 

January of 2007

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ More slanted, biased commentary from that hard-hitting publication nobody ever reads, The Crony Acorn:

 

http://www.theacorn.com/news/2006/0223/Community/021.html

 

~ Archetypical yellow journalism... They just write what Ponch & John tell them to write.

 

~ What millions the policy community squandered on the Operation Safe Canyon Charade, absolutely nothing whatsoever to show for it, but a de facto speed limit for nonresidents, and a dead CHP officer, who killed himself joyriding his Testarossa, on Cornell Road, the policy community finds itself wading knee-deep, in wholesale denial. Policymakers and yellow journalists, rationalizing away having knee-jerked two years ago, today grope, to convince themselves patrolling the zero crime rate canyons, effecting a de facto speed limit applicable, only to non-residents, constituted Pareto optimal policy.

 

~ Operation Safe Canyon was spawned, a consequence of the following pecuniary and non-pecuniary payouts to be apportioned, as follows, across the policy community:

 

* Landowners: Control; preferential treatment... Residents in the Santa Monica Transverse ranges sought control, and preferential treatment to preserve exclusivity, and bolster land value, in doing so, they hope to erect an imaginary wall, around the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges and, as an externality, effect a de facto speed limit in their neighborhoods, applicable to everyone else, but themselves.

 

* Law Enforcement: trophies for Ponch & John... Having aloofly run themselves out of street racers in the San Fernando Valley, stubbornly refusing to regress to perform menial police functions, sought to preserve status, power and prestige of their elite anti-street racing unit, by retreating into the zero crime rate canyons, secretly hoping to lure canyon driver cohorts into police pursuits, for which to continue to provide the entertainment industry compelling, next generation police pursuit video. To keep the courts happy, they needed to boost traffic ticket revenue, in the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges. They needed to maintain a flow of police pursuit video, to keep the entertainment industry happy. They needed local newsies singing their praises. And, they needed to cyclically liquidate confiscated vehicles optimized for canyon driving, reallocate them to ensure a constant, perpetual flow of new canyon drivers for which to exploit, to enhance perpuitity of their elite anti-street racing task force.

 

* The Newsies: Excitement... Small, backwater publications indicative of The Crony Acorn, desperate for circulation for which to rationalize what they charge, for advertising, needed a hot, compelling local issue for which to enrage local residents. They've got to have something to write about. Local newsiews need Ponch and John, constantly feeding them local content, so they can profit, selling advertising.

 

* The Los Angeles Judicial System: Revenue, and more slave labor for California's prison system... A sweet tooth for other people's assets, the judicial system is a behemoth bureaucratic octopus, which requires constant infusions of revenue, to sustain it. Having run itself out of street-racer's assets for which to liquidate, the anti-street racing task force effectively transferred those assets and that revenue, to other metropolitan jurisdictions. Operation Safe Canyon promised to boost traffic ticket revenue, to fill that void.

 

* Local Policymakers: Recognition... Politicians, always keen on hot local issue for which to exploit, hoped to notch their holsters, ingratiating themselves by appearing elastic and responsive to the whim of elite, high brow, high income voters in the Santa Monica Transverse ranges. Politicians and bureaucrats aspired keep up a facade; pretend they care; try to get local newsies writing favorable articles, about them, just long enough for them to move along, to their next gig.

 

* The Entertainment Industry (e.g., advertiser supported television): Next generation police pursuit video (e.g., demand for video footage, of hard core canyon drivers baited, by police officers, into high speed pursuit).

 

~ Target cohort:

 

* Canyon Driver Fraternity: Operation Safe Canyon Policy sought to compile dossiers (e.g., a canyon driver database), for which to infiltrate, segregate and exploit nonresident sports car drivers, for the purpose of parading them before the policy community; to incarcerate them into the penal system as archetypical criminals; to confiscate their assets (e.g., automobiles) to be liquidated; proceeds generated subsequently redistributed, apportioned arbitrarily, across the policy community, with next generation police pursuit videos subsequently distributed, to the entertainment industry (e.g., advertiser supported television).

 

~ What Operation Safe Canyon Policy, in effect, was conceived to do, to those who call canyon driving a principle pastime, is what the residents of the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges did to the California Condor (e.g., kill it, so they can have it all to themselves, but while they're making it extinct, maked damned sure they're getting it on video, for their amusement and entertainment).

 

~ The Operation Safe Canyon Charade seemed like a pretty sweet deal, for everybody: Exclusivity for residents funded by a policy which subverts a disproportionate allocation of community law enforcement into their community, at the expense of taxpayers who don't live there; Ponch & John get to keep their elite anti-street racer task force; the local courts get greased, with a cut of asset liquidation of ever car they confiscate. Politicians get to notch their holsters, ingratiating themselves to high income, high brow residents, with accolades from law enforcement bureaucrats, photo opportunities and plaques on the wall, for being tough on crime, while Hollywierd gets awesome video footage, level 5 drivers plunging to their deaths, "kindly pass the peas and carrots," on the dinnertime evening news, "...if you please?"

 

~ Seemed like a sweet deal. For everyone. Right? Didn't quite work out that way. Did it?

 

~ How do you differentiate a nonresident sports car driver, from someone who lives there? How do you differentiate a hard core canyon driver, from a wanabe? How do you differentiate a sports car driver, who's a lone wolf, from someone embedded, in an underground driver's group? Only way to do that, is to build a canyon driver database, compile dossiers, perform intelligence, then infiltrate us, with their operatives.

 

~ Expensive proposition.

 

~ Two years later, nothing to show, no trophies to be had, for Ponch & John, what appeared to be an easily differentiable, easy to exploit cohort, proved elusive. There are less than 100 hard-core canyon drivers, in Southern California.

 

~ No less problematical with regard to asset valuation, a vehicle optimized for 10/10ths canyon driving is worthless in primary markets. Its MY car. My car is optimized, for ME. If you tried to drive it like I do, you'd shunt. If I tried driving yours, the way I drive mine, I'd shunt. My vehicle is utterly worthless, to everyone else, but ME. Very vehicle, as are most vehciles owned by those who call this their pastime, mine in particular, only 200 left in existence, my vehicle can't be parted out. Too complex for a layman motorist, impossible to sell, modifying a vehicle for canyon driving destroys its resale value. Any hope of recycling confiscated vehicles, selling them at auction, to lure new drivers into the canyons, is futile. Canyon driver's requires a virgin chassis, zero high performance driving accumulated, on the odometer. No driver worth his salt would ever buy someone else's Sunday driver, from a police auction, for which to drive canyons.

 

~ Infiltrate us? For what? To change us? To tell us how they want us to live our lives? Drag us in front of the newsies, to publically humilliate us? Perhaps shake us down, for a little more traffic ticket revenue? To confiscate quirky canyon driving vehicles, with no resale value? To affect an imaginary wall, around Mulholland Raceway?

 

~ We're not dumb kids. They can't capture us, on police video, or bait us, into police pursuit... We're too fast, we're too highly skilled, we're too ephemeral, and we're too few, in number. Most of us who do this have already notched our holsters, with regional or national championship accolades, before having moved along, to other more meaningful things in life. We drive our sports cars, every once in a while. If we know it's futile, we won't run. We'll eat the ticket. No big deal. If perchance Ponch & John ever chanced upon one of us, all you'd see on their video, is a fleeting whisp of a very fast, well driven vehicle sticking like glue to the pavement, unevenfully disappearing, right in front of them, into the menagerie of turns ahead, Godspeed, never to be seen by man nor beast, again. Boring video, even more boring than Formula 1 at 5:00 in the morning, "ain't" going to sell advertising on the 11:00 evening news, with Bill Moyer and Chuck Henry. Far more exciting for television advertisters to enrage an archytypical Army veteran, toss him the keys to an M1-A1 Abrahams tank, have him run around San Diego for a little while, wait for him to high-center himself, throw a half-track, before sending your officers in, guns blazing, to shoot him like a dog. So many of them, coming home from the Middle East, so profoundly affected, so alienated, won't be long before Ponch and John have their hands full, with a brand new exciting cohort to slice and dice, for the amusement and entertainment of television viewers, nationwide.

 

~ Dog eat dog...

 

~ Crux of the dilemma: Commitment. Driving, in its purest, most innocent form, is our religion. You aren't going to assimilate us. You aren't going to change us. You can't tell us how to live our lives. We are never (NEVER) going to change. One look, at our go-fast machines, our committment looms large, all over them. One look, at this web site, our committment is etched across every square micrometer of it. One look, at our faces, when we're laced up and strapped in, doing business at the wheel, the word "Jihad" written, all over them, we recommend you stay out of our faces, use the turnouts, you'd best get the hell out of our way...

 

~ ... wild-wild west.

 

~ Committment... Ponch & John don't live in the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges. Do they? They can't afford to live there. Can they? They live someplace else. Don't they? Ponch & John are more transient to the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges, than everyday commuters who traverse it. Aren't they? In effect, the very people encharged the task, of executing Operation Safe Canyon policy, were encharged the task of executing that policy, in a place they don't principally reside. Operation Safe Canyon Charade, Ponch & John wind up patrolling a zero crime rate area less important to them, than the far removed neighborhoods where they principally reside.

 

~ The Fortress Mulholland residents there hoped to erect, there are no supermarkets. There are no banks, or ATMs; no convenience stores. There's no basic industry, whatsoever. There's nothing for criminals, to rob. What little economy there is, in the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges is focused, principally upon tourism... Small irony, that those who reside in the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges, must come down from their perches, nestled high up in the Santa Monicas, and emerge into the suburbs to realize their consumerist goals, shopping in high population density communities they're no more or less indifferent to, than the very people who migrate to their neighborhoods, to enforce the Operation Safe Canyon Charade.

 

~ Bad policy: Ponch & John migrate, to patrol a zero crime rate area they don't really care about, while Calabasas and Malibu residents migrate, to the high crime rate suburbs, to hedonistically shop, in areas they could care less about.

 

~ Good residents of the Santa Monicas want track across the San Fernando Valley, save who may, to shop the malls, but they want to build a Fortress Mulholland around themselves, keep everyone else out, keep it all for themselves, witb special speed limits applicable to everyone else, but them?

 

~ For crony local newsies, there at The Acorn, nothing fo them write than what Ponch and John tell them to write, desperate for content, that there's a whole lot more going on, on the information superhighway, than the derth of news in the zero crime rate canyons, they're stuck in a rut, perusing our forums under the guise of anonymity to mine for content, for which stimulate ad revenue, propagating the policy community, squawking about what they see on-line, in virtual reality.

 

~ For policymakers, why do they have to care? By the time their feeble policies prove ineffectual, they'll be long gone. And, they know it. After a few years, they'll be hanging out, in a corner office, teasing the little boys on their IMs, pulling down a robust seven-figure salary somewhere in the private sector, or they'll have hopscotched their way to higher office. All Politicians have to do, in the meantime, is keep up a facade; pretend they care; invite people to lunch, with them; try to get local crony newsies to write favorable articles, about them.

 

~ Comedy of errors... After the politicians are long gone, what's left in their wake, but 35 MPH speed limit signs, everywhere they could possibly put them, a de facto speed limit applicable to everyone, but those who live there, and an anti-street racing task force with the same dirth of street racers, to pick on?

 

~ What about me? Well, I do what I always do. I go too fast to be in police videos. I'm not someone who'd be embarassed, for canyon driving. I drive rather well, so my car can't be confiscated. My two seater's sitting, right there, in MY garage. She's a tight, clean, low profile, lean, lightweight machine, dedicated and optimized, but for one thing: 10/10ths canyon driving. Not a damned thing you can do about it. When I strap in, spark ignition, for business behind the wheel, I blow through those canyons so fast, you would not believe it. By the time you get a helicopter up? Been there, done that, I've long since blown though God's canyons. And, I'm sitting there, at the local Starbucks, there in Calabasas, my engine bonnet propped, airing out my intercoolers, showing off my sparkling clean engine bay, cooling my piping hot brakes, enjoying myself, flirting with the girlies, having myself an old fashioned iced coffee. And, I'm sitting there, at the Starbucks, cooling my heels after blowing through God's canyons like a cool breeze, watching Ponch & John, there at the Starbucks, too, doing likewise, hanging out, shirking on the taxpayer's dime.

 

~ And, I'm laughing at you...

 

~ No one should be allowed to own beach front. Beach front should be for everyone. The Santa Monica Transverse Ranges should belong, to everyone, not just the lawyers, politicians, movie stars, porn stars, and drug dealers the Operation Safe Canyon Smokescreen panders to. The Santa Monica Transverse Ranges should otherwise be a National Forest. People living there should be pushed out. All those homes should be bulldozed. No one should ever have been allowed to live there, but the California Condor.

 

~ Giving Ponch and John Carte Blanche, what Malibu and Calabasas residents could have otherwise had, but for the millions of dollars the policy community pissed away, on the Operation Safe Canyon charade? Residents could have otherwise invested, in their infrastructure. What policymakers squandered, on the Operation Safe Canyon charade, they could have repaved everything in the Santa Monicas, from Topanga to Yerba Buena, with turnouts, rest stops and bicycle lanes. Blank check they gave Ponch & John, to mindlessly piss away all that money the last two years, doing absolutely nothing, patrolling the zero crime rate canyons, homeowners there could otherwise have made the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges a heaven on earth.

 

~ Imagine, every road there, immaculately paved and stripped. More parks, hiking trails, better schools, waste water projects, soil conservation, fire breaks, more local parks for their children to play, fog lamps, so no one ever shunts again, in pea soup fog. As it is? They have better quality road maintenance in Tiajuana than they do, Calabasas and Malibu. Calabasas and Malibu, marginal propensity to consume far outstripping their basic GDP, produces no wealth. Only thing they do is suck GDP from adjacent conurbations, and they presuppose to tell us how they want us to live our lives?

 

~ Tiajuana's net GDP is bigger, than Malibu and Calabasas, combined.

 

~ But, stingy-greedy Malibu and Calabasas residents, sparkling balance sheets and eight-figure incomes, living high on the hog off the fat of the land, want a Fortress Mulholland, for themselves: Erection of an imaginary wall, around the Santa Monica Transverse Ranges, for which to effect status, power, prestige, and exclusivity, boost nominal land value, reduce commuter traffic through their enclave, bump everyone else out, secretly have their own turf, for which to drive their exotic automobiles, as fast or slow as they like...

 

~ Think about it? Wouldn't you like to have that? You're very own Fortress Mulholland? Your very own de facto speed limit... a separate posted speed limit, applicable to everyone else, but you? - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"Let us have wine and women,

mirth and laughter!

Sermons and soda-water

the day after!"

 

Table of Contents

---

 

"...Who made thee a prince and a judge over us?"

~ Exodus. II. 14 ~

 

 

December of 2006

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Arguably so, the most common sentiment we anticipate, from those in organized motorsport who chance upon this lazy, sleepy, backwater driver's group, here in Southern California: "TAKE IT TO THE TRACK."

 

~ To which we typically reply: "__________." Nothing. We're content to allow them their opinion; their point of view.

 

~ Why? What reason?

 

~ People don't change. That's why. I can't change what you think. Though I might be able to affect your behavior, but temporarily? Perhaps you might be nice to me, but for a little while? Perhaps you might pretend you care? I well know, no matter how theoretically impeccable I am, what you believe is impervious to anything I could ever say. Back in 2003, I told you, Saddam Hussain has no nuclear Submarines, he's got no aircraft carriers, no resources whatsoever, for weapons of mass destruction, that he has no power projection axiom or threat axiom, to threaten its neighbor, Iran, much less you. I told you Saddam Hussain was a crony dictator in a shithole middle eastern kingdom who builds monuments and statues, of himself. I told you, that you were being lied to, that you were being played, for a chump, by the Bush Administration. To no avail.

 

~ No skin off my nose...

 

~ I could drill down, do rigorous analysis for you, argue both sides of the issue, with equal enthusiasm, before coming to a theoretically impeccable conclusion, retrace every postulate and corollary, connect the dots for you, but to no avail, I could never hope to make an impression, contrary to what you believe. I realize, I could never hope to affect your fundamental belief system, much less could I ever hope to affect what constitutes your fundamental sense of reality. I don't delude myself, thinking I could ever change that. You believe what you believe. Period. And, that's that.

 

~ I don't roll rocks uphill. I roll them downhill. Whatever you want to think, whatever shit you're shoveling, fine by me. I don't aspire to tell you how to live your life.

 

~ Those in organized motorsport differ from this ideological edict. Bless their souls, they think they can change you. Those in organized motorsport love telling you how wonderful they are; how much they do for society, and how you should aspire to be just like them, if only you could. They love telling you how you should be living your lives (e.g., your golf cart should have 800 horsepower). A cozy, comfy little microcosm, those who ascend to organized motorsport confer upon themselves, Carte Blanche, their responsibility and their right to, at anyplace, anywhere, anytime, tell people how they think they should live their lives. They like to tell environmentalists how to live their lives. They like to tell your elected official that motorsport should be subsidized, through your tax dollars. They like to tell corporate capitalists how much social surplus to exact from the increased price you incur, on your basic necessities in life, subsidizing their organized motorsport folly. They like to tell average everyday people, they should be privileged to pay an inflated price for their basic necessities of life, but for no good reason than indirectly subsidize FIA, the IRL, NASCAR, CHAMPCAR, NHRA, and the IMSA, for which to dole out seven and eight figure incomes, to jerks like Ricky Bobby.

 

~ I don't try to tell you how to live your life. I don't do that. Who am I to tell you how to live your life? [e.g., emphasis on the words, I, you and yours] For all we care, take it to the track... and, more power to you.

 

~ The thought of driving, in its purest, most innocent form, abused neglected children at the CornerCarver.com took one look at this web site, and nearly had themselves an aneurysm. They couldn't believe there are people out there, who actually drive their sports cars. What was the first thing the good folks at the CornerCarver.com thought to do? Predictably so, first thing, right off the tops of their heads, they conferred upon themselves their preordained responsibility, to intervene, to tell us how they think we should be living our lives, to which we politely replied, "... show up on our doorstep, ring the doorbell, look us straight in the eye, try telling us how you'd like us to live our lives, and see what happens to you."

 

~ The sum total extent of their knowledge, the "TAKE IT TO THE TRACK" cliche.

 

~ We've been there. We've done that. We've taken it to the track. We've been around the block. We would not be here, doing what it is we do, had we not. Innocent local track day events, we've seen it all. Guys in these local, regional groups are not out there, turning hot laps, having some fun. Pent-up overcompetitive type-A hot heads with something to prove, they're out there, to thrash out their frustration...

 

~ Close course road racing thing, any idiot, movie star, or drug dealer with a few bux in his pocket, can do that. The same turn, over-and-over-and-over, it's only a matter of time before you get it right. We have no problem with that, per se. Problem we have: Way too many Ricky Bobby's, out there. Organized motorsport, well beyond the reach of government regulation, is a license to kill. Out there, on the track, you can nerf off a fellow competitor, no fear of consequence (e.g., Grand Prix of Australia, 1994). Henceforth, we prefer newsies, movie stars, and drug dealers take it to the track, and steer well clear of us, in God's canyons.

 

~ Way too many Ricky Bobby's out there, in those local Porsche, MR-2, Ferrari, Pantera, ALFA-Romeo sports car clubs, track day events littered with archetypes like Paul Tracy, Gianclaudio Regazzoni, Tony Stewart, Kurt Bush, Michael Schumacher, Robby Gordon, lining up, with a huge hard-ons, just aching to punt you, straight into the Armco, taking it to the track constitutes a perfect diversion for idiots from the more money than brains driver's group, or rice boy glee clubs.

 

~ Wouldn't you agree?

 

~ Every once in a great while, something exceptional will occur... one of those people in organized motorsport will have incur epiphany -- an awakening. Mysteriously, he'll drop out, from that comfy cozy microcosm, never to be heard from again. Most driver's never live long enough, or sustain their motorsport activity long enough. Scant few ever ascend to any meaningful macroperspective plateau for which to fully intellectualize who they are, what it is they're doing, and why it is they're doing it.

 

~ Big news in the driver fraternity, December of 2006, former factory Ferrari driver Gianclaudio Regazzoni killed himself in a road accident, in Italy. Details of the accident are sketchy. It appears the 67 year old Regazzoni, in his specially equipped Chrysler mini van, chanced upon a traffic jam, just around the bend, went head-on into a lorry, and subsequently perished.

 

~ One less Ricky Bobby... Good riddance to him.

 

~ We've followed Clay Regazzoni, since his days in Formula 2. Closely. As far back as the summer of 1968, news came filtering through from the British press that, at a F2 event, Zandvoort, Holland, a popular, well-liked, highly thought of privateer, Chris Lambert, was killed, apparently in cold blood, but for no good reason than having been lapped, by one: Gianclaudio Regazzoni. No TV coverage to confirm exactly what happened, mind you, several eye-witness accounts implicated Regazzoni to have coldbloodedly nerfed the hapless British driver, to his death... A slow, excruciating, grizzly, messy death, at that.

 

~ Taking notice, a guy like Regazzoni, a driver with no compunction whatsoever, one whom might possess the axiom and wherewithal to kill, on command, might one day come in handy for a guy like Enzo Ferrari. Small irony, exactly two years later, Grand Prix of Holland, Zanvoort, 1970, where two years before eyewitness accounts implicated Regazzoni to have killed Lambert, in cold blood, did Enzo toss Regazzoni the keys to his 12 cylinder open-wheeled Ferrari 312 monoposto.

~ To this day, Sir Jackie Stewart remains righteously indignant Regazzoni attempted punch his ticket, 1971, at the Grand Prix of Germany, at the Nurburgring. Watkins Glen, 1974, ex post having spent the duration of his race blocking Emerson Fittipauldi, Regazzoni bludgeoned the Clerk of the Course half to death, at the United States Grand Prix. For that, Ferrari had to pull strings, to avert Regazzoni losing his FIA super license.

 

~ He was a jerk...

 

~ A career spent dedicated to accumulation of bad kimshe, and negative karma, United Stated Grand Prix West, at Long Beach, 1980, Gianclaudio incurred karmic backlash... End of the long looping straightaway, down shoreline drive, into the braking area coming into the first gear hairpin, metallurgical anomaly, his brake pedal snapped. Regazzoni sued Long Beach Grand Prix race organizers, trying to blame them. But, I was right there. I saw the whole thing. I know what I saw. Before my very eyes, standing there, end of Shoreline Drive, did I bear witness to the God of Canyon Driving, himself, reach down from on high, with his thumb and forefinger, into the cockpit of Regazzoni's Ensign, pinching the metal on Regazzoni's break pedal, softening it up, to render unto him his comuppance.

 

~ "SNAP!" ... like a twig.

 

~ Emerson Fittipaldi, right behind him, down the escape road, 190 MPH into Ricardo Zunio's DNF'd Brabham, Regazzoni's Ensign careened. Launched airborne into the concrete barriers, headlong, sickening thud, went Regazzoni, his Cosworth DFV power plant compressing through Moris Nunn's monocoque, deep into the back of Gianclaudio's seat... not enough to kill him, mind you. Paralyzed, from the waist down, the God of Canyon Driving is a cold, hard, sober man. Breach of rectitude, his sin on driving, the God of Canyon driving much prefer Gianclaudio meet his maker, December of 2006, some 26 years later, at the wheel of a humble Chrysler mini van. They say, we see things a bit differently, when we get to the hereafter. Having ascended there, it's debatable whether the late Chris Lambert, who's been there nearly 40 years, anticipating him, is mopping up what little remained of Gianclaudio Regazzoni's driving soul.

 

~ Gianclaudio was certainly not the Lone Ranger. Was he? In fact, when it comes right down to it, everyone in the mainstream of motorsport are, ipso facto, jerks. Aren't we?

 

~ Think about it... Toyota's 500 million dollar budget, squandered, in Formula 1, factored against its minimum efficient scale, of 150 thousand units per annum, equals $3,334... The average Toyota is overpriced, at least US$3,333.34? Toyota otherwise prefers inflating the price you pay, for basic transportation, for which to aggrandize itself in NASCAR, and flounder in Formula 1, paying their lazy, selfish Ricky Bobby driver, Ralf Schumacher, a cool 33 million dollars per year?

 

~ Think about it... BMW's 500 million dollar budget, pissed away, in Formula 1, factored against its minimum efficient scale, of 80 thousand units per annum, equals $6,250... The average BMW is overpriced , at least US$6,250.00? What BMW could otherwise capitalize, producing safer, faster, better quality, lightweight, less expensive vehicles, in far greater volume, BMW instead expenses what it could capitalize, celebrating itself, overstating its importance, otherwise preferring to inflate the price you pay, for which to subsidize its Formula 1 folly?

 

~ Think about it... Ferrari's 500 million dollar budget, evanesced, in Formula 1, factored against its minimum efficient scale, being generous, 10 thousand units per annum, equals $50,000... The average Ferrari is overpriced, at least US$50,000.00? That sounds about right. Doesn't it? And, what comes of it? How does society benefit, from what's defecated out the bottom end of the cash dump automakers swallow monopoly profit into? What trickled down to us, from Ricky Bobby, in NASCAR? Lug nuts impossible to cross-thread? What trickled down to us, from Formula 1... overpriced automobiles, with flat bottoms, and grooved tyres? Power plants which rev, to 20,000 RPM? Chassis which lose all downforce, at 10 degree yaw?

 

~ Think about it... What trickled down from Toyota, but a dysfunctional TRD? What trickled down from BMW, but butt-ugly overweight, overpriced sports cars, guaranteed to go out of style in a year and a half? What trickled down from Ferrari, but for silly, clumsy, overweight, cost prohibitive boutique automobiles which stumble over their front overhangs? What trickled down from the Jag-Ford abomination, before Ford Motor Company finally packed it in, in Formula 1? 50 thousand jobs, lost forever? And, a retrograde product line?

 

~ Society is unequivocally better off, without motorsport. And, we know it. Every literal and figurative sense of the word, anyone caught in the mainstream of motorsport are, by definition, jerks...

 

Jerk:

1). Displaying a complete lack of forethought or good sense

2). A dull, stupid, fatuous person; vacuously, smugly, and unconsciously foolish; delusive; unreal

3). A dimwit, with an erroneous perception of reality

4). Slow to learn or understand; obtuse

5). In a stupor; stupefied

6). Lacking mental or physical faculty for critical thinking

7). A mentally deficient person; a fool, imbecile, simpleton, cretin, half-wit, or moron.

8). Deficient in judgment and good sense; a jackass; a numskull

 

~ No denying it. We're jerks. Everyone in racing, is. To rationalize away what it is we do, we have to be...

 

~ Understandable moment of frustration commonplace, which any driver could relate, Regazzoni, having managed his tyres impeccably, ready to reel off fastest lap of the race, but to wind up stuck behind a slower driver, perhaps he growled to himself, "...you imbecile, for screwing up my tyres, take that, you deserve being nerfed into the Armco," but to regret it, later? Perhaps a common moment of indecisiveness, stuck, in the parking lot somewhere, behind the old woman in the car directly ahead of you, as she gropes, not knowing which way to turn, you might think to yourself, under your breath, "...hurry it up, sometime today, you stupid effing jerk. Oh, how I'd love to bury my throttle, and push you, right through the storefront," but to regret having thought such a thing, later that day, perhaps having reconciled, were you not in your car, but standing, behind someone's grandmother, what you'd say to her, is "excuse me"? Everyday life, of the everyday motorist, becoming evermore increasingly indicative of Ricky Bobby NASCAR America, our society evolves to become evermore indicative of Gianclaudio Regazzoni, everyday.

 

~ Me first meantality is what's trickling down... We're inbreeding a society of archetypical Ricky Bobby jerks, who think they have Carte Blanche to tell the people of the world how they think they should be living their lives (e.g., Iraq; Iran; Palestine; Angola; Cuba; Korea; Vietnam, China; Venezuela; Somalia; Panama). They're wrong... People don't change.

 

~ But, once in a blue moon, something remarkable will happen: The God of Canyon driving will reach down, tap one of those jerks on the shoulder, give him an epiphany, an awakening... a choice to make. An archetypical Ricky Bobby will shrug it off, subsequently crash and burn. Every once in a blue moon, he'll see the light, suddenly drop-out from that comfy cozy motorsport microcosm, transcend beyond, to greener pastures, heaven on earth, Zen driving, never to be seen nor heard, by man nor beast, again - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"I count him lost, who is lost to shame."

 

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"...I have trodden the winepress, alone"

~ Isaiah. LXIII. 3 ~

 

 

July of 2006

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Autoweek Magazine... their credibity is suspect. I don't know what to believe, when I read Autoweek Magazine. Some Autoweek newsie, a while back, published he averaged 21 MPG, driving the Prius. He was lieing.

 

~ Care to know how I know, he's fill of shit? Well, because I own one. And (2), I am an archetypical hardcore leadfoot who, in his natural state of being, gravitates, in his mean tendency, to being a hardcore leadfoot. I don't have to try to be (e.g., I must dig deep, trying not to be). And, I know those Autoweek newsies are full of shit, cooking the books on their write ups, bravado, aggrandizing themselves, always trying to insinuate to everybody they're hardcore leadfoots.

 

~ Worst I've ever averaged, was 32 MPGs in the Prius (e.g., driven as hard as a professional driver could possibly drive it, on the opened road).

 

~ Recently took a road trip, in the hybrid car. Los Angeles to San Francisco, then on to Denver. Two days, in the Bay Area, a week in Denver, then back to Los Angeles. Funny thing happened: Moment I left California? My fuel consumption inexplicably improved, 5 MPGs. Trip home, no sooner than I gassed up, in Baker, California, for the final leg of the trip, did fuel consumption inexplicably drop, 5 miles to the gallon.

 

~ I don't drive my hybrid vehicle, like most people drive hybrid vehicles...

 

~ I am not sitting there, at the wheel, optimizing fuel consumption. I don't do that. I drive this thing, like I drive everything else... Hammer down, no prisoners, pedal to the metal, save who effing may. Henceforth, my fuel consumption is always high. And, by definition, my variance will always relatively low. In my two seater, a vehicle driven very hard, my fuel consumption is always consistent.

 

~ Those who drive fast, know: Our fuel consumption is always very high, but it varies, little. Driving fast, our variance is minute, making it an easy chore, to forecast fuel consumption.

 

~ Los Angeles, to San Francisco, the whole way, 87 miles per hour, on cruise control, intermittant bursts to 95 and 105 MPH, necessary to overtake stubborn, over-competitive motorists, intent on testing my resolve, the Prius Hybrid averaged 37.9 miles per gallon.

 

~ Not bad, at all. Huh? So, I thought.

 

~ From San Francisco, to the Nevada border, 87 MPH on cruise, bursts to 90 and 100 MPH, overtaking, the Prius chalked up 37.4 MPGs. Again, not too shabby. Right?

 

~ Wrong. It was pretty shabby. Because, driven just as hard, Nevada through Utah, then on to Denver, fuel consumption suddenly shot down, to 43 MPGs. Just peetering around Denver, for a week, visiting people I know, I saw fuel consumption numbers, on the Prius, I've never seen, in California. Urban driving, I saw numbers in the readout, over 12 miles per gallon higher, than anything I've ever experienced, in California. Driving this car, exactly the same as I do, in California, the Prius was averaged 12 miles to the gallon better, in urban Denver, than it does, in urban Los Angeles.

 

~ Long drive, 13 hours and 40 minutes home, exactly same thing: Denver, through Utah, corner of Arizona, to Nevada, the Prius got over 43 miles to the gallon. Last fuel stop, topping off in Baker, California, heading westbound, to Los Angeles, driving this thing just as hard as ever, fuel consumption inexplicably crumbed, to 36 MPGs. Some reason, mere act of purchasing gasoline formulated, for California, cost 5 MPGs.

 

~ Coincidently, price is higher, here. Denver, I was paying US$2.50 per gallon. No sooner than I got back, to California, price was nearly a dollar per gallon higher. In fact, all the prices, from restaurant menus, to a loaf of bread, in Denver, were less than they are here, in California. And, their roads are better maintained. People I spoke to, in Colorado, couldn't believe what we pay, here, for electricity.

 

~ California is getting a special brew...

 

~ Formulating gasoline for California specifically designed for lousy fuel consumption does two things: it artificially stimulates demand, and it artificially diminishes supply. Doing so, subsidizes a lower price, for gasoline, outside California. More succinctly, foisting a price/consumption discrepancy, where the price of gasoline in California is higher, for which to subsidize a lower price for gasoline, elsewhere, constitutes a transfer wealth, from California, to free-riding Nevada, Utah, Arizona, and Colorado.

 

~ Since we consume more, because California gasoline is formulated to yield 5 MPGs less, than anywhere else, our demand is henceforth greater. Since our demand is artificially inflated, relative quantity of supply inventories artificially depletes, at an artificially increased rate of decay. Increased demand (demand pull inflation) increases price. Diminished inventories (cost push inflation) ping pong the price upward, again (e.g., ratchet effect).

 

~ We don't need Alan Greenspan to figure this out. In effect, oil oligopolies phase shifted California, to an artificially inflated demand frontier, intersected by an artificially constrained supply function:

 

 

~ The old greased pole. Compare the size of the two shaded areas, in the graphic, above. Denote, by working less hard (e.g., less output; change in quantity), oil oligopolies actually make more money (greater profit; change in price). The less they work, the more money they make. They just slack off, a little? Price skyrockets, especially so, if they can affect your demand. What better way to artificially increase your demand, than by giving you a strange brew, one which runs up your fuel consumption, another 5 MPGs?

 

~ Pretty sweet deal if you own an oil refinery. Huh?

 

~ California's wealth is being expropriated. We consume more... of everything. Theoretically, price in California should be lower... for everything. They're charging us higher prices, for which to subsidize a lower price, for people elsewhere. Californians are getting shafted, by the rest of the United States.

 

~ Begs the question: Why do Californians have to pay more, for everything, than everybody else? What the hell are all these do nothing California Republicans, and do nothing California Democrats, living the high life, off the fat of the land, pulling down six figure salaries, doing about the consumption/price discrepancy, in the price of light sweet crude?

 

~ They've lost their way. Politicians, Republican and Democrat alike, their paradigms evanesced. They're obtuse. Detached. Aloof. They don't care about us, anymore - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"... We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it, to the full."

~ Marcel Proust, The Sweet Cheat Gone ~

 

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"Hypocracy is the homage which vice renders, to virtue"

~ La Rochefoucauld ~

 

 

June of 2006

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ A canyon driving shunt is seldom opened casket. I hope and pray, when my time comes, mine is.

 

~ Canyon driving shunts, death is seldom instantaneous. Ugly as they can be, a canyon driving shunt is a slow, agonizing, grizzly death. You'll hear brakes lock-up. Tires making noise. Sickening thud. Car finally comes to rest, its occupants, hopelessly trapped, slowly bleeding out, the end is near. You can hear the people inside; you'll wish you couldn't. They'll cry for help. Wailing, in excruciating pain, their screams soon fade, to whimpers. Suddenly, one of the people will call out a loved one's name, say I love you, I miss you, or say I'm sorry, to someone far far away. Standing there, aloof, nothing you can do, no way to help, you can hear the people, trapped inside the wreck, crying a little, as they relegate themselves to their fate. Then, a cold, empty, blue-black eerie silence, as their souls slip away...

 

~ Scratch one CHP officer from the Operation Safe Canyon Task Force bureau. Scratch another Ferrari. A 1993 Testarossa, totaled, its driver, an off-duty CHP officer, yet another in a long line of Eddie Cheever wanabes, is no longer of this earth.

 

~ Operation Safe Canyon Task Force Officer Derick Midolo, on his day off, laced up his gloves, strapped in, pedal to the metal, Cornell Road, balls out, in his silver 512 Testarossa, had himself a brain fart. Tuesday, 23 May, 2006, heading up, to try his hand, at Mulholland Raceway, back end of his southbound Ferrari stepped out, long before he ever got, to Mulholland Raceway.

 

~ The CHP officer's Ferrari careened, snapped through a utility standard, impact to the passenger side A-pillar, Alex Zanardi style, through its passenger's lower extremities. Enough inertia left over to spend, the Testarossa dislodged a sizable boulder. Through the air, the antiquated Ferrari took flight. Shiny side down, the once proud Testarossa landed, in some filthy rich, self-absorbed Hollywierd TV star's back yard corral. Shit for brains CHP-Ferrari guy, and his unlucky chump passenger, perished...

 

~ The good, they die young...

 

http://cbs2.com/topstories/local_story_143214422.html

 

http://abclocal.go.com/kabc/story?section=local&id=4201907

 

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/12951936/

 

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-crash24may24,0,5531460.story?coll=la-story-footer

 

~ We don't understand how can Ponch and John can afford luxury Lamborghinis and Ferraris, on a humble civil servant's salary. Much less do we understand what people see, in boutique automobiles, and why they think exotic cars are so outstanding. They are anything, but. Ferrari Testarossas are at least 12 hundred pounds overweight, and are suited for little more than a plaything, for wealthy epicurean housewives to park, in their driveways, to impress the neighbors.

 

~ Dig another plot, for yet another shit for brains Ferrari guy, from the more money than brains driver's club.

 

~ The older the Ferrari, the less the likelihood of a shunt, attributable to mechanical failure. The newer the Ferrari, the less the likelihood of a shunt, attributable to mechanical failure. Greatest likelihood, is somewhere between... run down, poorly maintained late model Ferraris, bargain basement Ferraris, driven by first-time Ferrari owners who snap them up, used, and shirk their maintenance (e.g., upwardly mobile "BMW graduates").

 

~ 512 Testarosas are bug city. Poorly designed. Complex. A pain in the ass, high maintenance, hopelessly overweight car. They never run right. Performing major service, to its longitudinally mounted mid-engined 12 cylinder powerplant, its rear suspension must be disassembled, then reassembled. A clumsy, antiquated vehicle. They handle worse, than a 911. A shunt, anything over 40K on the odometer of a Testarossa, would we tend to suspect major mechanical failure, attributable to cutting corners on scheduled maintenance.

 

~ Moreso: Driver error. No shame, missing a shift, in an obsolete, antiquated Ferrari. Testarossa had a 5-speed box, gated, with first gear out of the H-pattern. Very balky. Banging down, fourth to third gear... Very easy, to miss a downshift.

 

~ 4th to 3rd is a critical downshift you can never afford to miss, in a 4 thousand pound Ferrari. Miss that shift, God of Canyon driving's going to send the boogy man down, unto you, punish you, asunder.

 

~ Utter lack of reverence, for canyon driving, compounded by sheer stupidity, putting a 4,000 pound vehicle, hard, in God's canyons, shunting it, subsequent media attention pisses us off, to no end. Cornell Road? That pisses us off, all the more. Piuma downhill, or Tuna Canyon, perhaps we could understand. You've got to be drop dead stupid to lose it, on Cornell Road.

 

~ Egg, all over their face, CHP, backpedaling in humiliation, tried to shirk off the blame, on... the Ford Mustang contingent?

 

~ Nice try.

 

~ How asinine. Poor Mustang guys, always taking it in the shorts, from Ponch & John. They get blamed, for everything. You never (...NEVER) see Mustang guys, in the canyons. Their only sin, Mustang guys speed though school zones, they speed in residential neighborhoods, and they shunt, on freeway clover leafs. They don't do canyons. Mustang guys are as terrified, of canyon driving, as they are, educated women.

 

~ You don't see us, killing ourselves on Mulholland, much less Cornell. In fact, you don't see us. At all. No muss, no fuss, no ruffled feathers, low profile, no old people bent, out of shape, at the Seminole Springs Mobile Home Park, we blow through there, like a cool breeze, no one ever the wiser. But, you watch... Somehow, Ponch & John will figure out a way, to shirk the blame, on us.

 

~ Can't just jump, into a Ferrari, and lie yourself, "... I am a canyon driver." The most difficult form of driving, canyon driving is where Juan Manuel Fangio, and Olivier Gendebien cut their teeth. That they were so fast, that they did it so naturally, did the former coast to so many World Driving Championships, the latter, indomitable, at LeMans.

 

~ You cannot do 10/10th canyon driving, triple digits, in your pretty Ferrari, with your brain, in neutral. It's work. Not play. Everything must be brought to, and held at, a conscious level. Blink your eyes, at the wrong time? A cramp in your leg? Miss a downshift?

 

~ Ravens will be the first to find you.

 

~ Give any archetypical college drop out a course, CHP pursuit driving? Just enough to lull him, into a false sense of security? Badge him. Ceremoniously induct him, into the hall of fame elite anti-canyon driving task force bureau. Tell him he's a highway star? Tell him he's God's gift, to canyon driving? Toss him the keys, to a old Ferrari? Tell him, "...you rook mar-ver-us!"

 

~ Victim of his own bureaucracy. Low quality human being, socially promoted, to the OSC smokescreen bureau, to make more car chases and affect erection of the imaginary wall, around Mulholland Raceway, be got bit, by the canyon driving bug. Didn't he? And, he liked it. More than just a little...

 

~ It didn't like him. Not one iota.

 

~ Nothing compares, to canyon driving. No form of Motorsport is really indicative, of canyon driving. Reverence, discipline, dedication, humility, concentration, aptitude, forecast axiom, situational awareness, natural acumen are prerequisite...

 

~ Close circuit road racing, you nail the same apex, over and over, and over and over. You're only doing the math, once. Twice, if you're an idiot. Once you know the racing line, thereafter, it's rudimentary subtraction, perhaps a little division.

 

~ Oh, no-no-no you don't... Not in 10/10ths canyon driving. No one turn ever the same, your brain much crunch level IV integrals, and it has to do so, correctly, flawlessly, every single time. Nearest thing indicative, of 10/10ths canyon driving, is sitting in graduate engineering, due or die, taking a math test where, your professor hovering over you, his hot air, breathing down your neck, smacking his ruler, on your desk, snapping his fingers, at you, just one wrong answer, that's it, you're expelled.

 

~ So, you got that one right? Next question. Tick-tick, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Better hurry. Time is of the essence. What's the answer? Pressure's on. Handle it - handle it. Factor everything. Regress your logs, to a linear response. Better not make a mistake.

 

~ Officer Derek Midolo choked. He succumbed. He couldn't handle it. Couldn't factor his variables. Screwed up his derivation. Brain fart. He's been expelled. Good riddance to him. Nobody wants shit for brains drivers, like him, in God's canyons.

 

~ Sorry... Doesn't matter who you are. You can't do 10/10ths canyon driving, in a high profile status car, with your brain, in neutral. All the worse, in a 4000 pound faux sports car. Brakes and tyres are everything. Lack thereof, there is no substitution, for weight. Had Officer Midolo been driving a fully prepared, lightweight 510, he'd still be alive and well, writing utterly meaningless traffic tickets, generating traffic ticket revenue to his heart's content, impounding canyon drivers' cars by day, roaring with laugher at his own hypocrisy, secretly scalding our canyon roads in his Ferrari, by night.

 

~ Think you're going to venture, into God's canyons, mop us up? Confiscate our vehicles? Vilify us? Stereotype us? The God of Canyon Driving is a hard, hard man; a sober man, with a cold, indifferent, blue-black sense of irony, all his own.

 

~ CHP officer? Cornell Road? Socially promoted to the Operation Safe Canyon Task Force, because he owned a Ferrari? Driving our canyons, while he laughs at us, confiscates our cars, citing us petty infractions, for doing likewise? Going balls out, on his day off, 10/10ths canyon driving? Save who may? Reveling, embellishing himself, doing the very thing his bureaucracy encharged him, to vilify? The hypocrisy, a capitol offense in the world of canyon driving, irony so thick you could cut it with a knife, divine Intervention, time was ripe, for the God of Canyon Driving to tap that boy on the shoulder, for a little chitchat - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"... after crosses and losses, men grow humbler, and wiser."

~ Benjamin Franklin ~

 

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"There is only one step from the sublime to the rediculous"

~ Napoleon ~

 

 

May of 2006

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Long Easter weekend, bound for a wedding, in Chloride, Arizona. Drive, across the Southern California Mojave Desert, I so wanted to take the two-seater. But, no cruising range, it sucks fuel, like no tomorrow. My better half, a bridesmaid, in the wedding party, so much luggage to haul, we took the trusty Toyota hybrid. Up and down all those hills, 85 mph, infrequent burts to 100, passing stubborn, obstinant California drivers, I managed 37 miles per gallon cruising, the whole way.

 

~ Reservations, at the River Palms Hotel, in Laughlin... Never again. We were moved, between rooms, twice. First time, an awful stench, awaiting our return, 11:00 PM, Friday night, chemicals had backed up, into our bathtub. Walking in, our hotel room smelled as though someone had done a "perm," on their hair. They tried to move us, into another room, but it was found to be in disrepair, as well. So, they moved us, to another. Also, in disrepair, we deemed it acceptable, the lesser of two evils.

 

~ That poor hotel is falling apart, at the seams. Must be doing quite well, however. There appeared to be people, teathered to their slot machines, all day long, brains stuck in neutral, mindlessly feeding coins, into them. They did not appear to be having fun. I gave it a try. Given, scant two degrees freedom, I made three 50 cent bets, coin slots, lost a buck-fifty. Feeding coins into a machine seems laborous, to me. How can that be fun?

 

~ I don't understand how that can be fun.

 

~ An eventful four days. Indeed. I was there, for other reasons. Bridesmaid's best-man, making preperation for the wedding, I spent four days, that part of the world playing chaffeur, errand boy, bouncing back and forth, daily, between Chloride, Arizona, Laughlin, Nevada, and Kingman, Arizona. Driving Miss Bridemaid Daisies, washing their cars, making sure they made their hair appointment, fetching them breakfast burritos, and hot coffee, while they were having their hair done, at the hair styling salon, running miscellanelous errands, doing helpful things to better direct guests to the cowboy wedding, fetching balloons, running around, all over Kingman, Arizona, to pick up the wedding cake, groceries, cans of fix-a-flat (there's no compressor, in Chloride; not a one), seeing to it the cake was transported safely north, from Kingman to Chloride, morning of the wedding.

 

~ I magaged the whole trip, errands and everything, on less than a tank and a half, of fuel.

 

~ Wedding went well, but the groom's ill-mannered mother, named Dena, pulled a stunt: She made a two tier pinapple upside-down cake, set it, right beside the wedding cake I brought, from Kingman. Atop hers, was a wax statue, showing the bride, grasping the hapless groom, by the collar, dragging him off. Seeing that, all eyes narrowed, on the bride's side of the isle.

 

~ Albertson's Bakery, there in Kingman, Arizona, does not know how to box a wedding cake. My ability behind the wheel to transport that cake so many miles, so quickly, yet for it to arrive, not a blemish, I rolled into the driveway, carried the cake into the house, but to receive looks of utter disdain, from the groom's mother. Yeoman's work, delivering that cake, not one thank you from the groom's side of the family, I surmise the mother-in-law from hell secretly hoped I'd have a shunt, transporting the wedding cake, from Kingman, that morning, so her pinapple upside-down cake would win, by default.

 

~ Pinapple upside-down wedding cake? How inappropriate. That, I could perhaps understand, for the groom's cake. But never, not ever, a pinapple upside-down wedding cake. Atop, a wax statue, showing the bride, grasping the hapless groom, by the collar, dragging him off? How infantile! A mother who would do desecrate her own's son's wedding?

 

~ I thought I'd seen it all... Statistical certainty looms, trouble's not far ahead, for my wife's dear friend.

 

~ Yet, I was amazed, how many out of state rednecks who attended, arrived, in gas-guzzling full-sized pick-up trucks. Behemoth four wheel drive Chevrolet pick-ups, gargantuan F-350 Ford Duallys, Dodge Ram V-10s, everywhere I looked, gas guzzlers everywhere. Of all the faux cowboys I spoke with, who drove them swore, up and down, they get 35 miles to the gallon. Far different story talking with their wives, who lament the 8 MPG fuel consumpton they really incur, the nonsensical denial of their cowboy redneck husbands, some reformed alchoholics, others still sucking it down, who flat refuse to conserve, flat refuse to drive anything less, than fully optioned up, gas guzzling pick-up trucks, who equate fuel-efficiency, a threat to their manhood.

 

~ But no good reason, than the fragile state of their manhood, demand curve, for precious nonrenewable resources slides, straight up OPEC's supply curve. So backward in our ways, OPEC laughs at us, straight to the bank.

 

~ Aloof, they refuse to remove their cowboy hats, when inside. Ill-mannered, they refuse to remove their cowboy hats, when in the presence of a lady. They don't think to remove their cowboy hats, during religious ceremonies. More important to them, than anything, to always be perceived to be coyboys, to their detriment, they flat refuse to conserve energy. Everything in their existence must reflect, or project, or be indicative of cowboy manhood. They must wear cowboy boots, all the time. They must wear cowboy hats, all the time. They must drive gas guzzling pick-up trucks. All the time. Hook, line and sinker, they bought the John Travolta, Urban Cowboy mythic stereotype Hollywood filmmakers spun, in the 1970s. For them, anything which deviates, from that, constitutes cowboy culture treason. We must pay a higher price, so faux cowboys can drive gas guzzling pick-up trucks. They think the middle east should give them light sweet crude. Free. And, if they don't, then we should use our military, to take it from them.

 

~ But, one guy, who'd driven down for the wedding, from Idaho, constantly following me around, endeavored headlong, to bait me, into a street-race. His Corvette, against my little hybrid car. He said, on account he was better than I could ever hope to be, in every possible way, there was no way I could ever win. He admonished me, a coward, for refusing to line-up, right then and there.

 

~ I did my best to avoid him. When confronted, again, poking me in the shoulder, with his finger, I informed him, though I study the driving aspect of racing, intently so, I don't enjoy racing, per se. I love driving. I instruct would-be drivers. But, I don't like racing. I think it's disgusting. I politely informed him it would be unethical, to take advantage, of an ill-mannered, inebriated dilettante; that I prefer to allow him to go, the rest of his natural life, thinking what he thinks, doing whatever it is he does, than to turn a crankshaft, but for no good reason than to burst his bubble, relegate him, to shit-for-brains driver status, along with the rest of his cohort.

 

~ My manhood is wholly divorced, from conspicuous consumption. I have no compunction, driving a low-profile, fuel efficient daily driver. Doing so is not a threat, to my manhood. When I strap in, to my two-seater, it isn't because I have something to prove, much less do I do so, to go to dinner. All told, over the long weekend, I was there, to be helpful... Constructive. A polite guest, at a wedding. Not to race, much less boast, criticize, argue or compete. Those who know their shit, don't generally boast.

 

~ Day of the wedding, later, during the reception, the groom's step-father, for some inexplicable reason, kept kicking me. Standing by the fire, outside, warming myself, during the wedding reception, my back to him, talking to another couple, the old guy kept kicking me, in the ass. Not hard, mind you.

 

~ Could have retalliated. Effectively so. One punch would have put him in the hospital.

 

~ Confederate flag flys, in Chloride, Arizona. Not one black person, not one hispanic person, not one jewish person, not one oriental person, not a one native American, at the wedding, that several of the bride's friends, who were, weren't invited to the wedding, I surmised likelihood loomed perhaps Chloride, Arizona is an enclave, for those who aren't particularly fond, of minorities. Perhaps worse.

 

~ I am not a minority. Anything but a cowboy, I was no less a fish out of water. Place where I knew absolutely no one, I minded my Ps & Qs. Chloride, Arizona: No bank, no ATM machines, no basic industry, no library, no gas station, no health care services, nothing whatsoever, the whole town a complete shambles, in decay, in disrepair, in stagnation, their one principle tourist attraction a public safetly hazard headlong, in tertiary dilapidation, no code enforcement, everybody who lives there, junk in their front yards to suffice for landscape, city of Chloride can't bust a tyre off its wheel, much less inflate one. Guy kicking me, at the wedding, name of Wayne, was the same guy who, the day before the wedding, when quizzed by someone, as to remedial economic measures prerequisite to affecting the depressed, backward nature of Chloride, Arizona, interrupted to admonish me, to keep my big city ideas, to myself.

 

~ "Keep your big city ideas, to yourself. We don't want 'um here, in Chloride. We like everything just fine, the way it is."

 

~ A slice of American pie. Afraid of ideas. In general, but with notable exceptions, very nice people. Ultra-conservative in their philosophy of change, they cannot change. They are incapable, of change. They must use fix-a-flat to effect repair of, and inflate flat tyres.

 

~ Diplomatically sidestepping two (perhaps three) fist-fights I most certainly would have prevailed, at the cowboy wedding, I bravely endured eight hours of country music, before departing, to Laughlin, my last night there. Everything we could possibly do, done, to make the wedding nice, for my better-half's dear friend, it got late... time to go. Departing Chloride, Saturday night, after the wedding, I set cruise control, to 89 mph, toggled through several FM frequencies, for a dose of classical music, for the 40 mile drive, back to our room, in Laughlin. And, wouldn't you know it? Brand spanking new C6 Corvette convertible, just ahead. Idaho tags. A remarkable coincidence. Don't you think?

 

~ As I zinged bye, in my little hybrid car, couldn't be sure, but it looked real soft; didn't appear to have GMs Z51 comeptition suspension option.

 

~ I smiled.

 

~ Once around, and back to my side of the double yellow, quick look out the mirror, I could see, just having entered my braking zone, he'd throttled down. Aggressively so. Excessively so. So much so, I smiled, a bit wider.

 

~ Corvette, closing fast, from 50 yards back, a 45 mile per hour posted advisory for the bend, just ahead, I lined it up. Braking zone, I came down on my brakes, right foot, hard, transitioned the brake pedal over, to my left foot, just as I turned in, crossed over the double yellow, nailed the apex, a conservative 74 miles per hour, exited the bend, foot flat, drifted back over the double yellow, to clip the shoulder. Diodes flashing, on the dash, traction control kicking in.

 

~ "Perfect!" I smiled, again.

 

~ Hammer down, my little hybrid accelerating, slow as molasas, back up to 90, quick look into my mirrors to see... Corvette, going backward! The guy's headlights, pointed the other way! Corvette guy looped it, went off, backward. I could see his headlights shooting upward, into the sky, then downward, sharply, before disappearing, into a plume of dust rising, against the backdrop of the full moon, out my port-side mirror.

 

~ "Bravo! Benimisso!" I said. My better-half turned in her seat, to see me, both my earlobes wet, grinning, ear to ear, then out the back window: "Oh, no! He's gone off! Did you see that!?"

 

~ "_____" no reply. Smiling away. I didn't dare look at her.

 

~ Staring at me, her eyes narrow, jaw clamped, studying me while I drove, to see me still smiling wide, precipitated the third degree: "So, that's why we stayed so late! You waited for that guy, to leave first. Didn't you? You set him up, for that. Yes, you did. Didn't you? You rascal! You set this whole thing up. You knew he'd give chase. You knew he'd go off. Didn't you?"

 

~ "Woe! Wait a minute. We don't know it was even the same guy, at the wedding. Do we?" Not for all the tea, in China, was I about to turn around, find out. "Hey! I have been a very good boy. Tell you what. How 'bout let's head back, to Laughlin, and you can treat me, to a hot fudge sunday?"

 

~ Back in Laughlin, at the hotel, dead tired, I was still smiling. I slept, smiling. I awoke, smiling. Hit the shower the next morning, smiling. Walking downstairs, across the casino, for coffee, Sunday morning, thinking about that Corvette guy, I was still smiling. Then, I noticed... group of middle-aged women, across the casino, standing there, looking at me.

 

~ "What did I do? Why are they staring at me? Is my zipper down? Do I have something in my nose?" my inner voice. Wiped that smirk, right off my face. Got my coffee, and made a b-line, back to the room. Looked, in the mirror, my hair wasn't messed up; no loogies, hanging out of my nose. I could see nothing wrong with my general appearance.

 

~ So, I finshed my coffee, decided to make myself useful, run our suitcases out, to the car. I exited the Casino, hands full, but for two oriental women driving by, to slam on the brakes, exit their vehicle, run over, to beg my autograph.

 

~ "Oh, rook! Famous cerebrity! Horry-woord movie star! You are so beautifur! You prease sign autograph for me?" I think perhaps they were Chinese.

 

~ Didn't know what to do. No one's ever asked me, for my autograph. So, I pulled out a felt pen, from my briefcase, took one women, by the arms, squared her up, right in front of me, I inked my name, then "MULHOLLAND RACEWAY," dark blue ink, right across her blouse.

 

~ Thinking, maybe I was on Candid Camera, I nailed her, square on the lips, a deep passionate kiss. She was shocked. Goosebumps on her arms, looked like she was on cloud nine. Same thing, her friend, I scribbled the same thing, across her blouse, smiled, gave her an even longer kiss. She became wobbly, in her knees. Limp. Her friend helped her back to their car. I walked away, with my luggage, waiting for television people to pop out of the bushes, with cameras.

 

~ But, nothing.

 

~ Walking back, into the casino, thereafter, two more woman did exactly the same thing. Perhaps they must have seen what happened outside. But, I figured out what it was. Evidently, wherever Engelbert Humperdinck goes, minor traffic accidents temporarily increase. That Engelbert Humperdinck was booked, that weekend, at the Flamingo, Laughlin was hopelessly over-run, swarming, with crazy, rabbid, insane women, in a frenzy, aberranced, with thoughts of Engelbert Humperdinck.

 

~ But, I am not remotely analogous, to Engelbert Humperdinck. I don't look anything, like Engelbert Humperdinck. Perhaps the world's slowly going insane - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"... Resort is had to redicule only when reason is against us."

~ Jefferson, Letters, 1813 ~

Table of Contents

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"Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press"

~ The Constitution of the United States of America ~

 

 

March of 2006

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Turn on the television, lately? Try to follow along, keep up with current events, is analogous to getting shit upon, right where you eat. It's enough to make you think: "...You know something, pal? I think I could just about get by, without a television."

 

~ Indicative of organized religion (e.g., yet another utterly asinine abomination found, in the bible: "He that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow" -Ecclesiastes. I. 18), under Democratic Authoritarianism, government has every incentive, to keep you intellectually destabilized, off-balanced, uninformed, and pinned, in a perpetual state of ignorance and confusion. They have every incentive to keep you as dumb as you can be. Pray tell, we wonder how and why America's free press succumbed, to Democratic Authoritarianist sentiment.

 

~ The first fifteen minute segment, of any evening newscast, stereotypical newsie jargon recklessly spills out, over the air waves, into your boob-tube, straight into your head: Radical Islamist, conservative republican, liberal democrat, good God fearing Christian people... "the insurgents." There is no basis, in fact, much less theory, with regard to any of the stereotypical labels American newsies pin, on various cohorts, to make their jobs easier. Our "liberals" in government aren't remotely liberal, in their philosophy of change. They're merely confused conservatives. Nor are our conservatives, in the GOP, merely conservative.

 

~ Indication, just how bad it really is, with the yellow press, here we are, a sleepy, backwater driver's group, here in Southern California, setting the record straight on disinformation newsies mindlessly propogate?

 

~ Gives us no pleasure (e.g., a lie; it give us immense pleasure) to polarize you, with the truth, but there's no such thing, as a "radical militant Islamist." Another thing: They aren't the insurgents... We are. The United States military were the ones who executed an insurgency, on the Middle East (e.g., Afghanistan, Iraq, and very soon, Syria and Iran). Partisans who resist our insurgency, are not "the insurgents." We're the insurgents. They are counter-insurgents. Newsies can't refer to them, as counter-insurgents, without implication looming large to our stupid electorate, that what the United States government did, was an illegal insurgency, on Iraq, and soon enough, yet another garden variety George Goober Bush sponsored blood bath, to mop up Syria and Iran (e.g., nobody ever said the life of an oil wrangler would be easy).

 

~ Follow the logic (e.g., for your amusement and entertainment, another gripping episode of Andy and Barney):

 

"Hey, Andy? If they're the counter-insurgents, then doesn't that mean we're the insurgents? And, if we're the insurgents, then doesn't that mean we did an insurgency? If everybody thinks that, then we might not get anymore oil!"

 

"Well, you see, Barney? It's like this: If we're the insurgents, then all we have to do, is call them, the insurgents. Then, everybody will think we didn't do the insurgency. They'll think they did. And, we'll be perceived to be the victim. That-away, Goober can swipe all their oil, no one ever the wiser."

 

"But, Andy... if we tell everybody they're the insurgents, do you think they'll believe us?"

 

"...Oh, yes-sir-ree, Barney. Americans believe anything, so long as they've heard it, twice. All we have to do, is get Goober to tell 'um they're the insurgents, and keep telling them they're the insurgents. And, we can marginalize them, by labeling them, the radical Islamist insurgents. See what I mean?"

 

"I'm sacared, Andy. We could be in big trouble. We just got to have that oil. If we don't get the oil, then we won't get anymore traffic ticket revenue."

 

"Americans are insensitive, they're arrogant, and they're stupid, Barney. They believe everything Goober tells them to believe. And, they always will."

 

~ At the collapse of the USSR, newsies ran amok, raving how democracy prevailed, over communism. Newsies proclaimed: "Democracy defeated Communism." Utterly asinine, comparing a political system, with an economic system, democracy didn't prevail, over anything. USSR's economic system overheated, a function of skewed incentives. Its peculiar political apparatus dissolved, ex post a failed coup d'etat. Gershenkron effect, the United States and the Soviet Union, prone to perpetually overstating the value of each other's expenditures on defense spending, during the arms race, Soviet Union didn't have the GDP necessary, to sustain it. Final analysis, only thing the United States proved, to anybody, having pissed away trillions on defense during peacetime, perpetuating stagflation, and indifferently standing aloof, while its banking system collapsed, was that it was better capable of perpetuating inefficiency, better equipped to ration inequitable economic outcomes, and better equipped to enumerate the largest prison population ever seen, by man nor beast, in the history of the world.

 

~ We have more people in the gray bar motel, than most countries have, people. 1/5th of our GDP is garbage. The value of the volume of America's trash exceeds aggregate GDP of most nations (e.g., we shit more than most nations consume). They sell us oil, so we can throw away our trash (e.g., better said, 1/5th of our oil consumption is dedicated, to garbage).

 

~ Systematic attempts, by the yellow press, bombarding viewers with stereotypical, contradictory, oxymoronic jargon, America's electorate is intellectually destabilized. Newsies, presupposing nonexistent myth of the mean, Americans have a warped, distorted reflection of who they really are. The typical American is utterly oblivious, with regard to philosophy of change. Typical American can't differentiate an economic system, from a political system. Americans are no less oblivious, with regard to philosophy of change. The typical American is exposed to but three cohorts: right, left and center. For the typical American, if you don't fall, into those categories, then you must be a... radical?

 

~ And, being a radical is a scary-bad thing. Right?

 

~ No. Wrong. It isn't...

 

~ New Orleans, poof-gone. Hurricane Katrina, force three, flattens New Orleans, and everything within a 200 mile radius. Who do you tap, to make everything all better, again? Someone who "advocates revolutionary, rapid, sweeping change?" Someone who deems "extreem solutions imperative?" Someone who can walk onto the job, able to surmise the "status quo constitutes an aberration," and that perhaps "time is of the essence?" Or, would you tap a crony Bush Administration ultra-conservative, who thinks "the 'truth' is known? Change is treason? Allow no discussion of change?" A lazy, stupid do-nothing conservative, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, walks around with a bow-tie on cable news, devoid creativity, who does little more than play Monday morning quarterback, second guessing everything, and everybody, who wears his conservatism on his sleave as an excuse, for doing nothing whatsoever to affect the status quo? Wouldn't you think the right guy to mop up that mess, would have been someone radical, energetic, progressive, innovative, and dynamic in his crisis management axiom?

 

~ Archetypical government failure, ultra-conservative do-nothing Republicans, having subverted and demoted FEMA, subordinate and afterthought to "The Office of Good 'ol Home-Boy Security," relegated America's Federal Emergency Management Agency to degenerate into the laughing stock of the first, second and third-world.

 

~ Radical, in your philosophy of change, is a very good, necessary thing. Not nearly enough people are. For your information, America's founding fathers were radicals. Democracy, property rights, human rights, free market economics, freedom of speech, freedom of religion, diffusion of concentrated power, freedom to bear arms, freedom of the press, pursuit of happiness, government by the people, for the people, right down the list, constitute radical, revolutionary notions... ideas so radical, British monarchy wanted every single one them them lined up, and shot. Our founding fathers, who deemed status quo, under British aristocracy, an aberration, were advocates of rapid, sweeping change. Time was of the essence. Extreme solutions were deemed imperative. They were radicals. And, they changed the world.

 

~ Yet, 200 years since their passing, they are still changing the world...

 

~ Truth is eloquent, and it's zero maintenence. Propaganda, messy, complicated, expensive to propogate, readily supplants with truth. Such a straightforward thing, to straighten all this out... see for yourself (e.g., textbook archetypes):

 

~ Oxymoron, a "radical-Islamic" is as asinine as would be a Capitalistic-Communist, a fascist-anarchist, a reactionary-liberal, a democratic-aristocrat, or an ultra-conservative liberal. Though the newsies would like you to think so, there is no such thing, as a "radical" Islamist. There is no such thing, as an evangelical-left. It doesn't exist, because it can't exist. That Americans actually believe there really are "Radical Islamists" lurking in the shadows, amplifies just how unsophisticated, gullible the United States electorate really is, and the extent downrange the yellow press has drifted, from its scholastic hearth.

 

~ You've been duped. A paradox, radical Islam, by definition, doesn't exist. It's a myth... propaganda. Mainstream newsies have been playing the Unites States electorate, for succors.

 

~ Have a look see, to your extreme right, in the graphic, above, under Philosophy of Change (e.g., hope increases, the futher left you go; fear increases, the further right you go). Meander, somewhere between "Reactionary" and "Ultra-Conservative." Then, read what it says. Doesn't that sound more like angry militant Islamists, to you? Don't angry Islamists, who turn into raving lunatics, burning effigies of America but for no good reason than a Danish cartoon, seem reactionary to ultra-conservative, in sentiment, to you? Doesn't it occur to you, Islamic world wants things just as they were, 600 years ago? The lowest per capita PC proliferation, on this planet, don't you think the last thing they (e.g., Middle East) want, is rapid, revolutionary change?

 

~ Yet 400 years ex ante Islam's impending reformation, prone to going berserk when they read the funny papers, teetering between a reactionary, ultra-conservative disposition constitutes the Islamic world's status quo mean tendency, with regard to their philosophy of change.

 

~ That they are averse to change, by definition, they cannot be radical. But few of them could we, at best, characterize, as far left as theoretical conservatism.

 

~ Don't believe us? Then, go right ahead: Change something... Try pouring a little ketchup, on their hummus. When they throw that slop, right back in your face, we'll say we told you so. And, who could blame them? Who are we, sending stupid Condoleeza Rice, to arbitrarily tell them how to live their lives? We screwed up. I think perhaps America owes somebody an apology. Time to mend fences...

 

~ Vietnam, all over again... The Goober Bush hard-line Middle East policy, is crumbling. America is getting its ass kicked, in the Middle East. Hard headed Americans can't learn from their mistakes, that you can never hope to change their fundamental beliefs. At best, all you can ever hope to affect, but temporarily, is their behavior. If you're nice to them, perhaps they'll be nice to you. For a little while.

 

~ Referring to the table, above, the further to the right you go, with respect to philosophy of change, the more obstinate, and hard-headed they are.

 

~ How many aircraft carriers did Saddam Hussian have? How many destroyers? How many friggates? How many nuclear submaries? How many long range strategic bombers did he have? None. Zero. If he didn't have any of those, then the likelihood he's got nukes, is nil. Hussain didn't do that. He was was the kind of guy who built monuments and statues of himself, all over town. Iraq couldn't muster a threat, to Iran, much less the civilized world. Stupid Donald Rumsfeld, stuipd Condoleeza Rice, stupid Colin Powell, they convinced themselves we'd be perceived as liberators, in Iraq. Ultra-conservatives run amok, they convinced themselves Iraq had thremal nuclear weapons. The Goober Bush administration convinced themselves Saddam Hussain and Al Quada were synonymous. Ultra-conservatives run amok, not even the facts could convince them, otherwise.

 

~ The Goober Bush administration tried to mold public opinion. Didn't they? They built concentration camps, for Muslems. Didn't they? They subjected Muslems to verbal and sexual abuse. Didn't they? And, they tortured them. Didn't they? We have a special name, just for that, I'll have you know. Referring to the table above, under Political Systems, scan to the far right...

 

~ Go ahead... See what it says.

 

~ Presented indisputable evidence contrary to their fundamental belief, how did ultra-conservatives in the Goober Bush administration respond? "The truth is knowm, any deviation from the truth is treason, allow no discussion of change," Goober Bush administration shot the messenger. They lashed out, at the individual who asserted findings contrary to their fundamental beliefs. They turned-out the messenger's wife, a CIA operative. Goober Bush administration pulled the rug out, right from under her, wrecked her career in government service, by disclosing through a crony Republican newsie, her identity, as a secret agent. All the taxpayer dollars Americans pissed away, training that woman to be a CIA operative? Poof-gone, but for no good reason than the Goober Bush administration's aversion, to altering their prejudicial fundamental beliefs, to fit the facts.

 

~ The Goober Bush administration comfortably displaces Senator Joseph McCarthy, as America's closest brush, to Adolf Hitler.

 

~ Ultra-conservative in their pholisophy of change, fascist inclinations, arguably so, the Goober Bush administration is more indicative of, and has more in common with the ultra-conservative Islamic world, than it does its own electorate, majority of whom are socially concerned moderates.

 

~ Much indicative of Islam, Ford, General Motors and Daimler-Chrysler are reactionary, in their philosophy of change (e.g., retrograde design philosophy). Much like Islam, reactionary to ultra-conservative in their philosophy of change, it's no small wonder U.S. automakers are hopelessly impotent, in their axiom for innovation, and change. Like Islam, by definition, they (the big three) cannot change. Like Islam, they are averse, to change. Like Islam, change runs against the grain of the very fabric which constitutes U.S. automaker's corporate philosophy of change (e.g., lack thereof).

 

~ Radicalism is not a bad thing (e.g., there is nothing more we like, than driving a radical, innovative machine). Radicalism is a good cohort to nurture. We need to embrace this cohort. When circumstance necessitates tumultuous, rapid change, worst thing you could possibly have are detached, lazy, aloof, crony, do-nothing ultra-conservative Republicans, picnicking at the helm of every aspect of your federal government.

 

~ Where conservatives, reactionaries, and ultra-conservatives tend to be insensitive, selfish, sickly, irritable, dull, listless, generic, repetitious, parochial, insular, dogmatic, corrupt and unspectacular, radical automakers, in systematic perpetual change, dynamically pushing the envelope (e.g., Panoz, Penske, Radical, Lotus, Lola, ProDrive, McLaren, Williams, et. al.), tend to be smart, innovative, daring, quixotic, progressive, exciting people, at the cutting edge of intellectual thought with can-do attitudes, who don't need to blow themselves up, much less subsidize crony advocates (e.g., Paul O'Reilly; Rush Limbaugh) to tell their ditto-head constituents what to think.

 

~ Birds of a feather, just like the Klu-Klux Klan, like NAZI clans and prison gangs, just like evangelical Christians, the Islamic world, just like the GOP, is reactionary to ultra-conservative, in its philosophy of change.

 

~ Birds of a feather, on the basis of their philosophy of change, and their identical outlook, with regard to their anti-semetic perspective, the Klu-Klux Klan and the Islamic world coincidently constitute natural allies. However, that the KKK, the evangelical Christian right, Islam, and the GOP may somewhat compare or vary, with respect to their inherent degree of racial or semetic intolerance, much less their degree enlightenment, or that they may be prone to fight amongst themselves, over their differences, is utterly irrelevent...

 

~ Inelastic to change, averse to change, aforementioned cohorts, ipso facto, are not (NOT) radical. If they were radical, then they would cease to exist. If they were radical in their philosophy of change, then they would, ipso facto, evanesce... There would be no war.

 

~ Those left and far left, in their philosophy of change, detached with no influence whatsoever, stand aloft and aloof to bear witness, as reactionary to ultra-conservative elements, the Klu-Klux Klan, Aryan Brotherhood clans, prison gangs, evangelical Christians, the Islamic world, and the GOP, all far right, bump and grind, headlong in their endeavor to subvert, subjugate, assimilate or annihiliate each other.

 

~ Conflict we see, in the middle east and elsewhere, is solely amongst themselves (e.g., the far right), in their collective aversion to assimation, change, and their collective aversion to embrace intellectual maxims. Like children in a playground, uneasy rubbing together of rival reactionary to ultra-conservative doctrine, fighting and name calling, these combattants inevitably clash, amongst themselves, they nonsensically so, erronously so, amd ironically so, refer to each other as, "radical," when in fact, prerequisite to their axiom to reach accord, constitutes the very philosophy to which they're averse: change... The philosophy of change.

 

~ Absolute, iron clad, autocratic doctrine, etched in stone, they cannot change. They can never change. They will fight, for another thousand years, but for no good reason than their collective aversion, to change.

 

~ Islam is not a remotely moderate belief system. Is it? Just like the Bush administration (e.g., they turned out their own CIA agent, for no good reason than their inability to engage a scholastic debate, on Iraq's WMD axiom), and just like the KKK (e.g., they arbitrarily lynch men, women and children they don't like), Islam can criticize anybody, or any religion they like. But, you can't criticize Islam, much less poke fun at it, much less debate the scholastic merit of Islam, without an Islamic government, or one of its crony advocates, putting a hit on you, and your extended family (e.g., Salmon Rushdie). Muslems aren't remotely analogous, to radicals. Are they? A non sequitur, fallacy of composition, as reactionary, as ultra-conservative as they could possibly be, pray tell why the mainstream media collectively portray Islamic militants and terrorists as "radical" when, in fact, Islamic militants and terrorists are evermore reactionary, evermore ultra-conservative, than their mainstream Muslem counterparts?

 

~ They aren't radical. Nor will they ever be...

 

~ You've been duped, by the mainstream media. Birds of a feather, just like the Bush administration, Islamic militant-terrorists are ultra-conservative. America would be wise to rid itself, both - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"... The only good is knowledge and the only evil ignorance."

~ Diogenes ~

 

 

Table of Contents

---

 

"Ford has a Better Idea!"

~ Ford Motor Company, Ford's Advertising Jingle, circa the 1970s ~

 

 

Feburary of 2006

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Just "flu" back in, from Detroit. I thought it somewhat indicative of Cleveland, without the glitz. Of course, the people there are wonderful. That surprised me. I'm not used to people being nice to me. In Michigan, worse case, they'll pretend they care. But, I didn't particularly like it, there. It was peculiar, to me. Michigan, they have a rather odd, detached notion, what constitutes a left turn.

 

~ You see, in Detroit, home of America's big three (e.g., GM, FMC & "Damned-Yer-Cry-Slur"), to make a left turn, first you must bank, into the right hand turn pocket. After having turned right, you must then accelerate, hard, and bank left, across the highway, across the lanes, into a special u-turn pocket nested, inside the median.

 

~ Certainly nothing you would object to, in fact. Those crazy, kinky left turns are kind of fun. Late-braking those u-turn pockets, California style, hammer down at the apex, drifting out, people there in Michigan look at you, as though you've gone berserk. I surmise State of Michigan incurs far fewer accidents, than we do, a function of all those quirky, kinky, kinder-gentler left-hand turns.

 

~ "Oh, no-no-no you don't... Not here, in Los Angeles, Mr. Man!" We do not mollycoddle our motorists. If you screw up a left turn, here in L.A? Then, you die (or worse). It's that simple. If you lack for courage, to make a left hand turn? Then, sorry. The State of California deems you an unfit driver, and you don't drive. You don't get a license. Period.

 

~ "Ride the bus, you effing pathetic lilly-livered whussy! Starve to death! Suffer! We don't care. Go back, to where it was you came from. Don't come back..." Welcome to California where sad, but true, positive case, it takes an act of God to pretend we care.

 

~ Here, in L.A., we have every incentive, to drive agile, lightweight, efficient vehicles. But, Californian's don't. What few here who buy American cars drive the same cumbersome, overweight vehicles, exported by Michigan, optimized for Michigan. We drive German cars, optimized for Germany. Swedish cars, Sweden. Italian cars, Italy. We drive Japanese cars, optimized for Michigan, Italy, France, Benelux, Sweeden and Germany. Or, we drive British cars, optimized for Princess Charles, Queen Elizabeth, Gumby, or Bond... James Bond.

 

~ Go figure.

 

~ We don't have cars, specifically optimized for California. There's no such thing. What few of us here who take our driving seriously, we must personally take it upon ourselves, to reoptimize our vehicles. Expensive, time consuming proposition. Most oftentimes, it's not done particularly well. Doing so utterly destroys the value of the vehicle, and makes resale and insurance impossible or problematic. Nonetheless, driving California's highways, not seeing a heavily modified vehicle, of some sort, you'd have to be myopic, detached, preoccupied or indifferent.

 

~ Michigan is, indeed, another world, entirely. I observed no place whatsoever, for which spirited driving, in an agile, lightweight vehicle could be enjoyed. Nested, within Detroit Metro, our automakers, I observed nothing whatsoever indicative, of canyon driving. Imagining having to live there, I can see no reason, whatsoever, to own a nimble, lightweight sports car, much less even a high performance vehicle. As such, duration of my stay, in Michigan, I saw no sports cars. I saw no evidence of sports cars. Period. Driving around Detroit, and its suburbs, of all the vehicles I saw, on highways or in the city, I saw no indication of enthusiasm motorists have, in or for their vehicles. I saw no modified vehicles. Not one vehicle did I see, with after market wheels, much less an after market suspension.

 

~ I saw few, if any import cars. Most people there, drove American cars.

 

~ With regard to odd notions, what constitutes retention axiom (e.g., demand-side determinants), my reason for being there, a visit with enterprise managers, there at Comcast Cable, they think they can statistically affect aggregate demand, by being nice. They think they can statistically affect aggregate demand, with silly cable television commercials. They think they can affect aggregate demand. They thunk they can do, whatever it is they like.

 

~ ...Laughing out loud? For economists, that's a knee-slapper.

 

~ There's only so much GDP. Bush administration's foreign policy, shot to hell, its domestic policy lay, in ruin, its economic policy, shattered. Price of light-sweet crude in ascent, price of heating oil in ascent, in tandem with doubling of America's minimum payment structure, on unsecured debt, all those brand new ARMs (e.g., adjustable rate mortgages), inching up, currency and precious metal markets, an entangled mess... And, GW, leader of men, on another 5 week vacation, hiding from everybody, at Camp David?

 

~ Tick-tick, tick-tock, tick-tock. What Dr. Alan Greenspan hands over, end of January, to Professor Benjamin Bernanke, is a time bomb. How short's the fuse? We wished we knew. Ask Professor Ben. He's the one holding the damned thing...

 

~ "Hsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss..."

 

~ "Run for your life, Professor Benny... Ruuuuuuuun!"

 

~ Something has to give (e.g., consumption). Ford, scheduled to RIF (e.g., reduction in force) some 50 thousand employees, amongst them one would hope, the 5,000 or so white collar enterprise managers who propagated Ford, retrograde, in their guidance. Ford Motor Company's white collar component, enterprise managers whom conceived of notable failures, to include the retrograde Thunderbird, the retrograde Ford GT-Fordie, the retrograde Mustang, deserve to be shit-canned.

 

~ Good riddance to them... (not you blue collar guys; it's the white collar fat-cats, screwing everything up, there at Ford, whom we're talking about).

 

~ Like Comcast, Ford Motor Company executives thought they could do whatever they damned well pleased? Ford Motor Company Execs thought they could piss away billions, flushing Jaguar's nonsalvagable capital, in Formula 1, save who may? Ford Motor Company Execs presupposed everybody wants what they want, a convertible boulevard cruiser, to stylishly parade themselves around town (retrograde T-Bird)? Ford Motor Company Execs thought they could allocate profit, generated by usurping consumer surplus value of working class Americans, to aggrandize themselves, building an exotic luxury automobile, for Rock Stars and drug dealers (e.g., the retrograde Ford GT)?

 

~ Ford Motor Company is a taxpayer subsidized institution. Taxpayers bailed Ford out, back in the 1980s. Did Ford ever say thank you? Did they build better automobiles? Cars we like? No. Instead, enterprise managers at Ford, ran amok, pissed it all away, in Formula 1, on the Jag-Ford abomination?

 

~ Ford got it's clock cleaned, by SEFAC-Ferrari? Ford execs forever tarnished Jaguar's once peerless international racing heritage? Fumbled their wind-tunnel analysis? Not one Grand Prix did the Jag-Ford win? Billions spent, not one lap did it ever lead?

 

~ They built a retrograde boulevard cruiser, the Thunderbird Convertible, when what that particular market segment demanded, were taut, purposeful Infinitis, Acuras, BMWs, Mercs and Audis? They built a clumsy, overweight, retrograde Mustang, when the order of the day was a fresh, nimble, purposeful, advanced lightweight Mustang?

 

~ Bush administration screwed up the price, of oil? And, Ford Motor Company execs, banking on robust, inelastic demand, for overweight, inefficient, politically incorrect SUVs, couldn't read the tea leaves in their five year forecast, and got burned, like they have never been burned before?

 

~ Ford capitalized taxpayer subsidized profit, usurped from the consumer surplus value of working class Americans, to engineer an overweight, retrograde, limited production Ford GT-40, at a six-figure price-point only filthy rich celebrities, politicians, and drug kingpins can afford? [ed., we were surprised to learn, Sammy Haggar's isn't red. It's white, with blue stripes. Not sure about Leno's, but nine gets you ten, it's black]

 

~ The Ford GT-40 never won the races that really count. Ford GT-40s won, at LeMans, Daytona and Sebring. That's what they were designed to do. That is all they were designed to do. Ford GT40s never won, where it really counts: the Nurburgring, Mille Miglia, the Targo Florio, Spa-Francorchamps, much less in Can Am (e.g., venues diverse and variable, in geography). Jimmy's Chaparrals, Bruce's McLarens, Porsche's 917s and their 908s, ALFA Romeo's 33T3s, and Enzo's Ferrari 312PBs all proved superior mid-engined archetypes which, posthatste, comprehensively eclipsed every mark set, by Ford GT40 MkIIs, all within 5 years, downrange.

 

~ In Ford Motor Company Executives' contemporary interpretation of the Ford GT40 Mk III, of the 1960s, what did Ford Execs build, but an overweight 3500 pound retrograde example, that's bigger than a Corvette?

 

~ The original Ford GT-40 Mk III was on par, similar in size to the first generation MR2. But, it weighed less. The retrograde GT40 is on par, similar in size to a 60's genre Ford Fairlane. But, it weighs more.

 

~ Only NASCAR do you enter, because your marketing execs tell you to. Not (NOT) Formula 1. You only enter Formula 1, because your engineers told you to enter Formula 1. That is the way it's supposed to be. Theoretically, the basis upon which an automaker contests F1, is to resolve issues, try new ideas, via hypothesis testing, for which to design and engineer better components; perhaps a better automobile. The purpose of Formula 1, is to inject a burst of scholarship, into your design and engineering cirruculums. That is the way it's supposed to be. Ford failed. Unable to ascend, to an level of intellect necessary to succeed, in F1, abject frustration, Ford execs pulled the rug out, on Formula 1, sold Cosworth engineering, fire sale price; walked away in humiliation. Bitter defeat, absolutely nothing trickled down, to our cohort, from Ford's sorry Jaguar F1 debacle. Not one scant degree freedom did Formula I broaden the depth or extent of Ford's horizons. Not one affordable sports car, from Ford, did they conceive, much less engineer.

 

~ Not a one.

 

~ Only thing which trickled down, is a retrograde Mustang? All they pissed away, on their international racing budget, a retrograde Mustang is what sums the extent of what Ford Execs learned, the last 40 years? This is not the 1960s. Billions spent, on the Jag-Ford F1 abomination, the millions it pisses away, on the Ford GT-Fordie, Ford's Execs don't muster a D- grade point average, with respect to their corporate milestones.

 

~ They've forgotten who they are...

 

~ Like us, Henry Ford was a driver. Damned good one, at that. He did not build cars, for Formula 1. Nor did he do so, for rock stars and drug dealers. International competition and boutique automobiles isn't what made Ford Motor Company great. Henry built nimble, efficient, lightweight, reliable cars, for American families... it's our ancestors who made Ford Motor Company great.

 

~ Low level of scholarship, there at Ford. Twice, Ford execs forgot who they are. Twice they've forgotten who made them great. Devastating implications, for the United States economy. Arrogance of Ford Motor Company's executives, presupposing they could affect aggregate demand, force of their reactionary retrograde marketing mentality, 50 thousand jobs, poof-gone. Forever.

 

~ Taxpayer to the rescue? Again? How many billions more, to bail out Ford? For what, pray tell? The same crude retrograde vehicles they build, which explode on impact?

 

~ Insulated, in quasi-left turn heaven, there in Michigan, a strange place far removed from incentive or imagination, of what a sports car is, or should be, much less the notion of what canyon driving could possibly be, how could fat, overpaid, overweight executives, there at Ford Motor Company, possibly fathom the notion of nimble, lightweight automobiles, much less why an individual would want one, when they can't otherwise fathom the notion, of actually turning left, when it's time to turn left?

 

~ Off-hand comment I made, to a Comcast Exec, with regard to Michigan's collective left-turn aversion, their Director of Retention retorted: "... We build the cars, here. And, we were the first to build the cars. And, this is the way we do things, here. And, since we build the cars, then the way we do things, here, should be the way things are done, everywhere. The way everything should be, everywhere else, is the way we do everything, here."

 

~ All that high powered money, soon to evanesce, from Detroit metro's basic income sector, Comcast execs wonder and worry, about Ford. Set to RIF 50 thousand jobs from America's manufacturing sector? Retention is the least of its worries... If California were Michigan, Jobs and Wozniak would still be operating, out of their garage.

 

~ It's good to be home - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"... They have learned nothing and forgotten nothing."

~ Chevalier De Panat ~

 

 

Table of Contents

---

 

"... The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept."

~ Shakespeare, Measure for Measure. Act II. Sc 2 ~

 

 

January of 2006

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ We've been at this (e.g., organized canyon driving), for decades. Until now, we thought we'd seen it all.

 

~ The Operation Safe Canyon smokescreen changed a lot of things, with respect to our outward focus. We've had to become ever more vigilant. Henceforth, we've placed an indefinite stay, on invitations to jump in, and join the fun. Since Operation Safe Canyon Smokescreen was leveled, squarely upon the doormat of every sports car driver, here in Southern California, a moratorium has been placed, on invitations to our driver's group. Our drivers haven't handed out an invitation, since. We sorely wished we could.

 

~ We've battened down the hatches. That we do not lack, for staying power, we've adopted a wait and see attitude. We sit back, patiently. Observe. Evaluate. We don't like what we see.

 

~ Stench of the Operation Safe Canyon Smokescreen reeks of crony kleptocracy.

 

~ Just recently, Governor of California, Arnold "The Terminator" Schwarzenegger, decided he'd take to the canyons, go for a ride, on his Harley Davidson sidehack (e.g., a motorcycle, with a sidecar, bolted on).

 

~ Sad, but true: Mr. Schwarzenegger is certainly no speed demon. Antithesis to his breathtaking stunts captured, on the silver screen, in real life, at the handlebars or behind the wheel, "The Terminator" is an awkward, clumsy shrinking violet, who can't ride or drive, worth beans. So the epic tale goes, The Terminator, out for a joy ride, deep in God's canyons, ran out of brains, lost control of his unwieldy sidehack at the lofty speed, scant more than average walking gate, careened off into another motorist's vehicle, at slow speed, and incurred a demeaning, unbecoming gash to his upper lip more indicative of a giant herpe, than the dozen, or so, stitches reported, in the international press (e.g., so the joke goes: One stitch to his lip, for every mile per hour velocity he was traveling, at the time he shunted).

 

~ Operation Safe Canyon officers, Code 7, to the rescue! What did they discover, but the humiliating revelation their commander and cheif, the Governor of California, was piloting his motorcycle, unlicensed? They subsequently discovered, he's been riding motorcycles unlicensed, his whole life, here in California?

 

~ Quote: "A very serious offense." As per Ponch and John (verbatim):

 

California Vehicle Code (CVC) Sections 14602.6 and 14607.6

 

On January 1, 1995, new laws were enacted relating to unlicensed drivers. These laws, California Vehicle Code (CVC) Sections 14602.6 and 14607.6 authorize tow enforcement agencies to tow and impound vehicles for 30 days when driven by unlicensed, suspended, or revoked drivers. There is a possibility that the vehicle could be forfeited (taken from you by the state) if you have a prior conviction for driving while unlicensed, or with a suspended or revoked license... "Remember, if you are unlicensed or driving with a suspended or revoked license, the vehicle you are driving may be impounded for 30 days and possibly forfeited. Also, if you let someone else drive your vehicle and they are unlicensed, or driving with a suspended or revoked license, your vehicle may be impounded and possibly forfeited."

 

http://www.chp.ca.gov/html/impound.html

 

~ Presumably, one might inevitably conclude dedicated, hard core officers of the LAPD "Street Racing Task Force" [sic], encharged the task of executing Operation Safe Canyon policy, encharged the task of cinching up the slack, clamping down in God's canyons, would have promptly confiscated Schwarzenegger's sidehack, issued him a two-point citation for riding unlicensed, and for his at-fault collision.

 

~ Arnold got off Scot free?

 

~ According to Operation Safe Canyon officers, Schwarzenegger wasn't ticketed or cited, because Ponch & John "...didn't actually see him riding his motorcycle." Because Arnold "bolted a sidehack, to his motorcycle, his regular driver's license was" arbitrarily "deemed sufficient."

 

~ For us, licensed drivers, boasting verifiable vehicle registration and financial responsibility, driving street legal vehicles which comply, to the letter, with California emission standards, add to that state of the art suspension systems, speed rated rubber, and accolades behind the wheel earned the hard way? Yet, all we have to do, is show our face, in God's Canyons, and our vehicles are arbitrarily subject to confiscation? Our driver's licenses are arbitrarily swiped, and we're blacklisted (e.g., Ponch & John's secret canyon driver database)? We can be cited, for canyon driving, our vehicles confiscated, no recourse whatsoever, without officers actually seeing us driving. But, not so, Arnold? He doesn't have to be licensed? He gets off, scot-free? On account he's a celebrity? Because he's a fat-cat GOP Republican?

 

~ Doesn't that piss you off?

 

~ Kudos, way to go, Arnold! We're glad Arnold somehow managed not to get busted. We're happy for clumsy Arnold, that he got one over, on the LAPD. We're glad he didn't get cited, a one point accident on his driving record. We're amused, at the precedent Arnold set, having skirted a citation for riding unlicensed, claiming it was a sidehack he was riding. In spite of damage, exceeding 500 bux, we're glad shifty Arnold somehow skirted having to report the accident, to the DMV. We're amused, that "The Terminator" got one over, not having to pay DMV, for a motorcycle license, the last 30 years. We feel bad he messed up his lip. If the state of California hasn't humiliated itself, enough, thank our lucky stars it's not a herpe on its Governor's lip. We're glad Ponch & John didn't impound Arnold's Harley.

 

~ Nobody deserves that...

 

~ What pisses us off? Once upon a time, this used to be America... One set of laws, for everybody. This is no longer the case. Arnold Schwarzenegger has proven himself impervious to California's motor vehicle code. Theory of bureaucratic behavior, a double standard unabashedly, unapologetically, and unmistakenly looms, here in Southern California: Ponch & John apply a relaxed, reserved, preferential set of laws, for crony policymakers, bureaucrats, themselves, their pals and insiders, than the completely different set of harsher, absolute laws they leverage, upon everybody who isn't.

 

~ As we drive through time, hammer down, hell of a speed, we glance back, to see America's best days shrink ever smaller in our rear view mirrors - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"... Laws grind the poor, and the rich men rule the law."

~ Goldsmith, The Traveller ~

 

 

Table of Contents

---

~ Analysis: Automotive Industry Run Amok ~

 

 

"You cannot demonstrate an emotion or prove an aspiration"

 

~ John Morley, Rousseau ~

 

September of 2005

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ No new entries, into the lightweight vehicle market, there is not much to smile about, again, for the 2006 model year. Amidst coincidental waning of agile, lightweight vehicles, the burgeoning faux sports car market, floooded with a preponderance of vehicles which appear to be something they're definitely not, pussy cardome flourishes, with tarted-up pretenders, and fat, anemic, overpriced, overweight facsimiles of what automakers presuppose a sports car should be. We find, all too oftentimes their offerings, form does not follow function in an ogolopolic arena where technology trickles down, more from convicted felon Martha Stewart, than McLaren's Adrian Newey. Here's our short list of some of the pussy cars we'll be laughing at, well through the 2006 model year:

 

Pussy Cars for the 2006 Model Year (...in no particular order) ~

 

PT Cruiser ~

~ Retrograde 19th century stagecoach concept, on a conventional FWD platform, the PT cruiser constitutes baseline metrosexual mean of pussy cardome. Less usable cargo space than Subaru's Legacy Wagon, and the VW the Passat Wagon.

 

Ford Thunderbird ~

~ Late 50s, a supercharged sports car singers wrote songs about, it degenerated to become a cruiser, then a luxury boat, then a sedan, now a cruiser, Ford's Thunderbird holds the all-time record for a vehicle with a half century long identity crisis. Eclectic evolution notwithstanding, ex post its first redesign, the Thunderbird was, and always will be, the ultimate pussy car cruiser. Systematically outperformed, by the 10 year old T-Birds and Tauras SHOs.

 

Pontiac Solstice ~

~ Pontiac is slowly becoming a fag automaker. Overweight Miata design philosophy notwithstanding, the Solstice looks gay. And, the name sounds gay. Far cry from TRANS-AM, Bonneville, LeMans, Grand Prix, or GTO, when you say "PONTIAC SOLSTICE," make a concerted effort not to lisp (e.g., "I drive a Pontiac Thol-stisthe..."). No match, for a 40 year old Lotus Elan, a 40 year old Datsun 2000 Roadster, of a 35 year old 240Z.

 

Mazda RX-8 ~

~ You've got to admire Mazda's spirit. Good crop of thoughtful, adventurous automotive designers. Standing around a table, one night, bickering about a rotary flagship, plagued by offer and compromise, somebody spiked their punch bowl, they got a little kinky, wound up designing themselves a weird, trendy, overweight, overpriced, underpowered, 4-door pussy car! Those crazy kinky Mazda guys must have woke up, hung over, the next morning, after designing the RX-8, thinking: "...Oh, my God! Look what we did, last night! Arrrgh, my head hurts. What an eyesore! Don't say anything! Kick it over to marketing, and hope and pray people buy it!" ...Mazda didn't pen a sports car. Mazda's marketing wing running the herd, what they've ultimately wound up with, salt and peppering their RX-8 asunder, is the ultimate, archetypical "Pussy Car of Sport Compacts." Systematically outperformed, by Cosworth Vegas, and RX-7s.

 

The Toyota Matrix ~

~ Far cry, from their once proud IMSA inspired Turbocharged AWD Celicas, their all conquering Supra Turbos, and their mighty "Little Godzilla" (e.g., the Supercharged MR2), Toyota's "Matrix" is a reflexive pussy car knee-jerk, to Daimler-Chrysler's PT Cruiser. For 2006, that "the Matrix" constitutes Toyota's flagship performance vehicle, is a signal reminder that lets us know just how bad things really are. Less usable cargo space than a Subaru Legacy, the Matrix is outperformed, by the PT Cruiser Turbo. What happened to the Toyota we once knew, is caught in the undertow of a robust subductive assimilation, into the NASCAR America continuum. Perhaps a Darrel Waltrip inspired Camry awaits us, for the 2008 model year.

 

Chevrolet Monte Carlo Abomination ~

~ The Dale Earnhardt Intimidator Special... Monumental embarrassment, to car culture. Even with V-8 power, no man on this planet with a triple digit I.Q. would be caught dead, in this car (3511 lbs; 22K-30K, FWD). Chevrolet Monte Carlo is the official "Pussy Car of Redneck America." Systematically outperformed, across the spectrum, by lesser, better handling, more agile, more comfortable, more nimble sport compacts.

 

Audi TT ~

~ Sure looks an awful lot like an FWD Volkswagen Beetle platform, to me. Who do they think they're kidding? Antithesis to the fundamental purpose of an FWD platform, to achieve a lightweight, inexpensive alternative, leave it to Audi to manufacturer, oblivous to contemporary theory (2987 lbs; 35K; 180HP; FWD). How the Audi TT could possibly weigh 3 thousand pounds, is beyond belief. How anybody could justify ponying up 50 thousand bux, for an even heavier AWD TT, is unfathomable. Systematically outperformed by lesser, more efficient sport compacts.

 

The Jaguar XK Convertible

~ The Jag-Ford abomination... Cumbersome, underpowered 4000 pound, $80,000.00 piss poor, small displacement Ford V-8, a Ford transmission, a Ford drivetrain, Ford Electronics, cheap Ford brakes, cheap Ford suspension; doesn't handle worth beans? Besides fancy upholstery, what the hell is Jaguar good for? Sitting around, all day, getting drunk, screwing together overpriced Fords? Outperformed, by Ford's Mustang? Why not buy a 4000 pound GTO, and have 100 more horsepower, and a better handling machine, for half the price?

 

Porsche Boxster ~

~ The sports car, for people who hate sports cars. At nearly 3000 pounds, Porsche's ultimate pussy car, the Boxster, weights nearly twice what their hill climb cars once weighed. Triumph of engineering over design (e.g., no access to the engine bay), Porsche manufacturers boutique automobiles, for status conscious people. Porsche no longer builds nimble, efficient, lightweight performance vehicles. The Porsche Boxster is the official "Pussy Car of Sports Cars." Systematically outperformed, by AWD sport compact sedans, at half the price, Porsche could care less. If you knew how much money Porsche makes, on each vehicle? Then, you'd be building counterfeit Porsches. Porsche is so greedy, they make so much money, they can't possibly be embarassed. Laughing at us, all the way to the bank, sparkling balance sheet, Porsche is so profitable, how could they possibly be embarassed? Americans want pussy cars. For a price, Porsche is only too happy to accomodate them.

 

Ford Mustang Premium Deluxe: 3600 lbs., prox ~

~ When's the last time Ford had an idea? Last idea they had? Recall, much like a spoiled 7 year old, Ford belligerently discontinued the Mustang, in open protest to smog mandates, back in 1974. They sheepishly introduced it, couple years later, on a Pinto/Bobcat platform. The 2006 Mustang, regressed, to its aerodynamic detriment, back to 1968, Ford lacks the discipline, imagination, and intellectual prowess prerequisite, to iterating an alternative, parallel, divergent evolution, beyond 1974, to what it would otherwise be, in the 21st Century. So, Ford took the easy way out, threw their arms up, merely regressed the Mustang, to a retrograde facsimile, quasi 1967, threw together an overweight retrograde GT-40 to bolster it, brought back the old color pallette, and that is all they did. Another retrograde Ford? So much for independent rear suspension? The 2006 Mustang regressed, back to the same retrograde stagecoach axle indicative of the one it once used, on the the Model A? While they're at it, why not scrap hydraulics, bring back cable actuated brakes, and shorhorn in a rumble seat? But hey, 125 different colors, for back lighting your instrument panel? How silly! Ford doesn't watch out, rice boys are going to start calling you Mustang guys... Potato boys? Corn boys? Sweet potato boys? As of 2006, the Mustang GT Deluxe Premium officially constitutes the "Pussy Car of Pony Boys." The crude, overweight, clumsy new Mustang is anything but the svelt, agile 2600 pound Mustang we know, all too well, which only exists somewhere in a foggy, distant, parallel dimension of our dreams.

 

Lexus RX ~

~ Arguably the most pitiful excuse for conspicuous consumption, on this planet. Biggest bunch of whussies we have ever seen, drive Lexus RXs. When is the last time you've seen an Lexus RX, much less a Landcruiser, with any less than eight coats of Armoral on the tyres, anything less utterly immaculate wheel whels, and impeccably sparkling undercarriages? Guys who buy these vehicles are anything but rugged outdoorsmen. The Lexus RX is "the official Pussy Car of the SUV people."

 

The Chrysler Crossfire Abomination ~

~ Having begun its life as a Mercedes nobody liked, Daimler sluffed off the platform to their lacky silent partner, Chrysler, in hope of making a better pussy car for pretty-boys, crumpet and cracker tea-toddlers, and the east coast cucumber sandwich crowd might find in vogue. A triumph of design over engineering, this vehicle constitutes the most eggregous pussy car assault upon car culture, ever witnessed, by man nor beast. Better to look good than to feel good design philosophy, two years running, Chrysler's Crossfire abomination tops our list, as the ultimate pussy car, for 2006 (3,100 lbs; $30k-50k; measley 215-330 HP). Proof positive you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear, 50 thousand bux for Chrysler's most potent Crossfire, you could otherwise have an AWD STi, AND a Suzuki Hayabusa Limited, with enough left over for something real nice, for your best gal. $50K, for a top of the line Crossfire, you could otherwise have a loaded, top of the line 350Z, and save yourself a cool $10K. You otherwise have a 400 HP Corvette.

 

 

Noteworthy Disappointments for the 2006 Model Year (...no particular order) ~

 

Pontiac GTO ~

~ Let's call a spade, a spade: It isn't a GTO. Is it? Nor is it even a Pontiac. Is it? It's a Holden Manaro. Isn't it? Well over 3500 pounds; cheap brakes; irritating second gear lock-out punishes you, for anything less 3/4ths throttle? Why? Pontiac can't build its own GTO? They have to import them? From Australia? If they can't build their own cars? Then, what the hell are all those Pontiac people good for? Why not erase Pontiac, shit-can those worthless slugs, and welcome Holden to the U.S. domestic market? A thousand pounds overweight, men of tall stature were counting on a simple, 2800 to 3000 pound GTO, for which to drive canyons. For drivers of significant stature, the overwight GTO was (...continues to be) a significant disappointment. When all we otherwise need, is GM execs to shave a thousand pounds, from the Manaro/GTO platform, given another year, or two, is about what it will take, for aloof, detached Pontiac execs to screw-up the grill, add even more weight, reduce the color pallette to an all time purile low, and completely wreck the rest of an otherwise promising concept, asunder, with tack-on 1960s hertiage styling cues. Less is more... Somewhere, in a foggy, distant, parallel dimension of our dreams, exists a lean, mean 2800 pound, 420 horsepower Pontiac GTO, with four pipes, out the sides, 6 on the floor, forged wheels, and massive brakes (e.g., "grand turismo omologato").

 

Nissan 350Z ~

~ A crushing disappointment for our market segment. We have some guys in our group who were really counting on Nissan, to build a serious Z-car, which they could migrate to, from their aging Sunday drivers. Nine hundred pounds more, than a 240Z, Nissan fumbled. The 350Z cannot hold a candle, to a contemporary, adequately reengineered, adequately prepared 240Z (e.g., it's more efficient for us to build a Z, than Nissan?). Less is more...How is it possible the 350Z weighs 800 pounds more, than a Scarab? Shouldn't the "Track" version weigh less, than the entry-level 350Z? {Scarab Conversion Bookmark}

 

Honda S2000 ~

~ Another awkward, goofy Honda product under headlong stagnation, their S2000 is 800 pounds overweight. The S2000 doesn't constitute a monumental disappointment, so much as it does, frustration. No excuse whatsoever this vehicle shouldn't weigh 2000 pounds. Even at 2300 pounds, Honda would otherwise reap accolades, for arguably the greatest sports car, ever made. Less is more... Only by the grace of Porsche's Boxster, is the S2000 eclipsed, as the pussy car of sports cars. Closer to 3000 pounds, they should have named it the S3000.

 

Porsche Caymen ~

~ Not only is this vehicle a tragic disappointment for our market segment? This vehicle is an insult. And, Porsche knows it. So many 911 guys looking for lateral movement, into a mid-engined Porsche, the Caymen arguably rivals the most monumental disappointment, for our market segment, ever. Specifically engineered to be an inferior flanking brand, to the 911, all those Porsche guys who wanted out, of their archaic rear-engined 911s, are going to have to move downmarket, to a vehicle specifically designed to handle, and perform inferior to the 911? How insulting! Weighs 900 pounds more, than a 914? Less than 300 horsepower, for $65K? Did they name it, after a lizard, or a tax haven in the Caribbean? Why would anybody buy a downmarket Porsche Caymen, when they could otherwise have a 500 horsepower, 427 cubic inch displacement Z06 Corvette, for the same price? Not only did Porsche miss the market? It missed its price point, by 30 thousand dollars. For all intents and purposes, Porsche's closed cockpit Boxster is worth no more, than a Subaru STi. Porsche, so unabashedly greedy, they are beyond embarassment. They make a lot of money.

 

Acura NSX ~

~ Glorified Pontiac Fiero, under perennial stagnation, the NSX is what Pontiac's Fiero should have been, 20 years ago. We can't fathom how Honda could stomach so antiquated, so woefully overpriced a vehicle, in its stable. All aluminium, yet it's heavier than a AWD Subaru station wagon, it's slower than a Mitsubishi Evolution, and it cost 20 thousand dollars more than a Porsche 911. How humiliating. The NSX isn't an embarassment to car culture, so much as it is, Honda. Less is more... All intents and purposes, the 2006 NSX is a 35 thousand dollar vehicle. Not worth a penny more.

 

Ford GT Fordie ~

~ Found On Road Dead, Godforsaken Tragedy - Fordie years later, originally penned by Eric Broadley, in the late 1950s, the Ford GT-40 Mk I, outboard fuel cells, right-hand drive, right hand shift, was a fundamentally defective vehicle that commonly exploded, on impact. Ford's retrograde version, well over 3500 pounds, 1500 pounds more than the small block, road going Ford GT-40 Mk IIIs, of yore, the new Ford GT is the only vehicle ever made, that can't hold a candle, to itself. Ford GT40s never won, where it really counts: the Nurburgring, Mille Miglia, the Targo Florio, much less in Can Am. Jim Hall's Chaparrals, Bruce's McLarens, Porsche's 917s and 908s, ALFA Romeo's 33T3s, and Ferrari's 312PBs all proved superior mid-engined archetypes which, in tandem, comprehensively eclipsed the Ford GT40 MkIIs, all within a 5 year range. Guys in the "more money than brains club," ponying up $225K, are getting succored out of their money. Kit car GT-40s lap 5 seconds faster, than Ford's retrograde GT. Less is more (e.g., perhaps if we say it enough, maybe they'll get the point). All intents and purposes, the retrograde Ford GT-Fordie is a 50 thousand dollar vehicle... It's not worth a plug nickel more.

 

 

Problems in Car Culture for the 2006 Model Year ~

 

Scorched Earth: The Supra, Z-28, Trans-Am, MR2, Open-Wheel Racing Vacuum ~

~ Absence of the Supra & MR2, and the Z-28 & Trans Am appear to have foretold Toyota & GM's collective withdrawal, from open wheel racing, in North America. In contrast, Ford's subsequent withdrawal from Formula 1, coincidental to retrograde GT40 and retrograde Mustang offerings, suggests regression of the performance automobile market, similar to what it was, circa the early 1970s (e.g., robust demand, but no supply). Supra, Camaro/Firebird, MR2 cohorts, standing pat, driving old vehicles, are unable to migrate, in the absence of a viable substitute.

 

~ In contrast, open wheel racing in North America, having splintered into two factions, continues its degeneration, into 2006, neither faction able to capture CART's once robust audience, in spite of two synthetic, artificially conceived substitutes.

 

~ Henceforth, four significant vacuums pervade, one in open-wheel motorsport, the other three are, as follows:

 

* Nissan's 350Z gambit, producing a unit inferior to the mid 90s Supra, failed to capture Toyota's vacated flagship market segment. Nor is Nissan's 350Z a viable alternative, to NSX stagnation. That NSX and Supra Turbo cohorts don't aspire to Nissan's overweight 350Z, and that it is more efficient to for the market to remanuacture 240Zs, than it is for Nissan to supply defective, insufficient 350Zs, Nissan's flagship is perceived to be vulnerable. As a new Supra looms ever larger, Nismo's grasp, on its own market, is perceived to be as tenuous as it could possibly be. It would appear Supra guys are retaining their Supra Turbos, dissatisfied with current market alternatives (e.g., null hypothesis: cars in the mid-1990s are better).. The 350Z is insufficient.

 

* The Holden Manaro (Pontiac GTO) failed to plug the vacuum, by consolidating GM's Firebird/Camaro cohort. Robust aftermarket for Camaro/Firebird guys, they don't aspire to Pontiac's GTO, much less Ford's retrograde Mustang pussycar. No automaker is thus far able to capture, consolidate, or assimilate GM's Camaro/Firebird cohort. It would appear these guys are hanging on to their Camaros and Firebirds, similarly dissatisfied with current market alternatives (e.g., also begs the null hypothesis: cars in the mid-1990s were relatively better, than cars are, now).. The GTO is insufficient.

 

* Toyota and TRD failed to consolidate its MR2 cohort, under the inadequate, woefully defective MR2 Spyder. MR2 Turbo guys never aspired to Toyota's Boxsterlike MR2 Spyder pussy car facsimile. Nor did they ever aspire to Miatas. That these cohorts will not migrate to inferior vehicles, those markets are vacant. As of this writing, MR2 cohort under disintegration, those people are migrating, to no other vehicle, in particular (e.g., very rare phenomena, migration is seldom random; nor is migration undertaken objectively).. It would appear the MR2 cohort is under diffusing, migrating randomly to other marks, a consequence of the unsatisfactory nature of the MR2 Spyder replacement, recently discontinued. Mk III version of the MR2 was not perceived to be a viable substitute, for previous versions of the MR2. Likelihood introduction of the Mk III MR2 Spyder served to precipitate, accelerate, or hasten transmigration, from the Mk I & Mk II MR2 cohorts, to other makes and models, is certain (e.g., 0.92 r-squared; robust F-Calc, begs the correlary hypothesis: synthetic alternatives engineered to supplant, punctuate, crowd-out or preclude naturally derived market alternatives, are otherwise more debilitating, than their absense).. Not only was the synthetically derived MR2 Spyder insufficient. Its existence induced diffusion.

 

~ Chevrolet & Toyota, in large part responsible for having fractured open-wheel racing, in North America, are incipient to doing, to it, what they've recently done to Supra/MR2, and Camaro/Firebird guys. Scorched earth mentality, GM & Toyota got what they wanted, from open-wheel racing. Chevrolet are set to pull the plug, 2006; end of 2006, Toyota.

 

"...thank you very much."

 

~ The IRL is a folly. That nobody takes the Danica Patrick driver's club seriously, who could blame GM and Toyota, for pulling out the rug out, on Tony George's crony cornbread concept of affirmative action style open-wheeled racing?

 

~ Toyota, much like a spoiled child with an inferiority complex; it only wants what someone else has (e.g., it wants Ferrari's F1; it wants Chevrolet's NASCAR; it wanted Nissan's IMSA & Porsche's LeMans; it wanted Mazda's Miata market; it aspires to Mercedes' luxury status; it wants Chrysler's PT Cruiser; it wants to play in Ford's truck market). Toyota is not a leader. Toyota survives, with B's and C's on its report card, copying its fellow classmates. Many of its fellow classmates (e.g., GM), in turn, copying Toyota, progress the automotive industry is isolated, if not entirely nonexistent.

 

~ Kids like Toyota, in your neighborhood, when you were a kid? Remember how irritating they were? Copying everything you do? Lapping up the credit for your creativity, and your hard work? Much like a child, Toyota likes the other kids toys, more than it does, its own. Minute you go on vacation, you know he's going to be in your sandbox, playing with all your toys... always plundering somebody else's sandbox.

 

~ That is Toyota. In a nutshell.

 

~ GM, a different sort of lad, likable, jolly, freckled, funny looking, red-headed butterball kid, who sunburns easily and gets a rash, because his thighs rub together. He isn't a coward. But, he is anything but brave. Perched on the high dive, trembling, knees shaking, looking down, afraid to take the plunge, he'd much prefer to be at McDonald's, than at the swimming pool. GM is afflicted with a common malady known as Frame Dependency. GM thinks every problem can be solved, adding more catsup and French fries (e.g., "baseball, apple pie and Chevrolet"). Henceforth, every automobile GM produces is too big. Supersized Miata philosophy for the Solstice, isn't compelling. Supersized GTO is woefully overweight, and it has cheap brakes. Slapping an SS insignia on their Cavalier, supersizing it, into a Cobalt, isn't going to make GM's impression felt, not one iota, in performance sport compact car markets. Camaro/Firebird guys, having been supersized for nearly 4 decades, do not aspire to Cobalts, or SSRs, much less FWD Monte Carlos, much less Mustangs with 125 color combinations for instrument panel backlighting.

 

~ GM, like Toyota, are aloof. They lack for grasp of the notion of aspatial market partitions. Camaro/Firebird guys do not transmigrate, through market partitions, readily; nor do Honda guys; nor do Miata guys; nor do Mustang guys; nor do Porsche guys; nor do NSX guys. They readily move upmarket; they reluctantly move laterally, or not at all.

 

~ Moral of the Story: Synthetic, artificially conceived substitutes can never suffice, for logical alternatives the free market would inevitably call forth, in a vacuum. Synthetic substitution crowds-out better quality, lower cost alternatives we would otherwise prefer (e.g., innovation). By definition, the automobile industry is in disequilibrium (e.g., there is excess demand observed, in markets the automobile industry is too myopic, too insulated to identify, or acknowledge; they can't fill the vacuum).

 

~ The market, unable to call forth and supply viable alternatives, by definition, the automobile industry is dysfunctional, and in disequilibrium (e.g., cobweb affect). That neither Champ Car or the IRL could capture CART's audience, likewise, open-wheeled racing is woefully dysfunctional, hopelessly lost in disequilibrium, and scandalously mismanaged. Like the IRL, copying Champ Car? And ChampCar, in turn, copying the IRL? GM, copying Toyota, and Toyota, copying everybody else who, in turn, copied what GM was doing, 5 years ago, they've copied themselves, into disequilibrium (e.g., network effect).

 

~ Kick and scream about it, all we like. They can't hear us. Sound does not exist, in a vacuum.

 

Subaru STi/Mitsu Evo Dilemma:

~ Wonderful cars. Remarkable. The cars aren't the problem. People who own them, are.

 

~ You thought those flaky-dingy MR2 guys were goofy mindless shit-for-brains? They are nothing, compared to the scandalous, hedonistic breed of Subaru and Mitsubishi drivers, filing whopping insurance claims like no tomorrow, shunting their Evos and STi's into people's living rooms, stealing them from each other... Not only did these guys drive up the cost to insure these vehicles, to exceed that of Chevrolet's Z-06 Corvette? Not only did these dilettantes single handedly phase shift premiums, across the entire sport compact cohort? "Congratulation, boyz! You did it!" ...they've phase shifted insurance premuims, across their own manufacturer cohort.

 

~ These people are making the Mustang guys look like saints...

 

~ A function of the STi and the Evo's price point conundrum (e.g., that the price point for these vehicles isn't partitioned, from that of all other vehicles in their manufaturer's repsective stables), all Mitsubishis and all Subarus are now more expensive to insure (e.g., that GM's Corvette and Ford's GT are price point partitioned, from entry-level Fords & Chevrolets, existence of the Corvette and the Ford GT does not increase insurance rates of all other Fords and Chevrolets). All those insurance claims, by STi and Evo guys, phase shifted insurance premiums, for all Mitsubishi owners, and Subaru owners.

 

~ STi's and Evos are not remotely indicative of a FIA compliant, WRC prepared vehicle. Significantly heavier than the basic Lancer, or the entry-level Impreza, merely tarted-up passenger vehicles, made to look like WRC contenders, they were not conceived to be that heavy, when those platforms were originally designed.

 

~ Significantly more difficult to drive, at the threshold, than a WRC prepared vehicle, people who own them, utterly oblivious to that, are shunting these cars, en mass, in a very big way (e.g., never buy a preowned Elise, STi, or Evo; they live hard lives).

 

~ Unfortunately, this new breed of Subaru and Mitsubishi guy have made the fatal mistake of garnering the attention, of our nation's ivory tower of actuaries. Those guys are no slouches. They know their numbers. Like the Fiero, insurance actuaries will ultimately determine the fate, of these two remarkable vehicles. Skyrocketing risk premiums for these vehicles approaching that of Porsche's 911, will ensure Subaru's STi Impreza, and Mitsubishi's Evolution will not be long of this earth.

 

~ They run quite well on 104 octane racing unleaded (...13 bux a gallon). Diurnal march of temperature, under the relentless heat of the United States desert southwest, 91 octane just isn't enough for these two remarkable vehicles.

 

Public Enemy #1: The SUV People ~

~ Price of light sweet crude marching, to eighty bux a barrel? North America's biggest economic dilemma: the SUV people. The SUV people, collectively driving demand for gasoline, straight up the supply curve, are screwing-up our economy, like it has never been screwed-up before. As such, SUV people should be made to pay more, for gasoline. They should be rationed. They should be made to compensate those who commute, in their fuel efficient daily drivers.

 

~ I've recently had my third, in as many years, near miss with an overwidth GM Hummer, which was over the double yellow, deep in God's canyons. By the grace of the God of canyon driving, saving my sorry ass from that shithead Hummer guy, do I live to write this September, of 2005. Nothing worse, flying through God's canyons, cresting a rise, some jerk-off in a Hummer, oncoming, lazily lumbering along, liberally allotting himself both sides of the double yellow, going too effing slow to get out of the way.

 

~ Close call... inches. Looping it, Decker Canyon, narrowly missing that Hummer, I've flat-spotted my tyres.

 

~ GM must be greasing bureaucrats at the NHTSA with some handsome, lavish perks, to allow that over width, over height abomination, onto the nation's highways. GM's Hummer, 10 mile per hour side impact, would slice right through my 2400 pound two-seater, like a hot knife through butter. Ten miles per hour is about all it would take, to punch my ticket.

 

~ Time has come to peer pressure all those SUV commuters, into fuel efficient vehicles. Government doesn't care about us anymore. Like all those SUV people, only ones government cares about, are themselves. All those effing bureaucrats are the very idiots who are driving them. The higher the price of light-sweet crude, the more revenue government generates, for itself. Henceforth, low gas price is a very bad thing, for fat lazy politicians. Government has every incentive to subsidize SUV proliferation.

 

~ All those stupid people, who aspire to be like stupid Arnold, driving all those stupid Hummers...

 

 

A Ray of Hope for the 2006 Model Year ~

 

427 Cubic Inch 2006 Z06 Corvette:

~ How'd you like to line-up, next to some knucklehead in a Ford GT-Fordie? Decked out, all those pretty Ford racing stripes, how'd you like slideslip the clitch, drop first gear, hammer down, rubber in all six gears, dematerialize, into the menagerie of turns ahead, leave his sorry ass, for dead, in a car 500 pounds lighter, that cost 1/3th your rival's fancy Ford?

 

~ It's a really big car. Too big for tight, 10/10ths point-to-point technical driving chores. All Corvettes require 93 octane. Much less their standard 400 horsepower mill, I have no idea how GM expects we'll run a 500 horsepower, high compression, 427 cubic inch powerplant, on 91 octane, here in California. However, rolling out a big, bad Corvette is always good, for our market segment of the sports car market. As it is, Corvette Engineers are the only ones in car culture who listen to us. They're the only ones, eyes peeled, to grass roots level driving. They're the only ones really trying. They endeavor to make the Corvette a smaller, lightweight vehicle.

 

~ That is no mean feat, within the onerous bureaucratic constraint, of General Motors sovereignty. Bull's eye, gunny-sarge marksmanship, Corvette engineers masterfully capped a 427 cubic inch, 500 horsepower Corvette round, right through the ten-ring, of Uncle Sugar's gas guzzler tax loophole. Yeoman's work, indeed, the Z06 constitutes perhaps the only bright spot for the 2006 model year. Sure wish those Corvette guys would design something special, for our market; perhaps a lightweight mid-engined SWB with a small displacement six-pot, priced specifically to embarrass Porsche - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"What some invent, the rest enlarge."

~ Swift ~

 

 

Table of Contents

---

~ SNAFU at the friendly local DMV ~

 

 

"While we have prisons, it matters little which of us occupy the cells"

 

~ George Bernard Shaw, Maxims for Revolutionists ~

 

August of 2005

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Didn't take long for some idiot to bash up our new hybrid vehicle.

 

~ My better-half, at the wheel, hopelessly stationary, idling directly behind a Long Beach guy, his Toyota Tundra in reverse, but his brain in neutral. BANG! Wiped out the wife's Prius hybrid. Of course, just as it does high speed pursuit, our state encourages hit and run. No incentive whatsoever, to stop, the driver in the Tundra engaged a forward gear, planted the throttle, and duly accelerated away, from the scene of the accident, California style (yours truly, in pursuit, afoot).

 

~ Pick-up trucks don't have to comply with 5 mile per hour bumper mandates. Pick-up trucks don't have to comply, with clean air mandates, either. Perhaps that's because they're special. Perhaps that's because the people who own them deserve preferential treatment.

 

~ About $3,000 damage. Of course, under California law, despite my having got his license plate number, he got away, Scot-free, with hit and run. He got away, Scot-free, driving without proof of insurance. He got away, scot-free, fleeing the scene of the accident. Not a blemish on the bumper of his truck, of course. And, we've had to eat the $500.00 deductable.

 

~ Cut my losses, pay the 500 bux, done-deal, walk away, fight the fights you can win. Right? One would think. And, that's exactly what I did. Or, so I thought. I thought it was a done deal. It wasn't. As a result of my wife's accident, my driver's license was sumarily suspended. How did I find out my license was suspended?

 

~ I found out, the hard way.

 

~ Feelin' antzie one day, thought I'd head out in the two-seater, make my way to the local Starbucks, rub elbows with some of the local street racers who hang out, there. On my way there, traffic light situation, right beside a county Sherriff's cruiser... Light went green. My first gear stump puller lurched me, well ahead of the lazy, hapless cops. Slow on the human response cycle, the black & white cruiser lumbered away, as I streaked off. Throttle flat, up through second gear I went. Having throttled off, just as my speedo clipped the speed limit, I'd opened up ten car lengths, on the hapless cops, who subsequently went full throttle, secretly hoping to reel me back in, to block my lane change.

 

~ Too late. Well ahead, I signaled, banked right, and found the turn pocket, still several lengths ahead of the wayward sherriffs, never having broken the speed limit, never having broke a tyre loose.

 

~ Private property, I zipped efficiently through the parking lot; made my way over, to the Starbucks.

 

~ But, you see? There's an unwritten law here, in California: If you somehow inadvertently insult the ego, of a police officer? Then, he has Carte Blanche to pull you over, and write you a traffic ticket, for any reason he can think of.

 

~ My two-seater is to die for. Very rare machine. Less than a thousand still in existence. Zero to 40 MPH, it is lightning fast. At that traffic light, mere presence of my vehicle, beside beside Ponch & John, constitutes an aggregous violation of this universally secret unwritten law. What's more, that my two seater is piloted by an individual with no respect whatsoever, no reverence whatsoever, but with a trace of disdain for their chosen profession, with no compunction whatsoever, about putting the hammer down, right beside them, full throttle, right to the speed limit, as though their shit really does stink?

 

~ A capitol offense!

 

~ Such transgressions as mine (e.g., Ponch & John's unwritten law: failure to kowtow, grovel, or prostrate thyself, in subservience or humility, in a servile, demeaning manner, before a uniformed policeman), by citizens of third world kleptocracies, police are well within their right, to summarily execute you. If I did that, to a Federale, in Mexico or Panama?

 

~ I'd be one dead Gringo.

 

~ I found my usual parking place, backed her in, there at the Starbucks. If they were trying to reel me in, then I must have lost them, zigzagging my lightweight two seater, through the parking lot. Already out of the car, and half across the lot, when Ponch & John arrived, red and blues flashing, pistols drawn: "...You! Put your hands up! On your knees! Face down! Put your hands straight out..." etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

 

~ "You have a suspended driver's license, boy. You're under arrest. You're going to jail." Surprise, surprise, surprise. However wrongfully so, wholly unbeknownst to myself, my driver's license was, in fact, suspended... for not having insurance.

 

~ Of course, I have insurance. Had proof of insurance, right there, in the glove compartment... in every vehicle I own. I also have redundant 35K bonds, on every car I own. And, I have $75K in my checking account. Not only was all that incidental? It was utterly irrelevent. They arrested me, they threw me in jail, tore up my car, looking for Osama Bin Ladin, fruit of the poison tree, then they impounded it: driving under suspension, for not having insurance.

 

"But, I have insurance. I've always had insurance. See? "

 

~ GO TO JAIL. DIRECTLY TO JAIL. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT 200 DOLLARS...

 

~ People running the California DMV must be complete idiots. Some reason, hybrid vehicle VINs (e.g., serial number on the car) are blighted, in the DMV database. When my better-half got clobbered, my insurance policy number wouldn't correlate, to the VIN on my hybrid vehicle. Reporting the accident, to the DMV, triggered summary suspension, of the driver's license of the first name which appeared, on the vehicle title, of my hybrid vehicle.

 

~ That I have insurance? Fully insured? That I've always had insurance. Utterly irrelevent. Lacky DMV database analysts wrote an algorithym that automatically suspends the driver's license of the vehicle owner, who's name appears foremost, atop on the vehicle title.

 

~ I tried calling for my wife, to fetch me out of jail. But, she's not good about checking the telephone, for messages. I languished, there in jail, almost two days, before they finally got sick and tired of me, released me, on my "recogniscence."

 

~ My reason for being in jail wasn't having a suspended license. Real reason they put me there: Not only did I break Ponch & John's unwritten law? I broke their secret unwritten law, like I was used to breaking it. I broke their unwritten law, as though I thoroughly enjoyed breaking it. I broke it, with style. Panache. I reveled in it. And, they knew I secretly enjoyed doing that.

 

~ Wholly unbeknownst to me, but for no good reason than a glitch in the VINs for hybrids, which won't correlate to our insurance policy numbers, my license was summarily suspended, by a computer algorithym. Due cause (e.g., suspended license, however wrongfully so), plus de facto cause (e.g., Ponch & John's secret unwritten law), to whisk me off, to the gray bar motel, they made sure they put me in, with the worst of the worst: Hard core career criminals, mean scary gang-bangers, where it would be inevitable I would be singled-out and provoked, for Ponch & John's amusement and entertainment.

 

~ Guy in the Tundra truck, off, Scot-free, with hit and run? Off, Scot-free, driving without proof of insurance? Off, Scot-free, fleeing the scene of the accident? Off, Scot free, from financial responsibility, for bashing up our car? But me? Out, 500 bux my deductable, I wind up in the gray bar motel, meanest, scariest, baddest savages you've ever seen, a gnat's ass away, from getting my throat slit?

 

~ "...That which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger?"

 

~ Who was the bleeping effing idiot who coined that phrase? Next time you see him, do me a small favor, walk up, cold-cock him a close-fisted backhand uppercut, across corner of his jaw, then lean over him, and ask: "...how much stronger does that make you feel?" Let me know what he says.

 

~ Ever try to call DMV, on the telephone? Futile.

 

~ Nice thing about attornies? I'll have you know, they always pick up the phone, on the second ring. When I told my story, my savage hedonistic attorney salivated. Telling him what happened, watching him get excited, smiling, dollar signs getting real big, in his eyes, constantly licking his lips, taking notes, fidgiting in his chair, he could hardly contain himself. Cut him a check for 3K, let him off his leash, to shake the bramble... See what falls out.

 

~ Easy $10k, for the likes of him, I speculated. He had my suspension cleared, and my license fully reinstated, that day. He had a little chitchat with my insurance carrier; told them what happened, to me. And, guess what? They've changed their mind. They've decided I'm going to get my 500 dollar deductable reimbursed, after all...

 

~ People running those jails are scandalous. They're more screwed up, than the criminals. They put you in an overcrowded box, with cameras, derive amusement and entertainment, for themselves, making bets with each other, over what they think's going to happen to you, next.

 

~ I'm not a criminal. I've never committed a crime in my life. Put me in that environment, they knew I'd be singled-out. Thank God they let me wear my boots. My steel-toed Red Wings gave me a comparative advantage. I'm not a criminal, much less a hardened one. I am not acclimatized to physical conflict. I was pretty scared. But, straight-A student philosophy, everything I do, I'm a quick study. Wasn't long before I had opportunity to fashion an impliment, for which to protect myself. Not an hour goes by, you're not hitting someone. They, you. Not one born to lose tattoo to be found, anywhere on my body, I think they were as surprised as I was, I got respect. I earned it. I held my own. Injured my hands and knuckles, hitting people. My neck is still tender, sore and tight, from getting in all those fights. Still kind of hard to drive, right now. Good to be home.

 

~ If I had it to do, all over again? I'd have put down big-fat, long black rubber stripes, accelerating away from that traffic light - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison."

~ Thoreau ~

 

 

Table of Contents

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~ Midseason Statistical Revelations in F1 ~

 

 

"Life is a game of whist. The cards are shuffled.

The hands are dealt....

I do not like the way the cards are shuffled.

But yet, I like the game, and want to play..."

 

~ Eugene F. Ware, Whist ~

 

July of 2005

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Anticipating your 2005 World Driver's Champion... Vintage Fernando Alonso, taking flight:

~ The Fernando Alonzo juggernaut. His 2005 ascent, dominos will inevitably cascade, across the international driver's spectrum, like we haven't seen, in 20 years. Ground crumbling, beneth their feet, for Michael Schumacher, David Coulthard, Jacques Villenueve, Giancarlo Fisichella, and Rubens Barrichello, the end is near.

 

~ Plug 'n chug: Räikkönen's 51 point accumulation, at Silverstone, plus 80 points yet possible (=131), in the 8 Grand Prix remaining, less Alonso's 77 points (=54 points), divided by 8, yields 6.75. To wit, if Fernando averages greater than 6.75 points, per GP, then Kimi Räikkönen, having won all 8 remaining Grand Prix, in 2005, will all be for not.

 

~ Ex post the GP of Great Britain, Fernando Alonzo needs 55 points to mathematically atrit his nearest rival. FIA's point system, so hopelessly screwed up, through 11 Grand Prix, Fernando has yet to statistically atrit anyone. Theoretically, Pedro De La Rosa and Alexander Wurz still have statistical likelihood. 80 points remaining, theoretically, I have a mathematical chance(!). But, next Grand Prix, Hockenheim, theoretically, Fernando can mathematically atrit 13 drivers on the F1 grid, in just one race. If Fernando wins, at Hockenheim, any driver having accumulated less than 7 points, over the first 11 Grand Prix, will be statistically eliminated (e.g., 13 drivers, from Felipe Massa, everyone below, poof-gone, in just one race).

 

~ If Räikkönen DNFs in Germany, leaving victory to Alonzo, then all Fernando must do, is finish 4th, or better, in the 7 remaining Grand Prix, after Hockenheim. Räikkönen's theoretical 51 point accumulation, if he DNFs at Hockenheim, plus 70 points still possible, after the GP of Germany (=131), in the 7 Grand Prix remaining, less Alonso's 87 points (=34 points), divided by 7, yields 4.857. Henceforth, if Fernando averages greater than 4.9 points, per GP, then Kimi Räikkönen, having won all 7 remaining Grand Prix, after Hochenheim, will be for not.

 

~ Through Great Britian, 11 Grand Prix, his 77 championship point accumulation, divided over 11 Grand Prix, Fernando Alonso boasts an arithemtic mean average, 7 points per GP, exactly. Nearest rival, Kimi Räikkönen, 51 championship points accumulated, boasts an arithemetic mean of 4.636363 points per race, prox.

 

~ Fernando Alonso's arithemtic mean average, 7 points per GP, less Kimi Räikkönen's arithemetic mean, 4.6363 points per race, constitutes a natural break in the data trail. Nowhere on the F1 grid is there a bigger gap, Fernando Alonso scored an arithmetic mean, 2.3636 points per Grand Prix, over his nearest rival.

 

~ Look at that number: 2.3636. Through 11 Grand Prix, the difference, between Fernando Alonso, and Kimi Räikkönen, equals... Juan Pablo Montoya? Exactly?

 

~ Juan's 26 point accumulation, mean average accumulation, 2.3636 points per Grand Prix, equals the mean arithmetic difference, between Fernando, and Räikkönen, exactly. Through 11 grand Prix in 2005, Montoya's arithemetic mean, 2.3636, plus Räikkönen's, 4.636363 equals Alonso's 7, exactly?

 

~ It's not an irony. But, can you see the symmetry? Coincidently equivalent in driver productivity, to Räikkönen plus Montoya, Fernando statistically differentiated himself, from every other driver, on the grid. He is statistically remarkable. He constitutes his own cohort. Fernando Alonso is a statistical outlier...

 

~ And, you well know what they do, to statistical outliers... Nail that stands up gets pounded down; they are going to punish him, asunder. I hate it, when they do that.

 

~ Sans devine intervention, unless Ferrari or FIA pull shenanigans, to punish, find a clever way to DNF, or penalize Flavio Briatore's number 1 driver, the 2005 World Driver's Championship is already decided. At the time of this writing, FIA's point structure so hopelessly screwed up, all Fernando Alonso must do, all 8 Grand Prix remaining, is steer his Renault 4 times to a 4th place finish, and a third place finish, 4 times, and he will have bumped off the unloved, asterisked Michael Schumacher, in his ascent to become your 2005 World Driving Champion.

 

~ Williams Engineering hopelessly lost in a decision tree menagerie, BAR saddled with overrated drivers, Ferrari paying dearly for their wintertime complacentcy, and Toyota backsliding down the grid, no potential threat, elsewhere on the grid, with threat axiom to crowd out Renault, or McLaren, for all intents and purposes, 2005 is all over, but the crying.

 

~ Mathematical likelihood Fernando could fail notwithstanding, our congratulations to him, just the same. Yeoman's work, behind the wheel. Our hat's off, to Fernando Alonso...

 

~ Galvanized, his mind a steel trap, antenna up, RADAR activated, missile lock engaged, Fernando's macroperspective axiom for focus is without rival:

~ Master of big horsepower, esteemed fellow aficionado of anotomically correct females... you got to love the guy - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"The white flower of a blameless life..."

~ Tennyson, Idylls of the King ~

 

 

Table of Contents

---

~ Overweight Sports Cars, Revisited ~

 

 

"It is better for a woman to marry a man who loves her, than to marry a man she loves"

 

~ Arab Proverb ~

 

July of 2005

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

 

~ August upon us. And, you know what that means: The 2006 crop of fat, new overweight sports cars automakers expect us to mindlessly snap up, are landing, at your friendly local car dealership. Take a drive down. Pour yourself a free cup of coffee. Have a free doughnut. Kick the tyres. They're more than happy to marry you off, to a big, fat, overpriced, overweight sports car.

 

"...DEAL-DEAD-DEAL! MAKE YA A REEEEL GOOD DEAL ON THAT THERE CAR, SONNY!"

 

~ Sometime ago, we had an old, cranky Porsche guy turn up, on our guestbook, bragging up and down, left and right, gushing over his brand spanking new GT3 Porsche. He told everybody his GT3 is the greatest car, ever made. The pink of perfection, everything pales in comparison. He just loved his GT3. He told us that, if but only everybody on this planet was as good as he is, then they'd buy themselves a Porsche GT3, just like he did.

 

~ Archetypical Porsche guy (e.g., "...no ifs, ands or buts, you are what you drive, and that's that" mentality). As though we'd insulted his wife, he went off, in a huff, having been told his pretty GT3 is a fat, cumbersome, overweight, glorified Volkswagon, that couldn't outrun a Miata, downhill, in a head wind!

 

~ Our advice for buying automobiles is indicative of the same advice we'd lend, to any young man, choosing his bride: "...best sit yourself down, son, and have a good long sobering look, at her baby pictures."

 

~ Given: Two drop dead gorgeous women. The both of them, as hot in the sack as they are, for you. One of them, low maintenance, she has a petite, natural, intrinsic beauty, and she's been that way, her whole life. The other one, voluptuous, ravishing, dazzling, high maintenance, but she was a fat chubby girl, lots of baby fat, couldn't get dates, so she worked real hard, dropped 150 pounds, so she could get you to fall in love with her?

 

~ ... who do you marry?

 

~ Choose the first girl? Lean, trim, slender; been that way her whole life? She'll probably be that way, the rest of her life. Only burning question you might have, about her, notwithstanding: How many guys has she bounced on the mattress with? Likelihood looms large she's your dream girl.

 

~ Second girl, voluptuous, absolutely dazzling, Grand Canyon calibre cleavage you'll be exploring, for the next two years, perhaps her beauty is likely ephemeral? Three years of the good life might get the better of her. Three years, from now, she might revert, to her real mean body weight. You could be stuck, with a 190 pound high maintenence battle axe, who sits around all day, eating ice cream, henpecking you, gossiping everything about you, to all her friends, who gets so fat, she can't fit into anything smaller, than an SUV?

 

~ Henceforth, our advice, buying sports cars: Look at the baby pictures, son. Is her beauty intrinsic? Or, is it contrived?

 

~ In essence, Porsche's 911 was a flabby, spoiled rotten wallflower of a slob, sour disposition, no guy wants to dance with, because her thighs rub together, and she gets a rash. Her father got clever, pulled out the buggy whip, put the 'ol gal up, on the stair master, "...gitty-up girlie, mush!," thinned her down, a bit, renamed her "GT3," in hope of marrying off his high mainterence daughter, to the first poor succor who happens along.

 

~ Her disciplinarian daddy, making her do the stair-master, everyday, that 'ol GT3 gal has one mean caboose. She's a pretty big gal, so you've got to be well hung. She looks good in yellow. Don't you think?

 

~ Just last month, one of the guys from the Cooper Mini contingent chimed in, whipped up into a froth, rumors of Cooper's diciplinarian parent, BMW, and its secret plan for limited run of anorexic Minis, to reek havoc on Honda's dominance in the sport compact popularity contest. Looks as though BMW has the same thing, in mind, for its short-pudgy-quirky-trendy Cooper Mini, that Porsche had, for its porcine daughter, the 911...

 

~ ...the Cooper Mini GT3.

 

~ German women... can't live with 'um; can't live without 'um. Huh?

 

~ We're stuck. That there looms large a gaping vacuum, in our particular market, that there is no adequate cross section of lightweight vehicles, for buyers in our particular market, we are stuck. 2006 model year, like the year before, there's nothing out there, to choose from, under 2500 pounds.

 

~ No choice...

 

~ Opportunity cost, of an Elise, puts you into an overweight Corvette, with a couple thousand bux, to spare. Opportunity cost, of what's left in inventory of the woefully defective MR2 Spider, puts you into a newly overweight Miata. Why would anyone buy a Lotus Elise, when they could have a Corvette, with SAT & NAV, for less? Why would anyone settle, for an underpowered, woefully defective, butt-ugly MR2, when they could otherwise have an overpowered, woefully defective, butt-ugly, retrograde Mustang GT, for less?

 

~ Opportunity cost, of the current offering of every available lightweight vehicle, puts you into a heavier, less expensive, better equipped vehicle, for less. It should be the other way around (e.g., lightweight passenger cars should be less expensive, than fat ones).

 

~ If Porsche were coerced, to put every one of its daughters, on the stair master? Nobody could afford to marry one. Wrong approach... Inefficient. If you know you're going to have to pay extra, to slim the girl down, then why pay, to get her fat, to begin with? (e.g., Porsche GT3 syndrome).

 

~ Why don't they just build lightweight vehicles?

 

~ You can't make a silk purse, from a sow's ear. We prefer automotive engineers design lightweight vehicles, than pass along an inflated price for having reoptimized an overweight one (e.g., Porsche GT3). Dirth of lightweight vehicles, in our market, automakers aren't building lightweight vehicles. They backfill the vacuum, exacting a supranominal price, for reoptimized overweight vehicles, reverse engineered, to be lightweight.

 

~ Apples & oranges... It's not the same thing.

 

~ GT3, Porsche charges you what they would for a fully loaded 911, and then some. But, you get it, delivered, stripped? Buy a GT3, in effect, you pay for installation of, then removal of, then repotimization, of optional components found, on a fully loaded 911? You pay, over 100 thousand bux, for a high maintenence vehicle, which isn't intrinsically lightweight? And, that Porsche can convince its buyers to pay the extra price, for less optional equipment, yet still make every single person who buys one believe their overweight GT3 is the greatest automobile, ever made? That the only reason everyone doesn't have one, is because they aren't as good, as GT3 people? Because, GT3 people are simply better, than everybody else?

 

~ Pretty fancy marketing. Don't you think?

 

~ If you'll settle, for a fat, overweight car, they'll charge you the same high price? If you want her slimmed down, they charge you even more? Seems like a lousy family to marry into, to me. Don't you think perhaps you can do better?

 

~ I prefer automobiles intrinsically designed to be lightweight, than have to pony up an inflated price, for some asshole engineer to reverse engineer them so. Polarity of the correlation, between price, and passenger vehicle weight, should be direct; positive, in polarity. Not negative. Lightweight Porsches and Minis should cost less than overweight Porsches and overweight Minis. Lightweight Porsches and Minis should be intrinsically lightweight. Not reverse engineered and slapdash reoptimized so (e.g., Porsche GT3 syndrome).

 

~ On the heels of the waning NSX and its overweight sibling, the S2000, the overweight 350Z was a withering disappointment. Porsche's new Caymen, in succession, kerb weight 3 thousand pounds, is a slap in the face. We could not be more disappointed with an automaker, than we are, Porsche - MULHOLLAND RACEWAY.

 

 

"A blind wife and a deaf husband are always happy..."

 

~ Danish Proverb ~

 

 

Table of Contents

---

~ Policy Analysis: FIA's Darkest Hour! ~

 

 

"Troubles, like babies, grow larger, by nursing"

 

~ Lady Holland ~

 

July of 2005

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

~ Funny thing: Motorsport journalists could once characterize followers of Formula 1, as motorsport's most sophisticated. Not based upon what I've seen! Just another bunch of spoiled crybabies, the worst sort, Formula 1 snobs wrote-off the USGP fiasco, attributing blame wholly upon Michelin. They threw pop bottles, onto the circuit. They erected signs, in protest. They singled-out, and assaulted several of BAR's mechanics. They e-mailed death threats and hate mail, to countless Formula 1 web sites (...and ours). Fallout from the 2005 USGP, what we've witnessed, show the once proud Formula 1 cohort to be no more sophisticated, than archetypical NASCAR Bubbas.

 

~ Indianapolis Motor Speedway, right in the middle of a cornfield? The 2005 United States Grand Prix, sight of 14 ultra high performance, megamillion dollar machines, peeling off, down pit lane, on the formation lap, in open defiance of Ferrari's subversion of FIA, unabashed defiance of FIA's one engine rule, open defiance of FIA's one tyre rule, open defiance of FIA's systematic destruction of contemporary Formula 1...

 

~ No sooner than 14 Michelin shod entries withdrew, Carte Blanche for 100 thousand fully grown, mature adults, sitting in the grandstands at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, to begin acting like spoiled two year olds? Crybabies? You well know how drivers in our group feel, about crybabies. We do not suffer crybabies at all well.

 

~ No surprise to us. We knew, the night before, eve of the 2005 USGP, exactly what was going to happen. FIA run amok, the last 5 years, defecating on F1, with nonsensical doctrine, just as they did, endurance racing, this has been a long time coming.

 

~ Perspective: Michelin doesn't arbitrarily determine which tyre to bring, to each Grand Prix. By decree, FIA perscribes tyre makers aren't allowed to use practice sessions, at each Grand Prix, to select which two tyres to bring. By decree, FIA doctrine perscribes tyre makers guess. Between each Grand Prix, teams test, extensively, for the upcoming venue. During these test sessions, teams perform rigorous analysis, conduct tyre testing, to formulate an a priori tyre recommendation, what team engineers think will perform best, at the next venue, that they collectively submit, to their tyre manufacturer.

 

~ Trouble is, Bridgestone custom tailored its tyre developmemt program, to Ferrari. In particular, Michael Schumacher. All the other teams who once ran Bridgestone rubber were, in effect, testing, for Ferrari, and Michael Schumacher. Analysis collected, from other teams running Bridgestone, made Ferrari ever stronger. But, findings from Ferrari's tyre program never diffused, to other Bridgestone runners. Seeking fair treatment, a level playing field, these teams migrated, in exodus, from Bridgestone to Michelin.

 

~ But, Formula 1 has been anything but static, with regard to rules stability. Exploiting a loophole in FIA's concord agreement, FIA's qualifying format changes, courtesy of Max Mosley, by decree, from race to race. Even worst, by decree, FIA mandated tyre manufacturers are only allowed to import two tyre specifications, per Grand Prix venue. By decree, FIA mandated drivers must race on qualifying tyres. By decree, FIA mandated no driver, under race conditions, can change from qualifying tyres, to race rubber. By decree, FIA mandated all drivers must ration their powerplants, over two Grand Prix. By decree, FIA mandated drivers only have one lap, for which to qualify, for a Grand Prix. By decree, drivers are penalized, when it becomes necessary to change tyres, or engines. By decree, drivers are penalized, for having DNF'd. That FIA's one lap qualifying policy rank orders qualifying, a function of the previous race result, drivers having DNF'd the previous Grand Prix have no realistic chance, whatsoever, at pole position, for the next venue.

 

~ But one engine, which must endure two grand prix, and one tyre, for qualifying and the race, drivers get very little seat time, behind the wheel, at each Grand Prix venue. Net effect of these overlapping policies: Driver's risk betas have skyrocketed. Formula 1 is now more dangerous, than it was, 30 years ago. Formula 1 drivers spend more time on race simulators, than in the cockpit.

 

~ 2005 Grand Prix of Europe, Kimi Räikkönen flat spotted his left front tyre. That, by decree, FIA penalizes drivers, for changing tyres, Räikkönen had no realistic choice, but to press on, with a left front tyre that created a vibration, which ultimately atritted his suspension. Relentless pressure, from Fernando Alonzo's Renault, eating up Räikkönen's lead, by about a second a lap, FIA policy put Ron Dennis in the position to roll the dice. Inevitably, Räikkönen's suspension obliterated, sending him off course, but for no good reason than FIA's myopic tyre policy.

 

~ Kimi Räikkönen is luck to be alive. Ralf Schumacher is lucky to be alive.

 

~ When the Formula 1 circus visits Indianapolis Motor Speedway, teams face an optimization dilemma. That the IMS, in clockwise Formula 1 configuration, was so poorly conceived, contiguity sucks. It's really two circuits. With first gear turns, in the infield, a high downforce configuration is imperative. Henceforth, drivers must carry all that downforce, through the IMS turn one banking, which was diamond cut the other way, counterclockwise, during resurfacing. That Circuit Gilles Villenueve, similarly so, was also resurfaced, the GP of Canada and the USGP became unknown quantites for the F1 circus, in 2005. Especially so, Michellin.

 

~ Bridgestone enjoys a monopoly, in the IRL, and Champ Car. Michelin doesn't. All that IRL and Champ Car data, Bridgestone enjoys a comparative advantage, at IMS.

 

~ No rules stability, rules changing, by decree in Formula 1, is a disaster, waiting to happen. Throw the baseline set-up from the 2004 USGP, out the window, and start from scratch, constructors are forced to test for two completely different venues, the Grand Prix of Canada, where braking is imperative, and the USGP, where downforce is imperative, the first week of June.

 

~ Grand Prix of Canada, and the USGP, both resurfaced, both just one week apart, both venues splitting the cost of transporting the Formula 1 circus, across the Atlantic, constructors don't have time to test, for Indy. By the time F1 teams reached Indianapolis, their most recent test data is three weeks old.

 

~ There is no substutite for seat time, at each Grand Prix venue. So little seat time, a function of FIA's one tyre, one engine rule, constructors won't find out they're in trouble, until it's too late. Poor substitute for the IMS, week before the Grand Prix of Canada, teams wrapped up their testing programs, at Monza and Silverstone. Anthony Davidson at the wheel, recall Toyota having tested, extensively, at Monza, the first week in June.

 

~ Tyre testing complete, Michelin and Bridgestone having assimilated the result of testing, at Monza and Silverstone, are faced with the task of selecting but two tyre compounds, for Canada and the United States.

 

~ Big trouble at IMS, in June: Indianapolis Motor Speedway was previously resurfaced. And, the weather's been weird.

 

~ Scant seat time, only a limited number of laps, in practice and qualifying, having incurred 11 tyre failures, Michelin sobered, their teams having spec'd the wrong tyres at Monza and Silverstone, fiasco staring them straight in the face, eve of the 2005 USGP, prompted an 11th hour SOS, to FIA:

 

 

~ Such a poorly conceived letter! Why Dupasquire and Shorrock didn't consult Michelin's highly specialized staff of marketing psychologists, defies explanation! Dupasquire and Shorrock likely drafted this letter, right off the top of their heads. Michelin's SOS, for all intent and purpose, begs admonishment:

 

"Dear FIA. We have a problem with our tyres. And, we need to be punished. Sincerely, Michellin."

 

~ That is funny. Don't you think that's funny?

 

~ Slap in the face, FIA's indifferent, imperious, dictatorial reply (below), the audacity, FIA shrugged their shoulders, suggesting the solution to the problem would be for Michelin drivers to go slower, to throttle off, through the banking... and do their best to stay out of Ferrari's way?

 

~ "Just say no?" That's FIA's solution? Faced with the worst public relations catastrophy in international motorsport, since 1955? Throttle off in the banking? Do their best to stay out of Ferrari's way?

 

~ Now, that is funny. Don't you think that's funny? In the history of competition driving, that is the funniest thing I have ever heard. See for yourself:

 

 

~ These are the blitering Eurotrash idiots, who rule Formula 1, by decree. Wholly devoid axiom to rise, to a sufficient macroperspective plateau for which to intellecualize their plight, how many wars did we have to fight, in or against Europe, because of bleeping idiots like these?

 

~ A sober active reading of their reply, above, FIA, hopelessly stuck in its matrix, incipient to the worst PR nightmare in international motorsport competition, since LeMans, 1955, is utterly bleeping clueless.

 

~ This is not a level IV integral. This is not advanced econometrics. Solution is quite simple, you see. Had the drivers in our driver's group been empowered, absolute authority, to correct this problem, by decree, we could move lightning fast, to correct this problem, posthaste, as follows:

 

1). Pospone the 2005 USGP, just one day; suspend Michelin from competition, for the remainder of the USGP -

 

3). Stay the one engine, one tire rule, for the remainder of the USGP. Everybody gets fresh powerplants -

 

4). Outfit all teams with alternative Bridgestone Race Rubber -

 

5). Turn race day into a practice session, then requalify all drivers, thereafter, on Bridgestone rubber -

 

6). Fan Appreciation Gesture: All Formula 1 drivers called, fully attired, to the grid, after Sunday qualifying, for a one lap race, on little girl's Schwinn bicycles -

 

7). Flag to flag the 2005 USGP, on Monday, every driver on fresh Bridgestone rubber; no restriction on tyre changes -

 

8). Fan Appreciation Gesture: Free beer, and all you can eat hot dogs, for everybody in the grandstands, on Monday (e.g., FIA picks up the tab; perhaps make up the difference, selling antacid) -

 

9). Good 'ol Boy Appreciation Gesture: Special plaque of appreciation, from FIA and F1, to Tony George, telling him what a peachy, wonderful guy he is -

 

10). The 2005 USGP: Staged Monday, split, in two heats, in anticipation of the same problem developing, with Bridgestone rubber -

 

~ That ought to do the trick... Everybody, happy as a clam, if you didn't get to see the Grand Prix, then wouldn't you want to see the RUNNING OF THE SCHWINNS? How about lining up all 20 F1 drivers, on the grid. Put them on girlie Schwinns, give them a 30 second head start, before setting loose the WWF's finest, after them, afoot, to run them down, in hope of wrestling them?

 

~ THE RUNNING OF THE SCHWINNS! There should have been Schwinns and wrestlers, at the USGP. I would like to see that, moreso than I would, the USGP.

 

~ We think it would be most entertaining, to the fans, watching Michael Schumacher, trying to take-out Nick Heidfeld, on a little girl's bicycle. Imagine JPM and Rubens, colorful tassles on the ends of their handle bars, streaming, the two, side-by-side, into the first turn! Ruben's, his foot having slipped, off the pedal? Off into the sand, at turn two, they go, DNFing their Schwinns! Announcement comes over the loud speakers, that race stewards have penalized JPM, one lap, for the incident with Rubens! AND, JUAN IS FURIOUS! And, look: It's Ralfie Schumacher, in trouble again! Looks like he got himself caught up from behind, two wrestlers, having taken poor Ralfie's Schwinn, straight into the wall, again, at turn 13. What a mess. And, down the stretch they come, it's Jacques Villenueve, SWEET REVENGE, pedaling his heart out, from the back of the grid, taking the checqured flag, 6 miles per hour, across the brick stripe, in a photo finish, just edging out Takumo Sato!

 

~ "The Canadian flags fly! And, the fans go berserk! THE FIRST DRIVER EVER HAVING WON, AT INDY, IN CARS AND BICYCLES!"

 

~ Not only is FIA detached, and aloof? They've lost sight of something very-very important: People like to have fun. They like to laugh. Give them any reason they can possibly find, to smile... very bas