Take The Sizzle Away And It’s No Longer A Steak

… It’s a weird title but real life (as opposed to on-line) has me harried. I lack time to think of something better.

I’ve been meaning to put Eric Peter Autos on my links for a couple years. I finally got it done. Go there and waste half your day!

Eric Peters gets it!

If you read his site (and you should) you’ll find a fellow who’s got freedom’s interests at heart. Every year soul-less chickenshits continue draining the fun out of cars. We let it happen because we get so worn down. There are a thousand multiple fronts. It’s an endless 360 degree hassle of purse lipped nanny state dipshits pecking at the ankles of a dwindling core of red blooded freedom lovers.

We retreat to our particular interests but it’s all related. It can be about anything; Halloween costumes, incandescent lights, literature, posting on Facebook without getting banned (or fired), bump stocks, vaping, medicine, watching football without being lectured, or attending college without a walking human deflation bitching that you’re personally responsible for slavery in 1830, etc… It all boils down to our problematic insistence on doing what we want. We’re deplorably failing to worship each day’s particular flavor of moral superiority. It’s a lifetime’s push against the plain joy of being left alone. In that endless tug of war, fun cars get washed away in the tide. It’s good to hear a like minded voice. We need that.

Doubt me? Look at a parking lot. Any cars out there look like Americans are a wild and crazy bunch? Do the cars look like sex on wheels? Are there rustbuckets a zillion years old for the poor people and the broke teenagers? Is there a gold plated Rolls Royce out there? Do some of the cars look like six rednecks and a welder had too many beers? Any of them have huge tailfins? Are they painted gloss yellow metalflake? Racing stripes and flames? Nope.

Yes, there’s personality here and there but mostly what you’ll see is a lineup of newish, bone stock, grey-metallic jellybeans on wheels. SUVs and minivans that drive like a potato and have the individuality of a clone. They’re regulated by, built for, and purchased en mass by dull soccer moms careening between the painted lines while jabbering on their tracking devices phones.

Cars once had (and still should have) personality. Even shitty cars had flavor. If I drive around in a cheeseball shitbox from the past; folks will come unhinged with joy. An uncomfortable Model T, a difficult to manage 70’s muscle car, or a spartan old VW Beetle will make anyone smile. Will anyone in in 2080 preserve and enjoy a 2018 Chrysler Pacifica? Of course not, it’ll be trashed as soon as the Bluetooth link dies due to expensive software gremlins. Why? Because it was never anything but weak tea in the first place. Nobody wants and lusts for a Chrysler Pacifica. It’s what we’re locked into by CAFE standards and an increasing straitjacket of regulation. It’s just not enough. I’m a man who wishes to pilot a powerful machine with skill.

I drive machines. I don’t sit in appliances. I actually drive them. Commuters morph into catatonic asses half asleep in a safety cage, but I still hear Red Barchetta in my heart.

Improbable vehicles make me happy. My daily driver moves like an imperial starcruiser. A Prius looks like Alderaan to me. If you want a tiny hybrid that’s fine, but don’t regulate me into your wheeled cubicle. In fact, regulation and policy is why my diesel lust led to a beefy expensive Dodge instead of something older or smaller. I wanted diesel torque right as cash for clunkers raped the used market and California killed small diesels in their crib.

No regrets! I love that monster engine when it’s fully laden. The turbo whine, the exhaust brakes snorting like a furious bull, the remapped shift points on the transmission, it’s music. There are drawbacks. When it’s empty, it’s weird. So what? I’m weird too. When I bleed out the cash for six tires at a time (!) I shrug my shoulders and remind myself that nothing’s free, including freedom.

My other daily driver is a motorcycle. No air bags, no AC, no roof, no doors. If I fuck up, I die. Is that not a fair way to live? Most people can’t operate a motorcycle. They point the lever at “D” and hope the magic elves keep the traction control working. I ride among them like a hummingbird among rhinos. So far, I’m still in one piece.

So there you have it, if your flavor of freedom leans toward guns, or online posting, or eating steak in our vegan world… keep an eye out for kindred spirits. They might just be bitching about CAFE regulations and crappy dash layouts. Happy reading.