Cars, and anything else I can think of.

July 27, 2007

I work for a car company, so I’m sorry if my blog occasionally favors related topics.

First topic: Chrysler 

Chrysler just announced a LIFETIME powertrain warranty on all their cars.

...And bankruptcy comes soon.

 Translation: From today, July 26, 2007, on, if anything goes wrong with any of their cars’ engines, transmissions, anything under the hood or within the structure of the car, it’s on them. (Jeep, too.)  I haven’t read the fine print, so I’m not sure how it REALLY works, but does this mean that I could buy a Chrysler, and keep having the car fixed on Chrysler’s dime for all eternity, and drive that car forrrr-ehhh-verrrr?  This seems ludicrous.

Translation: Chrysler can’t sell a car.

Next topic: Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Roger Maris…

Listening to mike&mike on the way in to work today (I would have rather had John Mayer, but I left the player in my mom’s car, a red Cobalt, which p.s. if you like fly mature hunnies, this is the car; I got 2 compliments yesterday from celebrities)…

Anyways, I’m listening and they’re talking about McGwire and Bonds and homeruns and Curt Schilling’s recent interview on the topic.  This is where things got crazy…Curt Schilling actually said something worthwhile. 

He commented on the fact that both of these guys have been called out by the public (Bonds on numerous counts but namely in that book, Game of Shadows, and McGwire in front of a grand jury), and had nothing to say.  Their respect, fame, livelihood was challenged in front of their peers, fans, and anyone else who really matters within the culture, and neither of them had anything to say.  McGwire “didn’t want to talk about the past,” and Bonds whines incessantly about being persecuted by the world to disguise the fact that he’s easily the biggest chooch/cheater American sports has ever seen (see most revered record in American sports-prove me wrong).

And Schilling’s point was that by not saying anything, it was a passive admission of their guilt.  I couldn’t agree more (though it pains me).  So here’s what I propose, and feel free to comment on this because I’m interested to see how crazy I sound…Both of these guys, after they both retire, should be erased from the Major League record books, same with Palmeiro, Canseco, Giambi, Juan Gonzalez, and whoever else that breaks a record or wins an award while being reasonably suspected of cheating.  And it should be known that they no longer hold records because they did not play by the rules, and when you don’t play by the rules, you can’t hold records.  And then say, OK, to any of you who have a problem with this, come forward and speak your case, and let the baseball community be the judge.

And your argument against this can’t be well that’s not fair because you can’t prove it.  Sports record books are not legal documents, they’re not decided in a court of law, and these guys don’t have any kind of right to be in the “books.”  Hank Aaron didn’t fill out some kind of paperwork before he hit 715.  Joe D didn’t have to draw up a title deed when he broke George Sisler’s (I think) 40-something game hit streak.  Records are just held in the minds of people who love the game and respect it.  The people who decide these things is a community made up of coaches, players, and fans-we are the judge and the jury.  So if the baseball community, as a whole or otherwise, don’t feel like calling you the guy, then plain and simple, you’re not the guy. 

The fans, the people who grow up playing, we are the pulse of the sport, without us, there is no game, no history, no record book.  So I, or anyone who doesn’t feel like it, doesn’t have to let these guys walk away with a needle in their ass and our crown on their heads, because these things are intangibles, and ours to give away when we feel comfortable with it.  And I don’t feel comfortable with it.  So, Maris is still my guy, and Hank is still my guy, and when its said and done, what else really matters?


Morning Commute

July 18, 2007

Walk with me…

So I’m on my way to work today, running late (surprised?), eating my banana and listening to my “Morning Mix.”  It’s got a lot of John Mayer, Third Eye Blind, Van Morrisson, all stuff I sing and cry to, and it saves me every day.  Not just emotionally, but in a very literal sense, too, because I’m (one) what my pediatrician calls “poster-child A.D.D.” and (two) significantly more tired than when I’m in bed trying to sleep, making it a daily struggle for me to keep from dozing off, crossing the median and becoming news.  So yeah, I sing. 

Anyways, I’m already a little sad at this point, singing John Mayer (Gravity, for those wondering), and voluntarily driving myself somewhere I don’t want to be.  Worse, there’s like millions of other people voluntarily doing the same thing, so we’re all stuck between each other.  Plus, God is shitting all over everybody (T-Storms).  You’d think Rt. 684 was selling Yanks-Sox tickets to the first thousand commuters (They’re not).  Man, no tickets, that’s pretty shitty, right?  Well, it gets shittier.  Japanese cars everywhere.  All one color.  Gray.  And in 65 different shades!  Oh, and they sell like hookers.  You’ve got one.  In all it’s shitty gray glory, sitting there in your driveway, just waiting for you to take it out and make my life just a little bit shittier.  Oh! Oh!  Best part: they last forever, so you can piss me off for over 200,000 miles.  

And for this, I wanted to make sure I wrote a message to extend my deepest and most sincere hatred towards Toyota and Honda Motor Companies for officially making my daily commute the most drab and Gray experience of my life.  Cool, especially considering I’ll probably spend a nice little chunk of my life this way.

And a special message for those who own one:

I know what you’re gonna say, “Wah, mine is different, wah, wah.”  Don’t tell me yours is different.  Its not Mystic Metallic Mist, or Super Suave Silver, it’s gray, it’s fucking gray.  Sheep.

Okay, back to work.

I’m one of them, now.

July 17, 2007


Nick is doing it, so I will too.

 I’ll try not to talk about dumb shit, or try to act funny or anything.