WHEN I REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, I WAS HOME
Category: Automotive

I wasn't going to the Pebble Beach Concours.

I couldn't.

I had deadlines on three different projects the next week. But Pebble Beach is the premier car show in America, maybe the world and this year General Motors' otherworldly Motorama dream cars of the Fifties would be displayed at the scenic oceanside golf course in Carmel, California.


The day before the show, I called the press office and explained I was writing a book on concept cars of the 20th Century (www.cartopia.us) and needed to be there. Their media contact Jeff was sarcastic, ". . . Sure you don't want to wait awhile before getting your press credentials?" He hooked me up. I google mapped it, grabbed a bottled water, camera, extra batteries, all the cash I had around and hit the road.

The drive was a breeze. I cut over from Highway 5 to the 101, taking James Dean's death road. Passing the spot where his fatal crash occurred, I thought about that quote, "Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are these, What might have been?"

Arriving at Pebble Beach Golf Course to find the Infinity Media Tent and score my press pass I could feel it already--Pebble Beach was going to be off the charts. Even for a guy who's been to a hundred car shows, I had a feeling like looking forward to making love to a new girlfriend for the first time. As I drove the winding road, exotic cars I'd only seen in photographs passed by, slicing down billiard-table smooth asphalt through twisted cypress trees in a silvery coastal fog. Chills up my spine.

But, due to my lack of planning, I had nowhere to stay. Stopped at the first hotel I saw in Carmel. Nothing. The desk clerk was kind enough to call around. She found one room, 90 miles away. I was sick of driving at that point, so threw my fate to the winds.

And ended up sleeping in my car. In a parking lot. I put my silver foil insulated sunshade in the front window, thanked fate for my black out tinted windows, reclined the seat, stuffed a newsprint magazine under my shirt for insulation (very cold summer nights up there) and nodded off for three hours.

Morning came. I went to a Denny's for breakfast.

The host looked me up and down and said, not "Booth or table?" but "Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah, I'd like to enjoy a breakfast." I replied.

"Do you mind sitting in the back?" He asked.

One night in a car and I had joined the ranks of THE UNWELCOME.

I reached the golf course display grounds with their crazy twisted parking arrangements which meant you had to stop and talk to a guy waving his arms around every two minutes. Right then, my VW's power window fuse blew, which meant I had to open the door each time to get instructions. This freaked out all the guys in Mercedes S class sedans and Maserati Quatroportes waiting behind me and they would start honking frantically. Had to laugh. But it wasn't funny when the fuse chart in my owner's manual gave innaccurate information, making it an impossible fix 'til I could get online and research it.

Finally parked and took the shuttle to the show. I couldn't believe how gorgeous the Motorama cars looked posed on the grass, the mighty Pacific lapping nearby, a soft misty fog caressing jet turbine powered, be-finned rocket cars built when America could do anything and, in the case of these cars, it did, just for the hell of it. I hung there for an hour and a half, totally buzzed on the experience.

Nearly killed myself for it. Exhausted when I started out on the return drive, I missed a cut-off to the 101, got stuck on the twisty-turny Pacific Coast Highway and couldn't reach the freeway for 150 frickin' miles. I was trying to make up time by driving like Parnelli Jones.

Finally reaching the 5 just before San Luis Osbispo, I was so tired after (barely) sleeping in my car the night before, I was hallucinating. I stopped three times at gas stations to drink those vile "5 hour energy!" potions. . .

the last one was a "7 Hour Energy!" elixir that worked for all of an hour in my condition.

I didn't feel so good the next day.

But it was worth it, I made mad connections for Cartopia book research. Strolled amongst the greatest industrial art of the 20th century. And experienced homelessness.
A trifecta.
And as a bonus, there were those hallucinations on over-the-counter truck stop pep juice.

3:54 AM - 5 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

So, you don’t believe we are living in the end times?
Current mood: high
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

Three words: Beverly Hills Chihuahua

6:53 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

OUR MOTORING FUTURE
Category: Automotive

230 Miles Per Gallon

Volkswagen has announced they will begin selling a production version of their diesel powered L1 concept by 2010. Aerodynamic rating is .15 CD, approximately half the air drag of a typical modern car. Capacity: driver and one passenger sitting behind him.

300 Miles Per Gallon

Aptera is taking deposits on this flightless airplane that promises world-beating mileage from its lightweight, aerodynamic carbon fiber body and innovative hyrbrid technology that incoporates a small gasoline engine to charge the batteries as you drive. Capacity: two adults, one child.

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THE GOOD OLD DAYS
Category: News and Politics

Believe it or not, these are "the good old days" of cheap gasoline.

Experts say we might enjoy paying four dollars per gallon if we focused on the ten dollar per gallon gas to come.

Some of the current run-up in prices is due to a bubble caused by speculators but it provides a preview of our approaching energy crisis. Geologist M. King Hubbert correctly predicted America's early seventies gas crisis twenty years before it happened. Everyone laughed until it proved true. Hubbert also predicted that the entire planet's oil supply would peak right about now. And after that comes a steep decline, in a bell shaped curve. The problem with a bell curve is the steep angles on either side of its peak. Thus, declines in supply won't happen on a gentle glide path that gives us plenty of time to adjust, but will fall off a cliff. This is happening just as world demand for oil is increasing rapidly. When the demand and supply lines on the chart cross and gas shoots up to $10 per gallon with rationing, we will look back longingly on the days of $4 gas.





"What's to worry?" One might ask, "that means we have half the world's supply left!" The problem is, when demand exceeds the world's pumping capacity, we get into trouble. Big trouble right away. Just as the human body, which is 2/3 water, only needs a 10% shortfall of H2O in order to suffer dire consequences, a mere few percentage point's spread between demand and supply of oil will be catastrophic. As we slide down the losing side of the bell curve and oil becomes increasingly scarce, things will inevitibly get ugly as nations compete for the dwindling supply. Real ugly. Don't think the oil men currently running the U.S. aren't aware of this problem. Notice how the administrations's rationale for our occupation of Iraq keeps changing? Dangerous WMDs! Getting rid of a brutal dictator! Bringing the freedom! etc, just like any liar who keeps changing his story until one works. We're not in Iraq to give them a democratic government. And we're not there to steal their oil. We are there to control their oil output and establish permanent bases in order to have control over where all middle eastern oil goes. That's why McCain said he'd be happy to see U.S. troops in Iraq for 100 years.

A common reaction of those who haven't studied the options for escaping a nightmare future is, "They'll think of something! We have wind, solar, bio-mass, geo thermal, tar sands, all these options!" The sad truth is, we will need to pursue each and everyone of those options balls out, plus nuclear, plus drill for oil until Alaska looks like Swiss cheese and there still won't be enough energy produced quickly enough to stave off disaster.

Had the U.S. pursued a super aggressive alternative energy policy starting with the early seventies gas crisis, we might have had time to switch over and avert doom. In fact, in 1979 Jimmy Carter gave speech after speech warning of the dangers of the U.S. slide into dependence on foreign oil and urging the development of alternatives. No one listened. He put solar panels on the roof of the White House.They laughed at Jimmy Carter like they laughed at King Hubbert. Reagan stopped all talk of energy dependence and had the solar panels ripped off the White House roof. Yahoo, Me Decade. And today, we send hundreds of billion dollars for oil overseas every year. Imagine the different economy we would have if all that money stayed stateside, spent on homegrown energy alternatives like Carter advocated. We also would be saving the $10 billion dollars being spent each month to control Iraq's oil output. Given America's energy predicament, it's interesting that Reagan's considered an American hero and Jimmy Carter is called a failure.

We've burned through our time cushion for switching to a new energy model. China and India are experiencing explosive rates of economic growth. That takes energy. More and more energy exactly as the world is rounding over the top of Hubbard's oil supply peak to a slippery slope of faster and faster reduction of supplies.

Don't take my word for any of this. Do your own research--there's copius information available at your fingertips, just Google "peak oil." Or go to www.lifeaftertheoilcrash.com

Charles T. Maxwell, described as the "Dean of Oil Analysts" and the senior energy analyst at Weeden & Co. predicts $10-$12 per gallon gas around 2010-2015. A price that will, according to his predictions, plunge the world into an economic crisis that could last 10 years. There will be price dips and level periods, but the long term scenario is very scary indeed.

I guess we should enjoy these good times of cheap $4 per gallon gas while we can. They won't last long. Seems like our only hope lies in electing politicians that get it. A tough thing, as any politician who told the truth about what we face would be hounded off the podium and reduced to inconsequential. We've been coddled in a cozy bubble of unreality for so long by corporate culture, political leadership and media. Will it take a calamitous shock to wake us up to the daunting future we face?

All things considered, this might be a good time to start that vegetable garden. Or join those already living the lifestyle of our future, the Amish.


FUN FACT
World oil discoveries peaked in 1963.

WHAT THE MAN SAID

When you are inspired by some great purpose, some extraordinary project, all your thoughts break their bounds. Your mind transcends limitations, your consciousness expands in every direction, and you find yourself in a new, great and wonderful world. Dormant forces, faculties and talents come alive, and you discover yourself to be the greater person by far than you ever dreamt yourself to be.
--Maharishi Patanjali

9:38 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

BEST FUTURISTIC COMMERCIAL EVER
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

WORTH WATCHING FULL SCREEN:

5 GUM COMMERCIAL

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MEET KING RAT
Category: Writing and Poetry

"Everybody's looking for a place to sleep. I ain't slept in a bed in twelve years. Cooked my dinner on the manifold of a Chrysler last night--hash! I'm King Rat of Culver City."

A tall, skeletal man wearing a stained raincoat and battered porkpie hat bragged his story standing at a Farmer's Market walk-up bakery counter. Munching a cheese danish, he spewed crumbs on an aging rockabilly cat who smiled, "You're quite a character, aren't you?"

"I guess I am." King Rat replied, satisfied.

{Thanks to Dale Sizer for telling me this story}

NOTES FROM ITALY
Category: Writing and Poetry

I’m working on a research trip to Italy. My editor said that "IT WOULD BE HIGHLY UNUSUAL" (her caps) that theyd fund it.

I’ve only been to Italy once. I lucked out when an ex-girlfriend called and said her husband couldn’t make a long planned holiday on the Italian Riviera with another couple. Did I want to serve as his substitute?

Three weeks later I was on a jet headed for Kennedy where we’d meet up for the Atlantic crossing.

New York’s energy felt bracing as I walked through Kennedy’s spacious lobbies looking for our agreed meeting place. I saw them going the other way across an airy mid-century modern waiting room of marble, stainless steel and glass.

Do to a last minute booking problem my seat was separate from Stephanie, Sofie and Joe. Good. I was tired and wanted to chill. The Air France 747 had a swanky interior vibe. While adults settled in with reading and watching our progress on individual LCD screens, kids got busy snapping together model kits of the jet and pinning flight wings on each other. The stewardess’ uniforms were tight-fitting in a sexy, futuristic business style. The bathrooms had a spray cologne dispenser. I pushed the plunger and watched a silver mist fill the tiny aluminum cabinet with a clean citrus smell. Philadelphia was spelled "Philidelphie" on the screen maps. The French have a hard time pronouncing the end of words that end in an "ia" sound. Like "idea," which they pronounce "idee."

By the time we got to Italy, Stephanie was sagging from an excess intake of perscription relaxants. She won’t admit it, but she’s afraid of flying.

We touched down in Belgium and caught a turboprop to Pisa. Our in-flight meal was yogurt, milk, cheese and some mysterious dairy product named Mannequin which appeared to be a low calorie desert for ladies concerned about their figures. It was the consistency of shaving cream. And tasted mildly like it. This flight not recommended for the lactose intolerant.

We rode in our own compartment on a train from Pisa to Levanto, rattling along nonstop to the coast. After an hour or so, the train suddenly emerged from a tunnel, giving us our first dazzling view of the aqua-colored Mediterranean in bright summer sun. After a few seconds, we entered the blackness of a second tunnel. Then bursting free of that tunnel,we rode along a rocky ridge high above white sand beaches.

After riding in some form of vehicle or waiting in an airport for twenty hours straight, we reached our four-hundred year old stone villa at sunset.
Given last choice of bedrooms, I was forced to take a cramped, windowless cell on the first floor. The other couple took a modern add-on glass room on the top floor. Stephanie took a bedroom on the first floor with large modern windows.
The next morning by 6 A.M. they were cooked like sun-baked hams in their glass view rooms, making sleep impossible.
I snored straight through twelve hours in my dead black sarchopagus. Over breakfast, they asked if I wanted to switch rooms.
In the morning we walked around the hood. The villages above the Italian Riviera cling to rocky cliffsides. No real "grounds" around the buildings, just wide walkways between houses on steep land planted in olive farms. Surprising, but it felt really private.

We walked down a curvy road and rented mopeds from a little shop in Levanto, the tourist town on the beach. The moped garage owner hung nudie calendars all around the shop. But the naughty bits were artfully covered up, a wrench handle hung just so or a random glove on nail or a blister pack of spark plugs hung from a peg, done with skill matching those scenes where Austin Powers walks around naked, with props like a pineapple or whatever, just covering his gear. He gave us all cassettes of his professionally recorded song stylings. One was an ode to Levanto he’d written himself. Great Italian accordian and string arangements. When we asked him where he performed. he said, "Oh, I don’t sing anymore, they tax me too much."

Down on the beach we paid $7 U.S. per day each for the rental of a changing room, a beach umbrella with table and as many chaises as we needed. The wooden changing rooms were on a boardwalk and painted in fresh blue and white vertical stripes.

After a day on the beach, we rode mopeds up a steep rock-walled winding James-Bond-chase-scene road to our villa.

We cooked pasta and ate it with wine on a rooftop deck, watching sunset tint a pink cathedral on the beach.

DALI vs. MURAKAMI
Category: Art and Photography

"Hitchcock is the only person I have met lately who has any mystery."
--Salvador Dali

Because I live a few blocks from the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, I put off going to see the Dali: Painting & Film exhibit til the last day. That came Sunday. A buddy called to say he wanted to see the Murakami show at M.O.C.A. so I took in both.

I drove downtown to M.O.C.A. for their huge, ambitious show of Murakami art. It was dazzling bright and, uh, playful. He’s got three, maybe four great ideas that he repeats endlessly until you want to bolt from the serial insincerity of it all. A cartoon wonderland. Huge paintings and sculpture that all seemed to say nothing more than, "look at me." Cool idea of his to take Japanese-style cute critter paintings, add a twist and convince the fine art world that when he paints cartoon critters, they’re FINE ART and the whole act is a comment on commercialism. Hilarious. Murakami is CEO of the company that makes all his merch, putting him in a mega profit stream that artists usually only see a tiny trickle of royalties from. He was able to convince the museum to install a Vuiton boutique in the midst of its galleries. Groovy subversion of the art establishment. But the actual art? Left me flat as the surfaces he paints.

The dimly lit rooms at L.A. County museum’s Dali exhibit felt charged with mysterious energy.

The show stressed Dali’s contribution to film with projected movies, production sketches, and a huge bigger-than-billboard sized backdrop from a nightmare sequence he designed for Hitchcock. They showed a contiuous loop of Destino, the hypnotic 1947 surrealist animated short he planned with Walt Disney that wasn’t actually produced until a few years ago.

There were a whole lot of his paintings I’d never seen before. Work with a Vermeer-like sheen of halucinatory brilliance. And they were so small. his most famous piece, Persistence of Memory is the size of a piece of notebook paper. Haunted mysteries, dense and rich.

Dali was criticized a lot during his career for "selling out", doing portraits, working with Hollywood, promoting himself non-stop. . . a career approach that inspired Warhol. . . and by extension, Murakami. The difference is, Dali shot for the moon and got there. Cold blue black skies under a dim, distant moon. Seeing them made life seem bigger.

Murakami shoots for his bank. He gets there with endlessly repetitive work that looks the same on a postcard as it does in a painting--only smaller, which is the way it left me feeling. Like I was waiting outside a bank, staring at billboard ads while he deposits checks inside.

The winner? Dali by a knockout.

9:06 PM - 8 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

INVISIBLE RAY BEAMS FROM VENUS
Category: Writing and Poetry

You made me feel like running the human race
But I couldn't outrun electrons from space
They made me do what came between us
Those invisible ray beams from Venus

We were down on the bayou
I called out the window to you
But you couldn't hear me over the hum
Of those invisible ray beams from Venus

We wrote another verse
But it didn't rhyme
Couldn't keep time
With those invisible ray beams from Venus

Did you hear me when I shouted, look out below?
I just wanted you to know
They made me do what came between us
Those invisible ray beams from Venus